Most Liked Allegory Poems (898)

what am I doing?
just crawling into bed
that's all I'm doing
(were life fair)
it's my 'down' time
as I thrash about in chase of hypnos
invariably, I guiltily rehash
the old hash
that occured during my 'up' time
apparently one has never had enough
of the misery and mediocrity of broad daylight
for, away from the parade
it lingers on
like it or no
for free will is one thing
but memory and conscience
have their own way of looking at things
a constancy
as it were
and I suppose, so it shall ever
well, at least it is someone familiar to chat with
after all, it's one of the processes
in which molehills become mountains
and most nights
I be the worst for wear from
such untender rendering
so I thank myself
thank you, thank you very much
(yet silently pleading,
maybe one day, you needn't be so thoughtful, self)
my imperfections and lack of perfections
are a constant reminder
yet these provide me ever opportunity
in which to also constantly defend myself
never plead guilty
one day I may finally get it right
to where things are 'all' right
at least, in these private conversations, anyway
I've yet to live that day
seems the jury is always assessing the facts
trying to find where the truth lies
oh well
I will always have the opportunity
to right the wrongs
....again tomorrow

Your smiley face
At dinner time
Would be fun
Instead of the paper

Toys of the mind
we create for
ourselves

With pink ribbons
and glitter and
kept on a shelf

On any given day
we'll unwrap
one or two

Pop open a
box-any one
will do

Today it's the
black box and
out jumps the
hate

With green eyes
and envy
That's ruling
our fate

It's a rainy
day, O well,
Just plug it
in the wall

Watch it spin
and twirl as
it sets up
our fall

To late to
put it back
It won't fit
in the box

Growing bigger
in the mind
With it's own
chain and lock

Hurry to those
rainy day toys
We invent for
ourselves

Created in the
factory by our
our mental
elves-

The language of
the heart is
not confined to
time and place
Its thoughts..
like stones in
a brook are
washed and
renewed by the
river of life..
It accepts the
cold waters of
adversity
And rejoices
in the warm
currents that
spawn new
life
Yet, ever a
mystery to
itself.. it
seeks out
its reflection
in still ponds
And speaks of
its own changing
face as the stream
of time pours
new wine in an
old winskin
The heart peers
within itself
and utters words
in its own image
Who knows but
that the changing
seasons may look
down on a lively
tongue and confound
the language of
the heart
The embryo of
that spirit
that teams with
a thousand dreams
ever seeks to
be reborn..
and if its graced
to speak anything
at all.. its
final and sacred
plea must be..
'have mercy
have mercy..'

Through the fog
of this lower
world the candle
of truth
illuminates an
uncertain and
dangerous path
because..
it is needful
For eyes dim
with fear and
doubt are the
gifts of
darkness..
Along this path
voices taunt
from within
and without
Accusing eyes
pierce the mist
and the soul
longs to be
awakened from
this sleepless
journey because..
it is needful
The fruits of
this foreign
land do not
nurish forever
There is no
tree of life
rooted in
dying soil
But its decaying
leaves smile
with hope as
they fall
silently
There is nothing
here but endless
trails
trails that lead
anywhere
nowhere..
because..it is
needful
Sigh, breathe
deep
hang your head
but keep
moving
In time, in
due time
the sundial
will be robbed
of its
shadow
and a new kind
of light will
emerge
because..
it is needful..
And when purpose
and reason have
fulfilled its
destiny
Then shall wisdom
be summoned
home
Then shall false
knowledge be
made to give
an account
Then those held
captive by reason
of darkness
Sit free in the
newness of
themselves
And if anyone
of these asks,'
Why have these
things been
ordered so..'
No harsh words
will they hear
But a kind voice
will say to
them..
because..
These were
needful things~

Spirits are flying
touching and
tainting
Our mystical sky
that celestial
painting
Touch not, taste
not
They obey no
rules
They create a
world fit for
fools
Spirits are flying
invading the
land
On the loose
they are
To ruin
man
What is
Is not
But a devilish
plot
To destroy
the love and
to make it
rot
Spirits are flying
they leave nothing
undone
O what misery
they invent
under the
sun~

All that we
are
The sum of
the soul
The joy and
pain
The living and
the dying
Is recorded as
a living testament
within the
countenance
A mirror
of innumerable
reflections..
character..
At times, glancing
through the windows
of the eyes..
At others, a gesture,
a pose, a half
hidden smile
Telltale signs of
an entity born
of blood and
sririt
Yet whose habitation
is veiled to
itself and hidden
under the wings
of eternity
Yet, how does
one survey so
vast a panoply
of mind and
spirit when
the soul yields
not its secrets
readily
The soul may
reveal to the
disinterested
passerby a
momentary face
of stone
while to others
the key to its
inner universe
is offered with
a smile
Who can know
it?
Perhaps the tears
of a mother fall
through doors for
which there is
no key..save the
master locksmith
To gaze intently
into a face
To look
To turn away
then look again
And alas!
The face of a
thousand sorrows
have vanished,
and the visage
of a settled
contentment befalls
you
Strength molds the
chin of the
father
The frolic of
indecision flush
accross the faces
of undying youth
The never never
land of children
will be summoned
by the nature of
time and character
will awaken them
to become warriors
The face of the
moment is characters
living clock where
minutes become hours,
days, and years..
and years bow to
to the dust as
all flesh must
And who knows
that character
will not sit
in columned halls
of the master
locksmith..

I watch,
sometimes I laugh,
sometimes I admire,
sometimes I cry,
but does not drop a tear:
my tears have been dried by the desert
the same desert that I watch,
that sometimes I admire,
that sometimes tears from me a bitter laugh.
And that encloses me.

an echo
is a lonely thing
its just a mirror to another
its not an answer
its a repeat
its attractive to the victim
who thinks its an agreement
but its just fake
an echo is fine in the outdoors
where nature makes it so
as it bounces off and disappears
and has no power
but an echo to the heart or soul
an illusion of self
and on purpose to betray
is a lie with a thief behind it
predator and prey
its not pretty or real
and in time is found to be nothing-
as that is all it is
sad thing the echo
empty soul
empty heart
delivering emptiness
tearing someone real apart;

Self-Will.. is I
I Will.. the Self
of I..

Who is the I
of I?

Is it not I?

Yes! it is My My!

Is My I a Lie?

I sigh..

Must My Lie
die to I?

Where does Self
go to die?

Will I be reborn
as I?

Is there a new kind
of Self for I?

Who will control
my My?

Will I?

I sigh..

Then my new Self
is my new 'You I'

Not just my old
Me My

I think I'll like
this new I

This 'You I' Self
Am I~