Now Or Ever
You've excluded me from depictions,
Of how your perfect life should be lived.
Those depictions were inflicted.
And for years,
To me you did this.
If you were not facing unsurmountable conflicts,
I doubt seriously if a 'we together' would be heard...
Coming from your lips.
That is a fact of life that between us has existed.
Painting over a Zebra's stripes...
Doesn't diminish the sight of it!
And what makes you think a 'togetherness' is what I wish?
I'm not the one with a mind confused in conflict.
I remember your specific words...
'Why bother with someone I regard as worthless.'
You've excluded me from depictions,
Of how your perfect life should be lived.
Those depictions were inflicted.
And for years,
To me you did this.
You left me to survive alone.
And on my own you were not in the picture.
Now or ever will that be my wish.
I did not barter my soul,
Hoping for a price paid by the highest bidder.
Nor did I quit to whore...
To solicit impressions to make.
Your chose to go through that door.
You left me to survive alone.
And on my own you were not in the picture.
Now or ever will that be my wish.
You chose to whore now you handle it!
I don't think of you like the others do.
You can blitz them with bling and other meaningless things.
But someone without integrity...
Has nothing else to offer to deliver,
Or without strings attached to me bring!
If you were not facing unsurmountable conflicts,
I doubt seriously if a 'we together' would be heard...
Coming from your lips.
You've excluded me from depictions,
Of how your perfect life should be lived.
Those depictions were inflicted.
And for years,
To me you did this.
Remove your garbage from my door.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
Artists of Descriptive Depictions
Picking words with syllables heard,
To sound a beat or create a mental feast.
Artists of descriptive depictions...
Choosing from within and behind,
In minds with canvassed eyes they select.
And do their best when under some kind of duress,
It seems.
To perfect,
What is envisioned with more meaning!
Like a daydream scene internally screened,
To project upon our vision.
Is a snowflake etched,
And falling to a catching ground
As fetching?
Or as profound...
As the galloping hoofs of horses,
Pulling sleighs of joyful smiles around?
When holidays are welcomed...
Dripping with seasoned sights and sounds!
Orange with yellow brightening with hints of brown,
Introducing colors of Fall on trees standing tall.
Winter mint green,
And red adorning silver streams
Of Christmas dreams...
Soon in hearts will be found!
Decorating our imaginations.
Gifted wrapped to avoid the slightest frown.
Picking words with syllables heard,
To sound a beat or create a mental feast.
Artists of descriptive depictions...
Release an increased merriment to treat.
And our minds receive them,
To dance upon memories reminisced!
In anticipation...
Impatiently waiting,
For descriptive depictions...
To come alive before our eyes
Beholding the reality of their visits!
Capturing wonder and surprise.
Dedicated:
Writers. Poets especially.
There are quite a few 'Artists of Descriptive Depictions'
that come to mind. A few like Duncan Wyllie, Ms Theo Onken
Ms Marci Made, Herbert Nehrlich...these are just a few! So
please forgive me 'IF' I did not mention you by name.
Blame that on my head and not my heart!
You all are so wonderfully inspiring with your 'gifts'!
'I thank you'...Lawrence
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Abstract and Eccentric Depictions Given
Abstract and eccentric depictions given,
Prior to meeting someone with anticipation
Are often more detailed,
Than the one portraying an image
That is perceive will be accepted upon one's arrival.
Yet conflicts with what is seen to surprise,
Those with widened eyes.
Disappointing the host,
Who has been told what to expect.
Confusing whether to welcome one as a guest,
Or a tolerated curiosity.
Some people uncomfortable with themselves,
In unfamiliar environments
Seem to socialize with others,
Prepared and premeditated for any deviations.
Hoping to address all one who has met,
With a leaving of good first impressions.
Or at best a kept safety net gone undetected.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Protected
Your depictions sit and haunt,
Vividly.
Although I am not physically there,
To witness any of it...
The anguish you are feeling,
Grips my heart.
Ripping it into bits.
If I had not understood this,
My tears would flow...
And not quit!
Just know whatever you are going through,
Ask of God...
To handle all of it!
And observe yourself,
Becoming protected with a mental lift!
But...
This does not happen,
If you are not prepared to pray!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Undisturbed
Everything had to be redrawn in crayon.
Black and white depictions,
Were arguably creating stress.
Someone suggested replacing red for green
On the flowered battlefields.
That was the only way
These scenes were sold at the malls!
And using magenta for the stacks of garbage,
Piling in heaps...
With pink lids topped with yellow polka dots,
Was a brilliant recommendation.
This should keep the shopping revenues
Undisturbed for months...
Even years to come!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Motives
I am often amused by those,
Who insist to others they know who I am.
To then say,
I am not being myself...
As they try to explain obvious contradictions,
In their depictions that never seem to fit.
While those who do know me,
Respect and comprehend my motives totally.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Pre history
Prehistoric impressions in caves
Equal to our modern graffiti? Must have been all the rave
Depictions of beasts large and fierce, sources of food
Examples of implements and tools, some made of wood
Possible grunts and gesture to make a plan
Evidence of victories and banquets of prehistoric man
poem by Brian Roy Skyers
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Minutes After The Stroke Of Midnight
Either mystical doom or an acceptance of evil.
People are obsessed,
With an ending to their lives...
That entertains their imaginations.
And caught up with depictions,
As to how this is going to happen.
With those taking both sides...
To traumatize the ones innocent.
While showing with a knowing,
How they can victimize themselves...
In movies or on widescreen TV's,
To capture the full effect...
Of how a martyr does it in 3D.
And caught up with depictions,
As to how this is going to happen...
With instructions.
Giving purpose to their reason,
To terrorize the lives of others.
With the pocketing of some fast cash,
From creations that promote the doing of it.
Either mystical doom or an acceptance of evil.
People are obsessed,
With an ending to their lives...
That entertains their imaginations.
And...
Satisfies with predictions made,
They hope The Creator of 'this' reality approves.
Just before the white knight dressed in shining armor,
Comes to save humanity with a new soaring soundtrack...
Played for survivors to hear minutes after the stroke of midnight.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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This Could Not be Scripted
We can not realize our expectations,
If many still choose to sit and not participate...
In the cause to affect change.
We all have our 'callings'.
If we allow fear to prevent us from them...
Many of us would still experience a physical bondage.
An enslavement of sorts.
With a persistence that wont quit.
To escape from mental bondage,
Requires faith...
That is determined and unshakable!
Just a few short years ago,
Maybe less than six...
A young black man named Barack Obama,
With a dysfunctional background.
And of mixed heritage,
Was not even into politics.
TODAY...
That same man with an usual name,
Is the President of The United States.
Shattering all depictions of this presence.
If 'that' is not inspiring to anyone who claims,
To be paying attention...
With expressions of their love for God,
And 'ALL' that this Deity IS...
They should not exist!
A man who walks in faith and determination,
To rise above all obstacles has been an example...
For everyone under the Sun!
Whatever racial 'affiliation' of 'choice'
And/or belief of religious limitations...
Should observe with clarity the reality.
And upon us this visitation!
This could not be scripted as a life one has lived...
Even in the money thirsting hands,
Of those in Hollywood!
President Obama's life...
Is clearly a statement that should inspire,
All mankind!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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One Who Poorly Duplicates
Your depictions are not precise.
And clearly quickly put together to impress,
'With' defections.
You could never be accepted as you expect.
Although as one who poorly duplicates and imitates,
You are one that can be rated...
In your prime and at your best.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Those' Images Made
People love to treasure those images made.
Those images created to help them escape,
From depictions of reality.
And the way the displaying of it is portrayed.
People love to treasure those images made.
People love to treasure those images made.
The ones flowered to sugar without a bitter taste.
Those images glammed up to spotlight,
On a public stage.
But behind the scenes indignities can be mean.
Yet...
People love to treasure those images made.
And their minds are affixed to them to defend...
Every blemish that is openly seen.
Since people who love their images made...
Have not been conditioned on reality to feast.
People love to treasure those images made.
Those images created to help them escape,
From depictions of reality.
And the way the displaying of it is portrayed.
People love to treasure those images made,
With an excusing of detrimental flaws and pain shown.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Freed From Quantitative Measures
Too many traditions have been enriched,
By proper etiquette.
And what is deemed as political correctness.
An evaluation taking place,
Have many coming face to face...
With what makes them happy.
Some are finding happiness,
Is not being self absorbed with the wishes of others.
And a desire to return to a quality of life,
Freed from quantitative measures...
Pressured by the onslaught,
Of egotistical impressions to make...
For the sake of being accepted,
Has increased in the exchange...
Of what is more valued.
Too many traditions have been enriched,
By proper etiquette.
And what is deemed as political correctness.
These depictions have been subjected to rapid change.
With a simple hug from someone touched,
The only desire sought these days.
And a sincerity felt has become more precious.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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In Vivid Depictions
I find people delivering their best humor,
When expressing what they know...
In vivid depictions,
About someone else...
They have yet to meet to be introduced.
I find this hysterical when it happens.
And if that should happen...
That person met revealing something unknown,
Or not heard before by another...
The person listening would inevitably say,
In the sharing of exchanged conversation,
'I didn't know that? '
As if they should!
~I don't know how you could have known that.
We've just met.~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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If I Lived One More LIfe... I Would
If I lived one more life
I would melt by the gentle sight of you
I would believe that your love is true
I would erase my fake intention
I would hold back all my foolish emotion
If I lived one more life
I would read all yr colorful envelopes
I would never burn your words of hopes
I would cherish your banner on the wall
I would make sure it will never fall
If I lived one more life
I would pick up your call night & days
I would guarantee your mind not decays
I would let my door open at all time
I would safe your sanity to prevent any crime
If I lived one more life
I would stand before you on my knee
I would beg your family to forgive me
I would plead to share your torture
I would fight to bring back your future
If I lived one more life
I would endure all your hate
I would accept you as my fate
I would strive to give you the best of me
I would die in your arms and be happy
If I lived one more life … I would
Dedicated to D.N.R – It’s been 14 years… This is my apology, I mean every word.
poem by Niken Kusuma Wardani
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Some Express Their Depictions
An expression of an emotion,
Should come from one's experience.
As a feeling that personal and felt.
And yet...
Some express their depictions,
Of what another may confess...
As an opportunity to leave their own feelings,
Left unaddressed.
While attempting to interpret,
Those feelings felt by someone else.
To prove the limitation,
Of their own communication.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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None of Those Depictions
I watched my son clinically murdered.
And given experimental medications.
That's how 'this' hospital treated,
'Certain' patients then.
I am often asked,
By those who have not experienced such tasks...
Why do I seem to be cold, indifferent and embittered?
And...
I am none of those depictions.
God has blessed me with a patience to wait,
For those decisions implemented...
Only The Almighty can make!
I am often asked,
By those who have not experienced such tasks...
Why do I seem to be cold, indifferent and embittered?
I watched my son clinically murdered.
And given experimental medications.
That's how 'this' hospital treated,
'Certain' patients then.
And...
I am none of those depictions.
God has blessed me with a patience to wait,
For those decisions implemented...
Only The Almighty can make!
In Dedication:
Michael Lawrence Demetrius Pertillar
February 13th 1970-October 11th 1970
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Recycled Recessiveness
Making attempts,
To revive that which is clearly nonexisting.
And has past its usefulness...
Is sad to witness.
Although this can be observed to be done!
There are those who still insist upon,
Their usage of depictions of stereotypical images.
With moking jokes of poked out lips.
Stretched rolling eyes.
And slow dragging steps taken,
Like a Step n' Fetchit.
And those wishing to turn back the clock...
To relive these times,
Are those who have been suppressed the most.
But there is something of value for them,
In being subservient
They find...
That keeps them wishing to perfect,
These teased images in their minds.
It is an art they have long established,
As a cause to unite behind...
The disgraceful declining...
Some of their own kind now denounce,
As a means to uphold their begging!
And the infighting keeps them...
In a recycled recessiveness.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Wearing Necklaces Made From Rhinestones
Many times over the years,
After I have submitted my depictions...
In poetic description to be critiqued,
A few with their feathers plucked...
Would ask with their thumbs sucked,
From where do I get my 'sing-song' delusions.
And these comments always seem to come from those,
Swinging back and forth with their eyes and minds closed...
Inside the comfort of their gilded cages.
Where they feel free,
To flutter with a flittering around gleefully...
While wearing necklaces made from rhinestones.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Intentional
No matter what may be done or said,
When that action in time takes place...
Someone will feel left out instead.
Not because of the action,
Done or said.
But how it was related when instigated.
Whoever made it fun for one,
To berate another with a blurting tongue...
The day will come,
When a similar deed is repeated.
With a singing of a song sung,
Or a tune heard hummed.
With no exit to ignore it to escape or leave,
The perpetrator remembered...
Will then be seeking empathy.
That no one with heart and soul intact,
Will care to release to relieve.
To set one free from memories.
This Earth is not flat,
It looks as if round.
And rotates on an axis,
To return to a place of origin always found.
And that is a fact when one sits to think,
Of those thoughts trapped to sit cemented...
In intentional inequities inflicted to sting and meant!
Inflicted to sting and meant!
What goes around...
Inflicted to sting and meant!
Comes around...
Inflicted to sting and meant!
What goes around...
Inflicted to sting and meant!
Comes around...
Inflicted to sting and meant!
It is all quite intentional.
'Never accuse me again,
Of not having substance! '
Inflicted to sting and meant!
'Never...
Inflicted to sting and meant!
Accuse...
Inflicted to sting and meant!
Me...
Inflicted to sting and meant!
Again! '
Inflicted to sting and meant!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Not Seeking To Be Begged
Everything they have ever wanted,
Was not only right under their noses...
But sent them daily reminders,
Of its presence and the benefits...
They would receive.
This they dismissed.
And doing it at their own expense.
Instead of valuing what was given,
Those chose to demean and disrespect...
All that appeared in their treasure chest.
And when that treasure chest left...
That's when they decided,
They would then inspect its worth.
As if everything they have ever wanted,
Although unrecognized...
Would not become appreciated by others,
Not seeking to be begged,
To be handed gold!
Knowing immediately what it was.
Those refusing what was there,
Had grown to seek depictions...
Of what they had been told,
What it was to look for to qualify success.
To accept the appearance of it dressed to impress,
To only then address it with superficial respect.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Decay to Rust, Dust And Fade
I am not here to compete with dead poets.
Or those with pseudo ambitions,
To foster claims this is what they do.
My depictions are alive,
To represent times lived today.
I wear no mask to imitate,
Those from a past who have passed away.
This is two thousand and twelve!
Not the seventeen hundreds.
Although there are many,
Wishing these times to return.
The landscape today,
Has more censors and critics...
Desiring the past for them will stay.
But even today will decay to rust, dust and fade.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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