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a week's worth

I wish I could tell you which ones are important.
I know you’d say the same, if you could.
It’s cyclic, and it doesn’t really matter,
but it doesn’t stop the sensation, all the same.
Repetition is our creature of habit,
not the source, but the product.
We paint the ceiling with metaphors and French songs,
or Moon River from the balcony, a couple generations back.
We’re absolved of love or whatever
cynicism we use to disregard our absolution. 

It’s cold, and everything is frozen over
but it feels like spring in regards to days past:
You’re lifting up from yourself
and flying away, one body still on the ground,
the other, five feet up and looking down at the same thing you are.
And it doesn’t matter which one is you.
And which one is not.
We can’t all choose significance;
Such is the sense in negation.

 

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instinctual

Cold, these moonlit institutions
shadowed echos in vaulted halls
haunted by prophetic voices
teeth that grip to bleed and gnaw
in blooms of deadly nightshade fear.
Whispers mutter miserys reign
(you`re no good, a filthy stain)
delusions march without restraint
as spectral visions flirt and dart
igniting fear and killing trust
breathing vicious nameless fright
and oh how dark is dreadful night!
Magic elixir to quell emotion,
to muffle voices, to quiet the mind
dulling fear but numbing joy
dread of this unnerving potion
resounds the instinct; suspicions spike.
Who can say of shadowed comfort; is
peace now gained worth loss of light;
should minds be settled in abnormal rest
and is it kindness to give respite by
alchemical actions that still pro term
the clamorous false beliefs that worm?

Shadowed halls imbue; incurring
questions of complicity

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Tarnished Pages

People seem to have this odd notion,

That all great writers and artists one day just get compelled 

To pick up a pen or pencil.

Oh! How are they wrong!

Sometimes you meet someone.

Sometimes you lose someone.

Other times you just hit rock bottom.

But you do not have a choice.

One day you'll wake up with ink covered hands,

Stained from all the words you've yet to write.

Or colourfully painted checks from all the tears,

You have shed during your sleep.

And you want to get them clean,

You need to get them clean.

You spend countless hours feverishly straining over a desk.

Desperately trying to rid you of those tints. 

But your filthy hands will never be able to touch a blank page again.

 

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What to make of it all

I missed the sunflowers and tangerine,
The who’s, what’s and why’s of the sky at dawn
For I chose, not the morning, but the dreaming of night,
And wondered what to make of it all

Walk miles in the day for the heart to beat
Sometimes feeling nothing but small
But I wonder a lot of the weight on my feet
And about what to make of it all

Love is far from the only fancy I’ve known
But the hardest of things to let fall
A butterfly’s life, but a song for a day . . .
Would a weight be lifted if I knew the same . . .
No time for distractions, and no time to waste
Or to wonder what to make of it all

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The Clip-on Collar

to George Herbert wherever you ended up.

 

I broke my lead

and cried, "fuck this,

The scene is dead."

This rope of sands that twists

around my neck

shall burn for every time

it pulled me back

to these blank pages

and their accusation of a crime

as yet undefined,

in the embryonic stages

of requesting it's own writing:

The lord that calls itself child

While putting on a deep voice.

 

 

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So...what now?

Caught clocked in

at another boring pitfall;

back blocked off

front/left/right

all wrong.

Thinking that

I've got to be

something better

than a better me,

and I could be content

but is that what it means

to say you're free?

I just move

(I never said that I am living).

I don't have to prove

a single thing

cause I'm not listening,

and the only one that matters

doesn't need to hear to know

that everything will follow

once he's finished saying so...

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A girl is on her back in a field of wheat. It is the gloaming hour. The sun, low in the sky, pushes its way through the blades of wheat, golden, breathtaking. Her chest rises and falls gently, slowly, as if in sleep. But her eyes are open. They stare at the late day sky with a steady gaze. She feels as if she had been born in that field of wheat, and the sky she sees above is the first sight of all to come. The white linen shirt pushes against her back from the strands of wheat that crowd in around her. The scent of fire reaches her nostrils; it smells of burning wood and meat. She breathes in deeply. A tear forms in her right eye and is caught by gravity to stay in the same eye in which it was formed.

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After "Nothing would be the same if you didn't exist"

Rejection has all but consumed me

wrapped me in bubbles started playing

the funeral march with ever pop.

 

When nobody wants you, how do

you move forward?  I am stuck,

a revolving door of hello and goodbye.

 

The universe never donates the

stories I want to tell.  I am left with

cracked casts and an eye patch.

 

I guess that’s what I’m here for,

to make other people look better

to help other people find their dreams

 

while mine remain an infant, desperately

trying to crawl away from home

with a rope tied around my ankle.

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Tree

Good old childhood tree,

your branches break, your trunk's cracked.

You are just like me.

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Ice in the desert

Across the icy tundra, beneath the flow of silk and dust grows an earthly figure.

Sprouting from adversity it stretches it's slender form through the light.

Forever searching upwards for an ever changing goal until it settles in your arms and is forgotten.