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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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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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Our Wheel… A Ghazal poem, prompted by Mindful Poetry by richard lynn livesay

 

Can it be this dream world a spoke within a wheel?

An alternative life supporting our endless wheel

 

The path not taken, a kiss upon shores of life, reveal

Familiar ruts, deep and wide, in journeys upon this wheel

 

Secrets appear in forests deep through the surface seal

Messages like warnings on spokes within our wheel

 

Then times we pause and reflect, realize what we feel

Other times we continue in circles upon the Ferris wheel

 

We love, we care as best we can and shyly to conceal

A free link to give us sustenance like meals on wheel

 

We rant in thunder’s passion, wind-blown without a keel

Then continue on prisoned paths, a spoke broken in our wheel

 

Sigh in hopeless vastness, not aware of other’s zeal

Will we ever decide to cleanse our wheel within a wheel?

 

 

 

 

 

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Finding the Writer

I am the error in my ways

a format that I can't explain

in status of an editor

it's hard to read my own work.

 


The principals that I've applied

are stretched and so they are denied

connected by similarities

immersed in substance but lacking a hook.

 


Vague does well to justify

I've tried to find a better side

but things are not as stable

or specific as they seem.

 


Just take a look and you will see

with reason there's uncertainty

and though I read and write in text

I am not a book.

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Blind Faith

A caste degraded

Demonstrated

Way up high

They waved their signs

To a divine messenger

Who called them lesser

And wrote that sin

Was born of skin

And their innocent eyes

Were a putrid guise

To shade their demons

They couldn't leave them

For their devilish sin

Was, according to him, sown in skin

So they raised their pickets high

And prayed to that very same light

That the accuser prays

Until the end of their days