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lately //
i’ve been making a noose of my own heartstrings //
but my father is a fisherman who taught me that the best knots don’t slip //
so i carry a bowline in my pocket for security and a tangled mess of forevers on my sleeve.
But I’ve also been tying anchor bends since i realized my grip was not equal to atlas’ shoulders.
And what a cruel paradox that is //
to think that a god can carry the earth beneath our feet but our hands // molded from clay and mud in the same image //could never be enough of a last resort to anchor our hearts in our chests.
so the loophole here,
so to speak,
is the anchor bend knot //
but! //
you know what’s funny about loopholes actually?? // you see, they were made to allow arrows to be shot from an opening // but the structure of that opening prevents counter arrows from being shot back in.
such an invention is why it’s always been nearly impossible to storm a castle’s wall and my, // have many a noble men fallen at the feet of such entrances.
so nowadays, i carry my trusty bowline //alongside the endless loopholes of those old-fashioned anchor bends.
however, I’m sure you know that the bowline is regarded as “the knot of all knots” right? it’s good for tying just about anything without give.
but the first time i ever went sailing // i learned about the round turn and two half hitches. this knot is pretty cool because the more tension you apply to the rope, the tighter the knot will get //
highly reliable for most things.
i guess the irony here is that // i am personally, most identifiable with this knot.
i don’t really ever use it. i am not a sailor or a fishermen. but i do have a really bad tendency of fastening myself to things that have a lot of pull.
the tightening tension of it
is similar to the mythical 13 knots in a hangman’s noose and what an incredibly genius stroke of engineering.
to think that the masterful art of knot-tying comes down to the basic idea that a knot will hold under tension is simply and utterly graceful without fault.
but here’s the thing;
as soon as i learned to tie a knot that won’t slip,
i taught myself the hangman’s knot:
a knot that essentially slips, but still holds merciless tension around its victim.

i’ve been tying nooses with what causes me the most pain.
with what bleeds the most love //
but as the one and only descendant of my father, the great fisher king,
i am starting to learn that if the knot slips,

you cut the line and start again.
Strutting Out

I love wearing a well tailored suit.          
Strutting in my sartorial repute.              
Crisp spread shirt collar, matching tie                
And dimpled half Windsor knot
All with puffy pocket square to eye.                                                                                

Dark navy with a faint pinstripe                    
Two button coat and Four button sleeve
Blood red silk lining type                            
British tailored elegance to perceive
Slacks cut just a half inch to the back
Stepping out lady on my arm



Copyright 2014
Richard L Ratliff
I see him every day
Stumbling by the streets that are as old as him.
His wispy air tumbles past his shoulders
As his eyes glaze down and out.

Sometimes I see him walk
And hover without a mouth
It only appears for a cancer stick
That he drains the tobacco clean.

Each time I pass the shield of smoke
He puts up where he sits
I wonder when the day will come
He finishes his final one.

Because I know once he was young too
And I've yet to come by and sit with him
And ask his story after I say these words,
"Hello, old man."
This is a real person I usually see during my week, I really don't know how old he is and how close he is to dying from his chain-smoking routine, but I found him quite poetic.
With the beat of a galloping horse you thundered into our lives

100milesper hour, yet

Time

        Stood

                Still. Somehow... something so visceral, delicate and fierce

enveloped everything around us and we

shut out the world with our hazy glow



An extra chamber of my heart was carved out

Just for you

                Time flew, And ground to a halt

unable to sleep,

even when granted that small mercy in a sea of insomnia

Unable to tear myself away, yet

Simultaneously craving freedom and your love.

The conundrum of being your mum.
Out of habit I said I was fine
but no one is fine in the dark
speaking to voices
screaming to ghosts
crying to puddles of tears.

No one is fine in the light
with only themselves in sight.
Don't (let others) be alone.
We lie awake
at afterparty hours
with fragile hearts
that scream silently,
violently,
why do we feel alone?

Why do we feel alone
with so many of us here?
We carry a torch
in its fire our feelings flicker.
We pass it around
breathing the ember in.
We inhale the flames
And exhale dark ashes.

Each breath keeps it ignited
as we share this light inside us.
We feel it's familiar warmth
when we pass each other by.
It bonds and it heals us;
all walks of our lives together.

We lie awake
at any fragile hour
with open hearts
that scream loudly,
proudly,
we are not alone.
Thank you for listening
I was not born with fear
fear was put into me
I was not born with insecurities
society skewed my mind to believe In beauty

I'm was born free, curious and untrained from formal normalitys
why must an individual become
parallel
normal is varied
so why do we try to be alike
and we try to fit into a illusion that a society creates
a society that changes and grows
but how is so
people can't be different and unique
a double standarded we so apparently have to keep

we were born at different times and different hours
we are raised in different places and situations
do not let yourself be finalized by an acceptance
and become one of society's many prisoners
pressure might turn coal into a diamond
but for others it shall break them
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