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Theft I try to contemplate.
What is it that lingers,
On finger tips,
On stranger's lips.
What is mine, tell me when?

I shake the tingling weight.
Why is it, that desire,
On silver trinkets,
On breast couplets.
Hath lead me lost. In vain?

Who had it first? What god.
When is mine forever,
On eve of death,
On ****** unknown.
Who? That pleasure is beneath you.
I wrote this poem 6 years ago (If you've been keeping up with my poetry, 2010 was an amazing year... for my poetry, LOL. So too was 2011) and I found myself entranced by it again, so I decided to post it here.

Enjoy!

DEW
If I could ever see,
a woman that personifies,
the symphony of this bliss,
I would cry,
and feel no shame from it.

If she spoke,
with the restraint-ed passion and grace
in the tune of my emotion;
I dare say I would be lulled into a dream,
the romance of which,
I could never hope to realistically pursue...
This is actually from a facebook post that I wrote 6 or so years ago about the humanity and beauty of femininity in relation to a piece of music I heard called "Arabesque #1" by Claude Debussy.
I'm a sucker for passionate, yet gentle, piano music and that song fits the bill eternally, with scarce a rival.
I edited the post (some of the subject matter) to fit a more poetic and personal theme.

Here's a Youtube link to the song with an amazing visual cue.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A6s49OKp6aE
Share in the bliss :)

Enjoy!

DEW
solely engrossed, slow to emotions
prone to be a soul that is broken
lowly focus, frozen devotion
vocal notions erode when unspoken

(doing fine, i lie with a smile
while i fight my own quiet trial
i clear my head, i'm alright for a while
but
a mind that is clear is a mind in denial)

goal, avoidance of a throat opened
my vocal notions will go unspoken
choking on the voices stolen
prone to be a soul that is broken
I was ready to quit this site, but all the support that I have received while I wasn't even active has changed my mind. Thanks to all who have read my writing. Hugs to you all!
the hardest thing is faith
even with my best try
it's my own fate i create
it's me, myself, and i

it is such a heavy weight
under this silent sky
will i see the pearly gate
will i burn when i die

the hardest thing is faith
looking God in the eye
will my ways make my fate
of whether i fly or fry
~

prelude.

did you know that English stands alone as a written language requiring the capitalization of the word "I"... yet makes no similar provision for “we” or “us; a sad statement of self inflation.  it was after learning this that i abandoned the rule in my own poetry.


~

my i’s averted,
lowered, diverted,
reduced in size,
an exercise of
large proportions;
breaking down the me-isms,
finding room for we-isms,
to take the larger place;
create an i for seeing,
the case for simple,
smaller being;
no need to punctuate,
instead eliminate this
compulsion to inflate;
’tis my i-drop moment,
my i-reducing ointment,
these pupils are dilated,
deflating i and me,
enlarging we and thee;
finding that in i-reduction,
the eyes are widely opened,
thus to better see,
what i really need to be.
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