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Briar rose, ****** red,
Why do you dream of tangled
vines with thorns?
Briar rose, ****** red,
Why do you dream of the fair
maiden that mourns?
As pearls of winter fall upon you,
-How cruel is this season,
to inflict melancholy just by
freezing your petals in the
eternal swirl of time...
Before I die,
I want to live
Loudly.

Before I die,
I want to travel
The unknown.

Before I die,
I want to host more
Students from
Not-here.

Before I die, I want to
"Perform something
Bold, tragical and austere."

Before I die:

Lava flows.

Norway fiords

Northern lights.

A car driving me or

Hyperloop SF->LA

Sub-orbital flight to see
Earth from space
(aim high before I die!)

Proof we aren't alone.
That would be a big one.

And while we are alive,
LET'S DO THIS!!!
Before we die.

Word.
 Apr 2017 Dead Account
Josie
Chocolate ecstasy on my tongue is
melting my troubles away
"I don't write poetry any more,"
she said
and threw down the shot of wild turkey.

she was beautiful once.
now, her eyes trapped  
and frightened.

her lips moved
but it was the rain that spoke to me.

she glorified in self destruction
like an actress in a greek tragedy  
or a boxer past his prime

dark violets, gardenas, and red roses
she sits behind a tombstone
picking flowers
waiting.
-
with dark brown eyes,
you searched,
for someone,
for god,
for light.
with deep brown eyes,
you saw me.
in me you found,
cold hallways,
broken tiles,
but never light.

with tired green eyes,
i searched,
for someone,
for warmth,
for you.
with vacant green eyes,
i found nothing.
all i ever wanted,
was nothing.
in you i found,
something.

with boring, sad eyes,
we pondered.
on death,
on love,
on us.

with wide, bright eyes-

we awoke from our own dreams,
in messy sheets far from heaven.
we wept, sea between beds,
feeling dead and forever unpleasant,
from too many words and antidepressants.
i prefer death over inconvenience sometimes. it's unhealthy.
 Apr 2017 Dead Account
Pagan Paul
The Room of Dancing Shadows,
undulating across the wall,
like ****** Persian ballerinas,
making no sound at all.
Reaching, retreating, a mosaic form,
eternally shifting the dark shade.
Pictures of no light in a flux,
remain fragmented, cold, unmade.
Hypnotising, random shapes in black,
swim serenely, start to slide.
The Room of Dancing Shadows
holds its fear deep, deep inside.


© Pagan Paul (03/10/16)
.
 Apr 2017 Dead Account
D
I will not wear what everyone else thinks I should
no, I will wear whatever makes me feel good
and if that's ripped jeans and an oversized tee shirt,
if that's what makes me feel good, then that is who I'll be
and there is nothing anyone can do about it,
for I'm just being me
written 2014
edited 2017
 Apr 2017 Dead Account
AJ
I believed you were a painter. Your hands, your arms – they were meant to create art. They were meant to create beautiful masterpieces. I believe I am the empty canvas and you stroke me with harsh resentment. Now, I’m colourful. Are you happy now, painter? Are you happy that red paint trickled down the canvas, where you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the canvas have feelings too? Are you happy that traces of violet paint smeared all throughout the once white and pure canvas?  Are you done with your masterpiece? Or is your masterpiece still not finished?
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