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.
For some it is a poetic crime
to ever use an imperfect rhyme.
As the Emperor of enunciation
I embrace differing pronunciation.
So chain not words up in a prison
let them go with their own rhythm.
.

© Pagan Paul (Sept 2015)
.
Old poem I found in a notebook, previously unpublished.
I think I wrote it for another site where there were
a lot of snobbish 'academic' poets.
.
Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.


She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.


Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.


A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.


Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.


Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That **** mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”


The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.
This is one of the sample stories in my new book, "BitterSweet," which has become a #1 New Release on Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/BitterSweet-Lior-Gavra/dp/0999497103/
 Feb 2018 Lavendar My Love
Ricki
I am living as static
amongst a chaotic mess
I am living as shy
amongst a world of socialites

my sister,
she is living as charisma
she is living as the current

I am living as a shadow,
not to her, but something else
I am living in fiction,
as she makes them laugh with brilliant, life-time diction

she is living as she goes,
doing all things she knows she knows

I am living half; she's whole
I am living as a fool

she is living half; I'm whole
she is living as a fool

I am living as I go
doing all things I know I know

she is living as a shadow,
not to me, but something else
she is living in fiction,
as I make them laugh with brilliant, life-time diction

I, her sister,
am living as charisma
I am living as the current

she is living as static
amongst a chaotic mess.
she is living as shy
amongst a world of socialites
Not from envy or an insult, we're just simply parallel
one thing in common between
the greatest books ever written
and myself was that we were
banned from the schools

we turned our backs away from this
****-poor attempt at a system of education

and we’ve been inseparable ever since
déjà vu
and suddenly i'm here with you

again
again
again

how does this story end?

moving parts
all connected

paste regimes
resurrected

future projects
souls collected

which path do we endure?
has any of this happened before?
and how can we be sure?

multiple lives passing through air
of another world next to ours

through and through and here i am
again with you and not too far

and then
and then
and then

here we are again
yet its different now
here we are and then

suddenly i'm here with you
déjà vu
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