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 Sep 2019 Aaron LaLux
 Sep 2019 Aaron LaLux
He taught me to run
To disguise the most intimate parts of myself
To only love myself

You taught me to stay
To expose the most intimate parts of myself
To maybe love another

But now you and him are more similar than you know
Now I can stay
Now I can give the most intimate parts of myself
Now I can love another and myself

But it is not him,
And now it is not you
So now I say thank you and goodbye
Another rough draft...inspired by dreams that will never be real
He had returned to Hongseong, still robust,
he had returned to care for his ailing brother,
and he walked up the strand of grey
toward Hongju High School, the soccer field
stubbled-green, to his left, still much the same.
2070? Was it 2070 already? Students streaming out
wore similar uniforms, students fresh
as the summer wind expressing a highway
of floating dandelion seeds. His wife passed away
two years before and his two sons worked abroad,
phoning twice, maybe three times a year.
There'd been no explosions, no grand griefs for years.
It had been a convenient marriage, quiet tenderness
blanketing husband and wife now and again,
with Chuseok coming around every year,
with outings and road trips punctuating every year,
with family life, its turmoils, laughter, keeping up
appearances now bubbling forth as so many dreams...

And now he was here, by the soccer field, students
streaming by... He recalled himself, his friends
running in the field, himself swept up in anticipation,
kicking the ball within the thrall of anticipation...
He was going to make a mark in his field
and the school would remember he once studied here.
He'd travel worldwide, invited to conferences,
invited to deliver lectures throughout all of Europe,
and maybe he'd settle in America.
The old man walked on, passed the soccer field, toward
the pink-petalled tree that he hoped was there,
his hope fulfilled. The space underneath flared
with the memory of her whom he loved,
loved well after circumstances
had parted them cities away.

And the school hallways - how they glowed with her image...
How deliciously sad her image stood alone...
How strange it seemed he then anticipated
finer, fiercer loves than his pretty stepping stone.
How many sleepless nights had he slogged it out,
the examinations ******* him...
How many were the anxieties, worries
pressing upon him...
Yet how strangely faint
and shadowy the memory had become -
and almost quaint.
Even his wife's youthful image, her imagined glow,
the glow of his feelings then, had become
a faded cloth,
his quarrels with his two sons, at times explosive,
more faded patterns on the cloth...

Yet what had moved him here - what intimation
had been stirred in the soccer field's grass,
in the tree's pink petals? What was it about her,
his first flame evoking the marriage
of sadness and delight that eluded the blur?
Though the desks were different, though the hallway walls
and classrooms had different colors sewn,
a different melody rippling from a xylophone,
something of hers remained, a freshness
encompassing the pink petals, field's green,
a freshness whose face spoke of what's serene.
When he held her hand or ran in the field,
though his thoughts had sometimes taken him far afield,
few habits had hardened. He was still a soul
that like the wind passing through the grass and tree
was simply itself, not committed to a goal,
though the mind was a weaver of countless themes,
his mind prone to a rainbow of dreams.
She had moved him deeply: when they were together,
being was strung to being - being glowed -
youthful vigor, moments savored, possibility
shimmering, woven wonderfully together...

Twilight was coming on, spreading throughout the school,
its net reaching the soccer field and tree.
The old man began descending the strand of grey.
As he walked farther and farther away,
passing the street where she once had lived,
passing the multi-colored, blinking score
of PC rooms, singing rooms, and many a store,
habitual thoughts coalesced, clustered again;
he was back with his familiar self again,
the one he knew well for over fifteen years...
The indelible mark not made in his field,
the conferences imagined became the themes,
vibrant ones once again of unrealized dreams.
Still, he was well off, had been served plates enough
of recognition, respect and esteem.
And he was happy to see his brother again -
after more than ten years seeing him again -
happy to help, try to help a brother pull through
whose circumstances bore a darker hue.
Hongseong is a county in South Korea. "Chuseok" is the Korean equivalent of Thanksgiving.
 Sep 2019 Aaron LaLux
sitting here, quarter-past four,
thoughts erupting through my head

out my mouth, to your mind

these thoughts so divine,
which were once only mine
random aha
Extract the blood,
the metaphor for this euphoric movie I had directed under the fall of night, alone.
The film began to develop as the bottles began to pile
and thus I began to envision these delusions which I lust would become a reality.
We were a movie.
Especially when your smoke filled my mouth and you fed me love off of tables.
Made me hazy it smelt so gentle it burned so numb.
Tacky hands rode my skin,
engraving scars of diamonds.
My ego erupted; became so ******* rich.
Illusion said I could buy your love
but your eyes were guilty of unfazed.
Debuts don’t faze millionaires, we just look like more money.
Millionaires don’t watch our movies.
11 August, 19 03:37
 Sep 2019 Aaron LaLux
fray narte
the world we're in is made
for the silence between your words
now filled with goodbyes, un-lingering;
it is made for you,
breaking my heart in ways
poetry can never beautify.
it is made for the
goodnights never said
and your sneakers,
now missing from the shoe rack
and the last scents of your perfume
on the blanket you left behind.

but in a perfect world
beyond the black hole we're in,
your playlist is still my voice
saying i love yous in a loop.
in a perfect world,
the paper roses still bookmark
our favorite pages;
the side of your eyes still wrinkle
at the sound of my name;
we still live for the 5 am silence
mixed with regular coffee sips
and empty streets
and eye contacts
and that was our kind
of making love.

in a perfect world,
i still read you limericks
and you still annoy me
with your terrible puns
and we still tackle each other in bed
and it still leads to snuggling up,
and never to empty stares
and heartbeats that have
started beating backwards.

in a perfect world,
i'll never run out of metaphors
to write another poem for you,
the way you run out
of love for me.
in a perfect world,
you'll never slip out of my hands
the way my hair
has slipped out of yours.

in a perfect world,
i won't have to write this poem, darling

cause in a perfect world,
i never would have lost you.
in a perfect world,
you've never left at all.
your smile's still there when i wake up;
i'm still your cliche
"girl who feels like sunsets in a winter",
and i'm still
the one you love.
 Sep 2019 Aaron LaLux
She is sad,
She is hurt,
She is dying,
She is alone,
She is a mess,
She is judged,
She is ignored
She is suicidal
She is stressed
She is confused
She is ****** up
She is depressed
She is misunderstood
She is tired BUT STILL LIVING,
She is hurt BUT WONT SHOW IT,
She is screaming BUT IS SILENT
She is in pain BUT STILL SMILING,
Respect her, love her, nurture her,
'coz She is DESERVING.
this isn't only for women but  for all the people out there who are feeling any of these emotions but are still standing strong and smiling at the world like nothing happened when they are breaking apart inside.
hats off to u guys
 Sep 2019 Aaron LaLux
Creator Sun
Sorry doesn't cut it does it?
But it does.

It cuts into my skin, leaving trails of red,
Of crimson, of burgundy
Of a shameful, deep red.

I'm sorry, but you don't understand, do you?
You never do.

The rope feels inviting against my neck.
Oh how it fits my head!
Its forgiving roughness hugs my throat,
And I can't help but croak:

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that you were never here to help me;
I'm sorry that I never felt happy;
I'm sorry that you caused me to do this
To me, to myself.

Sorry doesn't cut it, does it?

Now, you feel sorry.
You cry those ugly tears of shame.
Tears that had pooled around my eyes
And grew, day by day.

You're sorry.

But sorry doesn't cut it, does it?

I'm already gone;
And you're here to stay;
With your sins of hate
And your late apology.

Sorry doesn't cut it.
So I felt that the previous poem was a bit messy, so here is another one. Sorry.
I just returned to the place I call home and I'm already planning on leaving again.

And I know you're thinking you were only away a few days, a few more can't hurt but you see this is just what I do, this is that vice I cannot seem to kick no matter how many times I promise I'm quitting. Even the alcohol and cigarettes that stole the best years of my life don't compete with this leave-leave-leaving.

For some one who needs stability, who writes poetry in repetitions of three because her heart stutters compulsions, like embolism, like maybe it could **** me, like I don't wanna die, I have a funny obsession with making my life unstable. Always turning my world on its head, finding solace in strange places surrounded by different faces.
It never makes me happy, whether moving or stagnant I feel like I'm missing missing missing a part of me and I have no idea how to find it. It is the ghost that haunts me.

So I'm grabbing the bag I never bother to unpack, add to it my melancholy and the frightening 'what if' of my failing health, trying to not feel like a liar for promising I'd go see someone about it, trying not to feel failure in the fact that I don't know if I can stay long enough to see someone about it, trying not to feel like this is my way of kissing this life goodbye. Hopefully this isn't how I leave you.
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