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ricardo Jul 22
It came back.
After all my attempts against, and all my fiercely believed immunity, it came back
Surrounded me with instinct-clear, instant-clear physiological reaction that told me in the wordless way the body talks to the concious mind:
this is true.

Aristotelian resilience against a story with no winners or happy endings.

And then it left again, as it always does. As It should be.
A wake of hardly remembered pain, and some fuzzy ideals holding me together, barely worth the name.
ricardo Apr 2020
I miss her a little sometimes
We didn't say goodbye with words
We didn't say it at all.
In my dreams i've died a hundred times
she must've died a thousand or more.
We saw life through same shades
***** dark pink, scratched allover.
She learned so much from so many
kinds of pain and blood.
forever teen spirit
***** crazy dark bright pink
eyes shinning with delight and pain
her head high, tears dry
she told me she'd do it one day
there was no place for her here
she was at least half right
i ******* miss her a lot sometimes.
ricardo Dec 2015
From a vessel arise
Both feelings and farts
One from the stomach
And one from the heart

They must follow a path
Both sentiments and ****
One goes to the mouth
And one goes to the pit

They’re sometimes restrained
Both crap and emotion
One for no reason at all
And one for bad time notion

But in neither of cases
Will closing the exit
Will make them not be.
I hope you'll forgive me
For comparing feelings
to scatology.
ricardo Nov 2015
I keep trying to write it.

To make it happen.
Moving little pieces,
bit by bit or
shoving them around.
Disturbing and mixing
To see if something will
Arrise from the mess
Staying still, inanimate,
maybe my actions are
not letting things happen.

Maybe it thinks
and evades me.

Maybe you're not supposed
To look for love at all.
  Aug 2015 ricardo
Let me sink another glass of wine
To bring me closer to the divine
I don't mean a God of any kind
(If you're religious I hope you don't mind)
I mean the place inside of me,
Where I know lives good poetry
Gotta love drunken writing :) don't judge me, it's my week off :)
ricardo Jan 2015
by Leslie Thomson

One night late after midnight,
A poet sat with pen in hand,
Surrounded by crumpled up paper,
No words came to his command.

In his house there crept a poem,
Full of smarm and beguiling;
Just out of reach of the poet,
It stood there, sardonically smiling.

“Do I elude you, poet?”
Said the poem with mocking tone,
“Do I keep you awake at night,
And won’t ever leave you alone?”

The poet snatched at the poem,
Which stayed outwith his grasp.
He cursed at the elusive creature,
Who laughed with a throaty rasp.

“Poem how did you get in here?
And why won’t you give me peace?”
Asked the poet of the poem,
“I am tired and need release.”

“Why do you evade my clutches?
And keep me awake so very disturbed?
After all, I am a poet;
I am King of the written word.”

“Oh such grand conceit,” mocked the poem,
“To think this is your life to choose.
You are the king of NOTHING;
You are but servant to the muse.”

“You know your mind is not your own,
And words are beyond your control.
You merely scribble what is dictated;
You will write what you are told.”

“It is true,” bemoaned the poet,
“I asked not to be entranced.
To spend time with words evading me,
And leading me in merry dance.”

“Yet I would never want to escape it,
For I love the written word so.
The muse has me in her clutches,
And I never want her to let go.”

“So you tell me poem,” said the poet,
Just what is a poor poet to do,
When I’m distracted day and night,
And haunted by creatures like you?”

“You try too hard at times,” said the poem,
“That is why we lead you on this chase.
Each poem is like a lover;
We must be ready to embrace.”

And the poem slipped into the poet’s clutch,
And only then did he understand,
That he would never be king or master,
The muse is always in command.

His mind at once was inspired
And he continued the work he planned;
Contented and filled with love,
For the poem in his hand.

So when you look for inspiring verse,
To enlighten your life or fulfil,
Remember a poem will not be forced;
It must come of its own free will.
He closed his account, I reposted his masterpiece.
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