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.

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.

Gather around
and hear me preach.
Open your eyes
and see me teach
'bout a guy and girl
about fifty each
who to each other
the life they leech

Of so called love
they built a life
two chidlren a home
barely a strife.
But a silent intruder
an unseen knife
would come in between
this man and wife

The love they shared
was nowhere to see
when distractions ran out
and pride ran free,
not even their child's
heartbroken plea
could melt the ice
between he and she

Some years passed
of this icecold fight
they started to move
avoiding their sight
no talking or sharing
less turn on their spite
their children ignoring
it all out of fright

But they stayed together
in good times and bad
even though in most of them
someone got mad
their children learned
how to be  good lads
but also found out
that love's really sad

The message here is
that where love starts
it wont grow and continue
without work from its parts
Learn form this couple
and their hatred darts
In the end they left
four broken  hearts

In the end they left
four broken hearts.

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.

Anger at who defends language as something holy
Fury at the ease with which cruelty is inflicted
Rage at the inescapability of money and society
Chafing and aching against self awareness
**** the stoics for teaching manly indifference
**** the christians for preaching fake empathy
**** the evolutionary drive, the cultural roles and all who allow oppression to thrive
Broken systems are all we have, after all.
Il try and keep avoiding looking at the cracks

I do not mourn a dead shell
Nor grieve for lost words
I mourn something that lived
that now lives in our thoughts

I do not mourn a lost soul
Nor one that's in "the other side"
I grieve for the living memories
The ones that still live inside

I do not mourn a dead shell
Nor something left behind
'Cuz what lived can go on
In the stillness of my mind

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.

But sometimes those images
Don't stay for long
They can last ages
Still, they're gone

There's always a seed
That fastly dies
Sometimes a tree
Suddenly dries

Music in your head
Slowly fades away
Those tunes you hear
Don't always stay

I keep trying to write it.

To make it happen.
Moving little pieces,
bit by bit or
shoving them around.
Either
Disturbing and mixing
To see if something will
Arrise from the mess
or
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.