I let you go not because I didn't love you, but because I knew that I couldn't be the girl of your dreams. As a girl who falls for people easily, it's hard to maintain a relationship with just one person. I love multiple people. I have never denied that, and no, I don't play with people's feelings, neither do I sleep around or cheat. I just never got over the other breakup, I never healed properly, I just pretended to be fine with how things were, despite it breaking me apart. People call it being a player, I call it being in love. Love makes us want people we can't have, people we can't be with, people we are with but can't see it working forever. I feel like a bad person, for not being able to love just one person and be happily ever after. Emotional attachments are easy to form, but harder to deattach yourself from, it doesn't matter if you're strong or not, if you love more than one person, then you do, and that's just how it is. It doesn't define you, it doesn't make you a **** or a *****. If you're a faithful, loyal person who happens to like or love more than one person, it's okay. It's different if you cheat and lie and date several people at the same time. People never think of the difference before they judge someone and it sickens me. Love isn't a sin, feelings aren't a sin. Breaking hearts and cheating - now that's a sin.

we're the ones stuck somewhere between a passionate desire for life and a violent desire for death; trying to stop the hour glass from pouring its sand into the bottom half with a cigarette between our finger tips... we are scared and confused and contradictory...

and yea i guess
this is the human race
our compasses all
point to the same fate
but the beauty is seen
by those who dare to stray
we're all natural skeptics, anyway

The day they operated on his brain
he imagined it as his day of poetry
freedom from the pain of living,
and heard a train reciting a long poem
on love, nightmares and death
by a Chilean poet he adored,
whose name he tried to recollect, over and over again
but his train of thoughts curiously missed
that one station in each, separate attempt.
.
Did he hear anyone whispering anything about 'bad omen'?
reminding a poet killed by a dose of poison
injected by the  doctor treating him
to end the emotional ******* of
his poetry over the mind of millions
of readers
                 - and then he slowly lost orientation
in delirious state he fell in to a pit of delight and thought
about the white luminant mist  poetry, has created in his being,
all through the days of suffering love gifted him.
He received poetry as a feeling, deep, deep inside,
Emily Dickinson was to him a fragrance enveloping his consciousness,
then a feeling inexpressible, an elation, leading him to a plane higher.
His brain was a night filled tunnel, through which
the train reciting dark poems of stark beauty of death
traveled like lightening, he sat perplexed looking
at a mirror someone held before him, reflecting darkness, an eerie feeling.

That night train wailing as if  someone dear has left for ever
traveled through the surreal plane of Dali paintings.
"Life", a unfamiliar voice proclaimed aloud near him,
"Is poetry written in one's blood, which one fails
to read as it is dangerously close to one's suicide note,
that one finishes reading  only at the last minute".He hoped
they must have finished his surgery by now;
it was getting dark, a kind of mist spreading like a swarm of evil beetles,
but they were still at it, panic reigned
on  the operation table. His face was peaceful
immobile like the wings of a dead butterfly.

First there is the prep.
The roommate.
Wearing salmon colored pants.  
He has Shaggy from ****** Doo
On his left thigh.
The alcoholic.
She has a drinking problem.
She is in denial of her drinking problem.
She hangs out with the loners.
The loners.
Unkempt, unattractive and fat in all the wrong places.
The blond looks like Tom Petty.
The one with dark hair, glasses and braces
They live next door.
Living together but segregated. 
Wild cards.
All of us.

©Gambit '13

Then, when a pin-fall echoes ringing
in the enveloping darkness,
and muddied silence eclipses all light,
spreading all around
the mistletoe
guards the path forward,

we must know, it will all end.
For a greater power than all we know,
than even the greatest of Gods,
a secret is enshrined within
the very fabric of existence:
a mystic voice echoes,

from the mists, a boon-giving hand
reassures us lost here:
Whenever in trouble, wherever you be
call and the help shall swell forth
from within the wells
dug empty in the crusts of our being;

Like the last light of the evening
the image of clay disappears
into the waters, that in mystic union
connect earth and the heavens,
appearing again year after year
in yet more lovely forms:

A river of love that swells forth
at our suffering, the cradle
of our weal and woe, the Mother
of everything that ever is.
Nine there might be, the darkest
of nights, but the tenth is

the day of victory for sure!