lavender lilac butter scotch blue flowers
aside the nothingness but open air
rummiging thorns down thickles
to its decending upwarding water

breathing upon its havoc
limber joyous not so joyous atmosphere
Always doing the same but not yet the same,
dying

like soil is its blood without its blood its earth its roots
have gone dissipade unlike me,
I am made from soil unto my own soil thickness
and breathing joyfully into Space

what are flowers for when we can use them for so much
other than its immediance question and answer of this such
"I don't know"
Taste, devour, smell, and beauty

nothing but its limber award
and pleasantry

of this sickle
rootless
tree

blending in so perfectly,
with water and what's death to be.

Saddening strickening the evolution of quick throw away plant;
Necessary; like a gift it is,
a quickness of sight,
an immediance of a throw away

To the salut!

© Clarissa C. van Vreden

ten percent battery to write about eyes
ten percent battery to write about eyes
ten percent battery to write about eyes

thine eyes are thine eyes

though have not haven't have hathened thur eyes
thise eyes have been haddened by your eyes

obviously

nothing about realize " that you have eyes
as safety

no thanks , and no thanks ittitty -

Demisial deprived depriviciality

no thanks,

you two

eyes for mine areth sacred like my faith of sensity

those who have scaredom of eyes have scaredom of eyes

but me,

I know thine eyes

and + you

You aren't nothing but that demise in senseless hearacheded heartache heartacheded devure in spiced spliced

hathened you had senselessnessness

Can't I; Be nice?

© Clarissa C. van Vreden

He wasn't my husband to be,
wasn't my husband not to be. . .
he was a lonesome lover of lover.
He did not have a father.
& here I am years later,
wandering if he had believed all those years later,
he had had that one jailer as a father.

His father today brings bee nests,
to my ears,
and he believes he sees now his Woman,
me through the eyes of a Poppet,
or him through the eyes of his glory self.

Rest.In.Peace.

© Clarissa C. van Vreden

Socks on like it's a new day because what else are socks for?
Blues on because it feels like that quick pick of that day,
rock on my headphones because rather that word of dismay,
I go on beat on with the knocks of my soul

Ravage outside to the silence of the greenery,
the birds there are to see
and the glazed of the horses I wink at to help us please

Grunge on with those feet I don't attire,
train tracks with the sights of grafitti of hay wire
I walk into the city with a card-beep on
an en-lurk of the all of a sudden darkest nights
Beat tempo, okay- and a run in of a new sweatshirt for taste
Store closing and where else am I going to go?
Who knew that white, could it? Could it look good on me?

I walk in to my heaven of parade: Bars
I sit down and order a martini,
I go out to hear the distaste of making fun of me
I'm not drunk
I never usually am
I deflower the taste of the shine of liqour,
with my mouth

Though here I am on the street making a self-timer shot
and the man who works at the bar comes out with a blanket
Do you, are you cold?
I laugh and say no, what else are you going to say!

So I leave,
and did a bounce dip in the **** cafe
usually I just order coffee
this time around I felt to engo
one joint please

I'm smoking on the street
because from what I remember this Netherlands,
had a heart beat

I walk into the train station with that card beep
and walk on feeling strangely as 8 cops
head turn
attack me viciously

puking on the floor,
and train guests yell on yeah please!

What a hell of a night- my genious ways says no number please
and with a lawyer
out so swiftly

Morning to a new blue haven
I didn't have that card-beep
but I went in swiftly
lurking on the sides
for the security guard not to see

I made it home
home to me is always blue-ly
because raindrops on sweatdrops and teardrops all do the same
effort-lessly,
Blue-ly

© Clarissa C. van Vreden

It’s that I don’t want you to feel dissapeared?
It’s that I don’t want it to be all about that I said that and it’s all in gone to all about no nothing newsance in knowance
Though it’s just that i said this and said that the words of my last sentence not heard because of a miss on a match on a match on an match
That that’s all of a sudden not what I said because sometimes it’s a twifle of way, I myself feel unheard
Though it matters to me because I wasn’t stancing I was hearing myself talking and it’s not about like why or who or when or what or who with who
It’s that a find in me feels I can’t breathe at a word and I believe all words of mine that I need speaking to need hear to I and when that’s silenced at a match-matched it’s that I don’t care only a tiny little bit of what that other word could have been from another to have secluded my word, in silence.
I trial at trial forth knowing what that word could have been, but I just can’t. It’s just that I should pick that none of it should matter anymore.
XOXO
Alice

© Clarissa van Vreden

Like nothing I write matters anymore?
Go back to writing in books?
Wasn’t there a purpose for writing in the stanza?
Wasn’t there a purpose for coloring to begin at?

Wasn’t there a purpose to help humanity with the non-begs of entirity though proof-work of somethings?

Wasn’t there a non-place though an at-place at purposing with words?
Word and or non-endeavor though word for placing action at for placing?
Wasn’t there a means for some type of entell where others can read and where others can see a pass-by of art?

Why anything at all I question myself as I realize not my body yet but realize there may not be a purpose to anything at all when so much has been done and not a thank you Clarissa for having written/action-ed/placed/…

It’s like what good is anything of doings when feasts are barely feasts and become rather a laugh-at
For it’s that majority prefer to, laugh-at rather than laugh-with.

It’s that there hadn’t been no pleasure in minds though rather seeking pleasure for that as

I can’t recall a place socially anymore online where there was appreciation for statuses re-mongst books or school-type shares with acknowledgement. Besides many of those people are dead not already but somewhere amongst the lines.

It’s never like I say internal but saying like over and over again can by very funny. I don’t want to think about how many have gone about speaking of the word like with everything in between as though it’s humanity though I have written there and that is the truth: Like… Somehow seems to fly by very as easy.

Back to belief in how it may be more to the structure of not writing anywhere is no longer a means for I have done that already and I can’t not not help it.

My body is where I is.

© Clarissa van Vreden

The interchanging elapse
Between the wind and the sun
The air and the rising soil

Comes with how different
Or how yet so the same

As it happens now like when
The pour of rain
The sunshine though
Flickering in the eyes
Over ever-change

Though my eyes see different
Perhaps I’m unkowingly some type of
Colorblind

Moving perhaps forwards or backwards
As I sleep of memoires
And hasty rememberance when I wake up
To of yesterday

Rainbows come in a while usually
Though stagnant in piling up of thought
For it exists

Where and there though
Distinguishable

Fire flames of proving existing now
Like ashes
You’ll never be gone

© Clarissa van Vreden