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 Jul 10
The true poem is not the work of the individual artist, it is the universe itself, the one work of art which is forever perfecting itself.

Ernst Cassirer, from "An essay on Man"
 Apr 22
I can see this only with my imaginary eyes
I can feel it in the vibrant empty spaces inside
how everything is woven together
so that I belong to her to him to them and to you
I belong to my skin I belong to the bones of my hands
I belong to my nails, of course to my heart
what if we are first imaginary beings with concrete joints?
have we forgotten that we belong to the story of the air
water fire, to the story of the earth?

the closer I get to who I am, to the earth of the soul,
to the real depth of blood, the more I cease
for a moment to twist the faces of wind in my mind
so that the world doesn't get hurt
I belong to a window, to this edge
between outside and inside

I belong to the world, oh
how wonderful that
the world belongs to itself
 Mar 28
"Contentment is a synonym for loneliness, cool loneliness, settling down with cool loneliness. We give up believing that being able to escape our loneliness is going to bring any lasting happiness or joy or sense of well-being or courage or strength. Usually we have to give up this belief about a billion times, again and again making friends with our jumpiness and dread, doing the same old thing a billion times with awareness. Then without our even noticing, something begins to shift. We can just be lonely with no alternatives, content to be right here with the mood and texture of what’s happening."

"it allows us to finally discover a completely unfabricated state of being. Our habitual assumptions — all our ideas about how things are — keep us from seeing anything in a fresh, open way… We don’t ultimately know anything. There’s no certainty about anything. This basic truth hurts, and we want to run away from it. But coming back and relaxing with something as familiar as loneliness is good discipline for realizing the profundity of the unresolved moments of our lives. We are cheating ourselves when we run away from the ambiguity of loneliness."

"Cool loneliness allows us to look honestly and without aggression at our own minds. We can gradually drop our ideals of who we think we ought to be, or who we think we want to be, or who we think other people think we want to be or ought to be. We give it up and just look directly with compassion and humor at who we are. Then loneliness is no threat and heartache, no punishment. Cool loneliness doesn’t provide any resolution or give us ground under our feet. It challenges us to step into a world of no reference point without polarizing or solidifying. This is called the middle way, or the sacred path of the warrior."

by Pema Chodron from "When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advise for Difficult Times"
 Feb 20
Carlo C Gomez
coloring inside the lines is impossibly bleak,
with a hissing noise
atomic locomotive
rounds the bend,
extrasensory perception is not
a mindless gift,
it's a train station in the clouds,
tracking all my starting points to you,
nothing in the middle,
nothing at the end.

you leave in opera
with secrets and grievances
under the radar,
and your ready-made
wings catch in the power lines,
you're coiling like smoke
in the arches of my cathedral,
a sense of elegant decay
while sweeping up the debris,
committing arson
with the paraffin of my temporal lobe.

yesterday's fairground waltzes,
ghosted lullabies,
and woodland hymnals,
set in a context not of
resolution and closure,
but of contradiction and assimilation,
break the bond,
away they float on purveyor belts,
one too many molecules,
one too many departures,
always on the surface of everything,
nothing in the middle,
nothing at the end.
 Jan 15
each morning bird watching
is a silent meditation
I have pigeons sparrows seagulls
megpies in my gaze
their delight of falling
makes me smile
I watch them teaching their wings
for each day
picking up the debris of sleep
spinning around each other
they start cheerful conversations
about the taste of the air
steal crumbs of wonder
from each other
a woodpacker comes
from time to time
its red stain is fun
none of them travel to you
they get round and round
wayching out
their own flight
 May 2022
apart from breathing through your nostrils?
Every breath intake,
A second more to live
all we ever did was breathe
through the sorrows and happiness
it has many arcs, the wave
every moment I spent living,
I knew the fate
same as everyone
death will swallow me whole
all I ever had was my fine soul.
 Oct 2021
I bleed into my pen
and leak my sorrows on the pages.
I shudder from the movement
underneath my broken skin.
They bite me, they eat me,
they **** me from within.
They crawl so subtly
these monsters in my body
who feast upon my sin.
© JDMaraccini 2013
 Mar 2021
Thomas Bron Mukama
The leaf in me drops
From every heart of negativity
Down it falls though never dries

Pick a leave, its not dry
It will fertilize your thoughts
Set you to a bright view of positivity

The soldier in me drops
But the works in me never dry
Made as a leaf, existing as a root
to give firmness to anyone clinging for hope

let me acompany you with shade
drop you a fruit Of succulent hope
And if am to die, let me manure your growth
 Dec 2020
This crown of thorns:
Pushed farther on mine brow,
My brain, it mourns.
Mourns the sadness to which I bow.

These cuffs of blades:
Cut deep into mine legs and arms,
I have been cut by this ace of spades;
The forsaken knife, that exclusively harms.

This unfair reality:
It eats away at all thats left,
It falsely gives me a principality.
The load of emotions, I still heft.

A heart i will never take,
But I still stumble on.
Each day with another mistake,
My hope is just another con.
So ummm yeah, the first poem I wrote, way back in feb of 2019 right after a suicide attempt... Jesus-*******-Christ that’s dark. But I thought I’d share the story behind it. Also was reading Macbeth at the time, so that’s why the language is odd.
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