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How is it that the bath gets cold,
Yet, my love for it never gets old!
I didn't know —
That is, I just discovered —
That in the Christian calendar, alongside Lent and Easter,
But before Advent and Christmas,
There is OT…no, not The Old Testament,
I am talking about:
“Ordinary time”
A period of reflection after Jesus’ resurrection —
And how our lives have changed, or haven't.
How sacred can OT become when we peer forth with this lens on —
The smile,
The small act of kindness,
Washing the dishes,
Picking up a piece of ******* left discarded on the side of the road.
A listening ear in a busy world —
Silence
After chaos.
Forgiveness —
Second chances —
OT:
Divine.
A new series?! ;p
The surface of un-charcoaled moons
street dogs drugged in daily stews
lays down for a carving intoxication
Bones lift in a wind & haphazardly
press play...so I can slow it down
try & understand softening of clay...

Stodgily in the dirt and Cravens
of such pretentious-ness of pretending
of self worth of such clapping praise,
the parasites lap up the demonized,
joint edges of a bathroom mirror
a record presciently will stop playing
It herds until the final of warnings,
Almost discretely with the attempts,
Can't breathe like you are breathing....

I'm in need of more than bleeding,
I need so much back-yard weeding,
I can only survive my mentality
if one day I can be forgiven
unlike a witch of heathen
past the ocean poisoning
of the vile repressed toxicity.
Yes, I do confess my sins,
Sails past a boat to Bethlehem.
 1d
1DNA
-
You're pressed against the wall
They don't listen at all
The rope – your final call

Is it right
To threaten to die
Or
Are they just selfish cries
For the life you're denied?
-
Nah, dw, I'm not touching the rope

I read an article and ever since then this thought has been running in my mind for a while.
 1d
S R Mats
If love were a seed...

I'd plant them all around my garden.
I’d gather them in the harvest
And package them up to give away.
I'd become an urban gorilla gardener
Filling ***** of dirt with many seeds
Then toss them grenade-style
Onto abandoned lots, at passersby, and
Into the hate-filled corners of our world.
I'd give packets of love to family and friends.

If love were a seed, I'd plant it in hearts.
 1d
Nylee
isn't it strange, that you meet yourself in different people, in new faces,
The person you witness and become, the imprint remains
It is part of you, subdued but brewed like cyclonic wind
Decode others with empathy, look beneath the eyelids
The door to the soul, it looks just like mine
From the exterior, what is, all these coverings?
We have hidden the warmth quite beneath everything.
 1d
Stardust
After every flower,
There's someone tending to it with care.
Through every storm and season's test,
Ensuring it survives,
And someday, blooms its best.
Or simply keeps on blooming,
Until there are no seasons
And no more storms to test.
This poem is for my dear mother.
 1d
hannah
my heart is a landing pad
breathe in
catch
breathe out
let go
breathe in
catch
breathe out
let go
breathe in
breathe in
breathe in
i cant catch
breathe oubreatheinbreatheinbreathein
I see myself in light and shadow.
I wipe away “always and never” like spilled water,
when the paradox bothers me.

I dissolved my soft boundaries,
in the name of unreal faith.
So many places, so many faces,
yet another beginning.
I keep rolling a big stone beside others.
The home I dreamt of now exists in my world.

I have found this time, this place
describing what cannot be translated:
a room for uncertainty,
farewells and returns.

I like to stand in the last row,
to see tired bodies.
I whisper good words,
to make the world a little better.
My sovereignty is a willingness
to be an echo,
the symbol, the myth,
or a meaningless element
in the chain of woven stories.

I love metaphors.
I find myself in a forest of ellipses,
that bring unbearable truths.

Tensions, contradictions,
awareness that everything that lights
brings unseen weight.

I am a part of stories,
to vanish into oblivion—
the done past.

The Earth still breathes with me,
or without me,
among blooming linden trees.
So, I want to stay,
to open my eyes,
and be with what remains.
To my Father
 2d
JDK
Paint with red creation,
white skin tightened grip.
She's grown too sharp with patience;
a ***** to let it in.

Come on if you please.
Stay here if you need.
Pray on bended knees.
(I'll say the rest is due.)

The good men all are taken,
they've taken 'til it's gone.
Sordid imagination,
is this the man you want?

Come on if you please.
Stay here if you need.
Pray on bended knees.
I'll say the rest is due.
Today I am sporting spotty socks.
That would not seem that obscene.
But under a pristine cream suit
They poke fun at the ‘proper '”
At the crème De la crème.

Maybe that’s the theme of my curly locks;
Subverting the straight-jacketing of everyday life?
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