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the examined life, portrayed right at the fingertips, in loving memory, in loving color, swirled together, finding their roots at epitome, the example. the hand reaches out to the flower pedal floating its all simple, the hand reaches for what it needs, the person is enchanted, delighted, to be a part of something, that moment when the dynamic is flawless, those little moments, when the sun hits and there are parades in the background the the hand and eye and mouth are all focused on one specific interaction.  

these moments, take up all the time they need, and then they pass, and that is that, but time has a funny way of working its way up the spine, finding itself later in the recess of memory, embrace, warmth that is uncontitional, while no truth is permanent some stand for longer periods than others, and while they stand we dance, we dance, we dance

we cast ribbions to to top!  and we throw confetti all over and celebrate!  yes and while celebration may be a set up for disappointment, in that moment, that specific moment, celebration is perfect, and love shines, and its power is furious, its power is locked in, and death is escaped somehow, the spirit is sprinkled, like the confetti, and the individual is, truely, selfless
 Apr 2015 darling iridescence
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In all honesty I've never been good with words. I never knew what to respond after the doctor would ask me what hurt, or what to tell my mother after I saw her cry when my dad left. Poetry is placing words in all the wrong places in order to build something right. Poetry is taking apart the puzzle and forcing the pieces into spaces they don't fit. I tried to write you a letter to tell you that I miss you, the problem with poetry is that there's no metaphor that makes this emptiness inside my chest any more beautiful. There's no personification real enough to make my sheets feel like you're laying in them. There's no simile literal enough to make my heart feel as though its healing. I wish I could place these words on my tongue and roll them out for you to hear, but since I've last kissed you I can't even find the motivation to part my lips. I always find myself questioning why I keep writing; because the problem with my poems is that you're never the one reading them.
are boring beings

we tell so many stories

but we are

truly

boring

AHAHAHAHAHA

its truly a riot!  we're so boring!

its hilarious!
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