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 Apr 2018 Darren
Soul Scribe
Kids have nasty noses with
Dark green hosing out of them.
With no care and rapidly growing hair
They take their mom's hand and wipe their nose bare on her cardigan.

I've always wondered why we don't remember much of our early memories like where did they go?
Maybe these escaping visions used the snot trail as their undernose railroad.
But no mother in her right mind would try to siphon the mucus like fuel.
So the world may never know what lies inside that green drool.
As this child grows taller and learns to plug his nose with a soft lotioned tissue and not his new clothes,
He grows smarter and wiser and begins to compose, poems and prose that flow as the soul.
He writes about and to his grandpa,
Trying to unwrap the wisdom like a present of a thousand layers.
Using his thumb to uncover the thin papers.
Like talking to the curator of the museum of his mind, what was it like at war with the dictator of the time?
Spilling secrets and telling stories of his life when he was 9.

But the stories started to get blurry,
And his grandson started to worry,
He soon learned that his memory was not a guarantee.
His idol's nose had begun to run.
His mum wasn't there to refund the snot,
This is something that can't be undone or fought.

The rapid escape of dreams and thoughts,
as the last drop of snot falls off.
This was written shortly after my grandfather's death. I hope you all enjoy
 Apr 2018 Darren
 Apr 2018 Darren
sometimes feels
a little like
drifting in space.
 Apr 2018 Darren
He's a puzzle that can't be solved
He's a dream that can't be real
He's a favourite kind of hello
He's a wound that just won't heal

He's a mystery found in a lie
He's a voice when you are mute
He's a fire with no bright flames
He's a giant and I'm minute.

He's never going to settle
He's the opposite of what he says
Plays his games with bold strategy
He'll hurt me in so many ways.

And even though I love him,
I've gave him all my time,
I'm fighting for a person,
Who I know will never be mine.

 Mar 2018 Darren
Poetic T
A million snowflakes submerge,
                             a blanket of life.
Now static,
      a grave of white
     hides its crime.
Until the forgotten are found, buried once again
in unmarked tombs of silence.
          Once again forgotten in a blanket of earth.
 Mar 2018 Darren
I remember this girl
who went to the window
at dawn when it was still
dark in the winter and she
sees we have a long time
now that her father passed on
and we know we won't have to
go to school because the bus
it can't run, she slips her slip
over her hair and places it over
the chair near the fireplace
while I unlaced the sinew
of my boots, I remember it
well how we lost our cherry,
it was hard as a rock, like
breaking a wild horse, it was
a mirage of sound as the blood
moon sunk into the frozen ground
and I realized that the times
we can bat our eyelids, and
all of our nights and tomorrows
are not infinite, like love that comes
only once in a lifetime of sorrows.
In this world of delusion
man has naught but confusion
as he stands and walks
as he waits for his salvation

a man is a cattle among the herd
conforming to majority's word
he eats and walks among the sheep
and scatters away when the flock is stirred

he gives up his own pace
he would willingly lose the race
for man craves deeply for his acceptance
no matter what the case

take the road less traveled by
a great poet once said
for it will make all the difference
to this, light must be shed

In this world of conformity
where man struggles to be accepted
man loses more than dignity
as his identity is slowly tainted

man must strive to create his path
and urge others to do the same
for only then shall a man be free,
only then can greatness be gained

man must strive to break away
from the chains by which he's bound
he must learn to follow his own path
for it is there that happiness is found

though this world is filled with conformity
man still has a chance to choose
to exist with all sheep and cattle
or to thrive among the wolves
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