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authentic Sep 2017
There’s that moment. Some people don’t know what I’m talking about and some never will. Alone, whether it be in the woods, on the bus, or at a populate dinner party, clarity walks right through the door with her menacing smile and she begins to scrub away these notions you once held so true to heart. Morals that your world revolves around, tilting on its axis avoiding these things that clarity holds in a basket, that she urges you to try. I find immense horror in the underlying truth that populations of people settle with what they assume to be the best version of themselves. Arriving at a destination and deciding, “This will do.” How dare someone claim that their journey is over. What a way to live! Clarity cannot sleep at night, she is much too busy endeavoring to wake us all up. She thrives in open discussions and dances with the allusion of unbalanced thoughts. She rest her head on your pillow and collects memories to distort. She plants trees of cognition and reflects daily on your first loves and the day you learned to ride a bike. Clarity sips coffee from your collarbones as you write a story about the one who got away. Again. There’s that moment. Clarity stares you in the face like she planning where she will engrave your new wrinkles. She takes your hand in hers and places it on your chest. She says “As long as this is beating, you are not finished yet.” Out of fear and humility, you nod your head, intently listening to the drum beneath your palm. The moment is gone, but that doesn’t matter now. All that matters was that it was there. How dare someone claim that their journey is over, you think to yourself. What a way to live.
authentic Sep 2017
I need to be kissed by someone who knows how. A kiss even softer than the hands that moved the strap off her shoulder. I will not say no to your hands. There is an unconditional longing for the luring ******* of love. Affections bats it’s eyes and a pulse of electricity climbs up your spine. Sleep in me, around me, with me. We are all museums of longings. We each have gardens growing in our chest, all of us waiting for the rain to teach us how to love. Like we once waited in the living rooms for our fathers to teach us how to dance. Like waiting for a book to mysteriously fall off the shelf as we pass by in hopes that there is another world out there where there is no small talk. We hope that they are real. We would like to miss them. Some people are like a long walk home and I like to think of myself this way. Some days I feel like smoke leaving a flame or a rooftop standing under a full moon. There are days I am sure that I am sailing in full wind and others where I am more of a loose string hanging from your jacket. Sometimes I feel things so strongly and in these times I wonder if it is possible to think someone into existence. Suddenly, I feel the night shaking it’s head and perhaps it is time to get some rest. I could wander through my own mind forever but it is, in fact, the most tiring thing I find myself actively doing on a daily basis.
authentic Apr 2017
I've been loving the sky more than anything else these days and not many will understand why
I have gradually discovered that romantic love is like a blanket that will always leave your feet cold
You will waste time blowing out candles only to drown in smoke
Lately, I'm beginning to feel like all those books you never finished
You see, I believe there is depth to existence, I believe the surface is mostly decorative
And perhaps you really are exhausted, perhaps you are not as happy as you seem now that you have left me
I'm sorry for being such a difficult person to love
But slowly I am becoming
I often find myself talking to the sky, she always knows exactly what to say, she always listens
authentic Mar 2017
I am trying to find the words that help make a day sane
Words that undo the torturous mishaps in my past
Words that provide a light in the dark
A crescent moon and a broken wick
I sit waiting for a dictionary to open up to me
Patiently my mind gathers tools to reassemble my broken thoughts, trampled heart and willingness to easily forgive those who have guided me into the oblivion
Lately I feel like a funeral, like I've died and no one cared to bury me
Perhaps I have reached the other side but am stuck in the doorway, reaching for the TV remote just to drown out the uncomfortable silence
I am less than words, undulating down to cigarette ashes
I wonder if a book feels as lost as I do if it hasn’t been touched in a long time
I have been touched but I have not been felt; not been held
My mind often wanders and lately I don't bother catching it
Perhaps it will find the words I have been looking for for years
  Mar 2017 authentic
Charles Bukowski
It's never quite right, he said, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,
it's not quite right,
it's hardly right at all
he said.

don't I know it? I

I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was

nothing changed
it was locked in place.
something flashed, something broke, something

I walked down the stairway and
into it.
  Mar 2017 authentic
Charles Bukowski
the house next door makes me
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are

the house next door makes me
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not

but the price is

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.
  Mar 2017 authentic
Charles Bukowski
I met a genius on the train
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
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