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 Feb 2020 Edward Alan
 Feb 2020 Edward Alan
the act of poetry is a private one
but unyielding i still whisper your name
devoured by foaming ripples & wishes --

i miss you
 Nov 2019 Edward Alan
 Nov 2019 Edward Alan
i’m too tired to fight subway doors
muscling, pushing,
shoving my way through

maybe if i learned to hold my breath
duck out of the way
ignore the clock ticking
in the back of my head
faster, faster, faster

but the urgency of meaningless work
pushes me forward
and my arms start to groan
under the weight of door-like
 Nov 2019 Edward Alan
tireless ocean eyes
read syllables bouncing into oblivion

in a dreamy state
i seem to store words away
one after another
shelving the crisp cool breeze of candor
next to the cacophony of collusion
love’s shameless rebellion
& the ideologically lovely
multiplicity of you

my sense of self is blurred
lost in the plumpness of passion
charm’s blushing softness
& the three blackberry scoops of Galway's
“squeeze, squinch open, & splurge”

though needful seems to fail me,
leaves me awash in melancholy waves
the struggle of demoralized
tussles with dismayed
 Nov 2019 Edward Alan
mellow clouds
& the lonely mists
of what once was

to yellow
bumblebee leaves
& butterscotch smiles
marigold flowers to lie on

the green
moss blanketed trees
& the strangulation
of snaking vines up brick walls

with blue
cornflower skies
& a buttermilk picnic
to bid summer adieu

finally black
the fluttering crest of the raven
& diminishing of long days
into what once was
 May 2019 Edward Alan
 May 2019 Edward Alan
my torment is one of clouds and flowers
freckles upon sun-kissed oranges
like roses through honey
& vivid eyes like the abstraction of Renaissance pieces

oh butterfly how you make my heart melt
chocolate brownie wonders with giggles on top
your effervescence brighter than a summer's day
entrapping my purity within your oppressive interior

our silences are filled with images of my creation
a cornucopia of passion for even the loneliest of wordsmiths

I leap into our pool of nostalgia for old time's sake
only to find your words transform into serpents.

whirlwinds of emotion now whispered into the ears of another
burning adorations into scarred remains
a work in progress. as always, comment what you think down below!
 Feb 2017 Edward Alan
 Feb 2017 Edward Alan
my mind doesn't work right when it has to
and i come home to sulk
never anymore, to do
and yes.
i am angry

i am too sad to cry
too angry to yell
not ready yet, to speak.

i wish my hands could speak for me
but they're bound
and with every struggle,
it is tightened

im starting not to see anything beyond this
i blink and im here again
pinch myself and im still here
you always wake up from sleep

and alright, I don't have the guts to **** myself
my mother has drilled hell in my brain like a nail
but hell isnt a place
its a feeling
a presence
or a lack there of.

and so yes
i am angry.
ive played so many songs on wordless strings
strung chords to sound like sobbing
and for what?
i am still angry
and tomorrow i will be angry
i will blink, and still
ill remain angry
and when you wake up from your slumber,
you will stretch out the feeling in your bones
relish in the last seconds of moonlight
you will look outside,
see the sun,
see the people,
see yourself,
and you will still be angry.
you will be played unfairly and be angry.
you will always remain the way you are.

it a scary thing to face alone,
anger, or bitterness.
but perhaps the scariest of them all,
is the length we will go to escape it.

be angry
be bitter
but always play fair.
feeling all of it today
I'm sitting on my bed, wrapped up in a red, fluffy blanket and I'm thinking about how touch confuses me
Any touch, between the shoulders of friends, a soft punch at your sibling, an arm wound tightly around you by someone who doesn't want to let go-
It's all so intimate
Yet it lacks intention, direction
I mean, is it a touch of compassion? Is it playfulness, or something with much more gravity, emotions too powerful to wear a name?
Sometimes the situation lends itself to interpretation, but most of the times it is more like the way the clouds seem to caress the moon at night
And I don't comprehend
I freeze.
I find myself looking out of the corners of my eyes more often
Other people never seem to react this way, but even with the simplicity of physical connection, I can't help but look for an ulterior meaning
Fearing the untamed world of touch almost as much as I crave to be a part of it

And maybe that's why I don't understand it

Maybe I'm confusing touch with my desire to feel something, anything at all
Maybe I'm confusing touch with the feel of someone noticing I'm slipping away and anchoring me to the ground
Maybe I'm thinking that every touch I gather is another rung on the ladder to climbing out of this hellish land titled depression, where the silver glimmers of light cut almost as deep as the darkness itself, and where only once a year you remember to love yourself
I know that touch can't do that, but

Somewhere between my ears, a voice tells me it can.
It tells me to hold very, very still, holding my breath until stars explode before my sight,
Until I am kneeling before the boy with endless eyes
He smiles, wrapped in the cloak of the night and reaches between my ribs to stroke away the beating of my heart
It silences
And Death reaches down to wrap me in his arms, cradling my soul into eternity...

I abruptly climb off my bed, unwinding myself from the suffocating grip of my red blanket
The touch of its fabric against my skin too much right now
Too much right now
I think I've done enough thinking for tonight.
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