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Emma B Jun 2014
We fool ourselves into believing
we can see without correction.
I tried to look too far, my eyes strained,
and it worked, but in seeing ahead, in seeing distantly,
what lie in front of my squinting irises remained a blur

"If you keep your face like that it'll stick that way."

I've been looking at the same flower for years now.
It looks the same but there is some aspect
which my squint cannot determine, it seems,
that changes after every passing blink.

Having eyes locked on a flower is a funny business
it first shone by its beauty, but, a short blink later
the petals seem to fall under their weight
as if taking a periodic breath, and releasing into a calmer state.

Looking at something for long enough stops hurting after a while.
It becomes symbiotic, the flower seems to stare back, even lacking eyes.
And that's where the crack in the wall begins,
believing a flower to have eyes.

It goes wrong when the flower appears to be looking back
It seems real in thought, but reality tells a different story,
as it always does.
thought and reality are not closely linked, unfortunately
and this makes flowers somewhat fantastical.
and of course it is easy to enjoy their fragrance, or rich color,
but once you have locked eyes with a flower, once your face gets

stuck that way...

you can't look away
and it will wilt, imaginary eyes and all.
Emma B May 2014
tu es le vent.
le vent qui cherche
le vent qui me regarde
le vent qui vas quelque part.
le vent éphémère.
le vent dont je peut écouter.
Mais, pas le vent qui est visible.
pas le vent qu'on peut toucher.
Et ça, c'est d'accord
avec moi.
c'est mon premier poème en francais! Et pas de google translate!
ephemeral is my favorite word by far.
Emma B May 2014
I have read poems about springtime
everything they say is true
the whole season explained in rhyme
every detail uncovered,
except you.
Emma B May 2014
The proof is all here.
Circumstantial evidence, but no fingerprints
yet.

The cherry left in the corners of my lips
reminds me that nothing lasts as a whole
but drops of cherry juice get left behind.
And the drops are sweet.

Red.
The proof is all red.
My cheeks, flushed with summer and something else
Red shoes that leave behind a certain springtime.
My cherry creases.
But no blood,
never.

The circumstantial proof,
in this circumstance
may lead to a different conclusion
than it would have before
because circumstances has changed
along with the seasons
along with our hearts
along with the projected path in my mind.
A hologram of the futures
and pasts I am still waiting for.
to be continued I have more to say about this.
Emma B May 2014
The universe is speaking
it's speaking very fast
and I can only catch the occasional word
I'm not sure when
Ill be able to catch up.
Emma B May 2014
It is a spiral spinning down
a marble at the top
a gentle tap
a long way down.
It the journey, they say
it's in how you interpret the abyss.
We're all spinning, though
the sun in its place
the planets elliptical
the tears soaked up by your pillow
are spreading with equal velocity
as the earth.
When things topple down, the rest follows
things that you thought you didn't care about
things you thought were forgotten
people, friends, could-have-beens,
cardboard crates labelled "future" get lost in the storm
entropy, really.
Meaning the pieces are of a puzzle made to be destroyed.
And the ephemeral nature of the future
is something we have to embrace,
for, though it is a long way down,
there is no abyss here.
Just damp pillows and a lost soul clinging to a marble
just like the rest.
Pining away
yearning for a gentler tap.
Emma B Apr 2014
It's nice
to be sad
about the same
old things

i thought
i was over
i was done
plans foiled
again by fate

a heavenly visitor
in a lab coat
felt my heart
and said it was strong-
er than i believed

yet here i am
sad
but it's nice
to be sad
again about the same
old things.
after big worries it's nice to have old worries back again... sort of
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