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the remains of us collect dust
on the kitchen counter
and i have stacked our memories
in bookshelves, tucked away,
dog-earing my favourite pages
and scribbling out the tragic chapters
you know the ones.
How like me
to hide away nostalgia
but refuse to dispose of it
Sentimentality, i always joked,
would be the ruin of us
and how like you
to prove me wrong
and leaving,
just as the story
was getting good
Concept: There is so much noise around but I am in my own small world and it is blissfully quiet. No one's words can touch me here.
Is it still poetry if I put my hands to paper and words spill out?
Cascading like rivers with no due course
Is it still poetry if I don't know what I'm saying?
Only that the words forming in front of me are mine alone
Is it still poetry if I cry while I'm writing it?
Tears falling into the page and blooming new phrases, like spring flowers

Is it still poetry if the whole world sees me from the inside, out?
Is it still poetry if I lose myself writing it?
Is it still poetry if they cannot find me?
I have always preferred the ancient, crippled and malformed ruins of places. The backbones of civilisation laid bare upon the ribs of the earth, I see more beauty in this destruction than angel's houses that stand tall and golden, shimmering in the light of the sun and preserved as if God's own hand had molded them. They are wrong.
See here the gloat of man! How we scream for attention and praise using the shining foundations of an unknown God to control the known masses and make them believe we are bigger than we are; bigger than the dirt that molded us and the humble springs that nutured us. We are not infallible nor unbreakable as those golden houses would tell. We are as fleeting and finite as the ages of man passed in bare rememberence.
We build our homes amongst ruins and return to them despite any prayers, temples, or carved angels, we are born from dust and we return to it, with no divide to say what man served what god or what coin filled who's purse.
The dark takes everything and does not hold favourites.
looking through old poems
seeing how I would throw the word 'love'
so carelessly, knowing nothing of it
mere infatuations, brief and fleeting
I know better now
love is hard to obtain
It takes time
I have not found it
I won't for a while yet.
Trying to explain how I feel
Is like trying to hold water
In my bare and calloused hands
I want to find a forest, lay under sun
And let the moss grow over me

Wake me when the world is softer
And the air is not pungent
With decay and despair
Until then I will lay in the forest
By the brook, and my emotions
Can feed the trees.
Concept: I whisper to the moon that I cannot sleep and she sends me dreams of ocean waves and whale songs
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