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  Jul 2016 -
onlylovepoetry
somewhere between the
first date and the last date

Joni Mitchell,
she, me
  encapsulates

I'm remembering well,
pounding the dashboard of a red Jag,
laughable now, mocking this fool's need
for a middle age conceit,
his heart to restart,
reactivate

in enthusiastic lockstep with the voice of the
Joni,  the blonde goddess of his youth,
foot falling in love,
speeding along
at a
joyous sixty five,
in places where the signs said,
"thirty five to stay alive"

this aged Rip Van Winkle teenager,
in reverse osmosis of Big,
an old buck, come back to antlered life,
singing along to the CD disc
set on
backdate

I could drink case of you,
and still be on my feet


and he could

rediscovering the champagne taste
of a great first date,
feeling the heated blood and fevered mind,
symptoms of the pleasures of
anticipate

thinking she's the one
who will make him great,
happy greater, greater happy
than that one ever, ever,
he thought was roulette wheel possible,
landing on the red of hopeful
floodgate

months, days, minute minute moments
of the fated faded last date later,  
comes the
deflate

but then,
Joni singing comfort words,
reminding him that he would be,
wisely, sadly seeing, feeling,
both sides now, and yet again,
getting his mind back to
straight

I've looked at love that way,
but now it's just another show.
you leave 'em laughing when you go,
and if you care, don't let them know,
don't give yourself away


a grown man punk'd, blasted,
dumb and dumber, dumped,
a feeling sorry sad sack self,
until he reflates, drink another case,
onto yet another magical mystery first
date

pounding that dashboard once again,
believing it's not too late
that perfect roommate heart's to find and
captivate,
to attain, invade, acquaint and laughingly...

serenade
  Jul 2016 -
奇妙な
she didn't have to check the clock to know it all happened at 12:42, the moment the demons tried to beat her numb;
she could hear them scream,
she could feel them run,
she could see them cry.
she could sense the monsters,
they were dancing in the night.

she walked out the door at half past 3 to find a trail of unpleasant rose petals; they brought her to the dark.
there: outside; the hopeless shadows stood.
one that tried to break the chains
but broke the bonds, too.
one that tried to spread its wings
but exploded like a firework.
no matter how much they try,
everyone knew they can never change.
so, instead, they cover everything up
as if it were all just a game.

she woke up, later on, exactly six hours after and warned everyone with stares; asking questions words cannot answer.
// they can wake you up at the dead of the night
  Jul 2016 -
Justin S Wampler
It's not easy
trying to decide
on whether to run
or whether to hide.

Because she's a storm,
a torrent of sorts,
and I'm terrified of
falling overboard.
Rain on me.
- Jul 2016
I find rhythms. I search for sounds with unbearable pieces in them, and make them holy. I believe in the language of the asymmetrical eye… Broken lines of Morse code, fragments of memories. I recall them. I get drunk, I get high, I ramble into the night until I can’t anymore. I resist torture brought to me by outside forces. I think about my father and my lovers and my sister, and I weep through the barrel of my pen. I edit sober, always, diligently. I take my craft incredibly seriously. I enjoy the loops and whorls of my penmanship. I frequently forget ideas. Oftentimes I lack discipline. I am selfish about my art- is is my catharsis, I don’t trust anyone. I compare myself to great artists before me and convince myself we have a kinship. I want to be great, I want to taste fame and I am working on being unashamed of this feeling.
- Jul 2016
You don't know weird until

You're brushing your teeth in a Starbucks bathroom
And using the sink
To wash yourself
At 9 in the morning, you don't

Know pain until your space has been shattered,
You don't

Know isolation until those who have needed you
Abandon you when
Their help can't be lost, you

Don't know critical condition
Until you've suffered all the wounds you can take

You don't know rejection
Until your spirit bleeds out
And you live from a bag
Number 23
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