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When someone asks me if I'm happy, I don't know what to say.
I have no reason to be sad, but what is happiness anyway?

Some synonyms are, fortunate, cheery, content, untroubled, delighted.
But some of that isn't true,
Fortune doesn't always make you happy, and untroubled is that way too.

The best way to be 'happy' or thankful for having life.
Is to go through struggles and overcome the temptation of a knife.

When someone asks me if I'm happy, I say that I can be.
I have seen enough pain and sorrow to cherish every good thing.
I still don't like the word happy all that much. Grateful and content are much better to describe my feelings.
She couldn't be a mortal, just simply born;
but truly a goddess, ignited, free from form.
-
The day the ground met with her delicate toes
was the night the stars aligned in symmetrical rows.
-
In dream, she dances and glides upon air.
Awake, she braids comets in the threads of her hair.
-
My greetings seem hollowed, I am drifting afloat.
The language of fondness is a lump in my throat.
-
Her outline is gleaming with a soft, vermilion luster.
Her eyes, subtle jasper, urges your core not to trust her.
-
Not a staza, nor an epic can contain flawless grace,
or the yearning I feel when we are sharing this space.
tlp
this is for those without the words to describe
Time,
Where I used to find my rhymes with relative ease,
But lately there's been something haunting me,
Making me blind to the pictures plastered on the inside of my eyelids
It wasn't always like this
The words used to overflow from the tight confines of my mind
And now they're getting hard to find,
The length of time between each coherent rhyme has steadily multiplied until now where I can only truly define one singe line at a time,
People keep asking me, "Why don't you write more?"
Because honestly writing has become a chore, until now
Because instead of searching the insides of my eyelids I'm going to pry them open,
Because love is a gift, love is a token
The beauty of her eyes, the beauty of her mind,
They might as well write their own lines
Poetry is inherently the language of emotion,
Anger, anguish, lust and beauty
But you can see none of these if you don't open your eyes,
Experience
Life
And write down every word you find
You have to hold it up to the light
To see her darkened soul
She was born into the night
When the spirits were forced to let her go
Releasing her from the delusional 'utopia'
She had always known as home
Throwing her, stumbling into the blackness of the universe
Through the gauntlet of buffeting blades
Which tosses her back into her past
From which she has tried so hard to hide
If the truth were ever known
She'd hide it in the crevices of lies
Lies and half truths she has woven into
Thick veils and walls which block out the world
Like her hair does, hiding her eyes
Which brim over with tears daily Leaving pock marks in the path she's taken
Like a season of acid rain
Unforgiveness to her is another saying
She hears time and time again
Like a backhanded slap
Each time stings, but with repetition
She numbs to the pain
Cold as ice from her fingertips in
Creeping in towards her heart,
Surrounding it in a protective ice cage
Until some hopeful soul comes along,
Trying to warm her fingertips again
Me and mike Hauser 9.27.13
I’m trying to paint a picture

But it’s not at all what I want it to say

It would be better to just find a mirror

But what would a facsimile convey?

It would only show the surface

Minimal details of shadows and shapes.

I’m practiced in the art of skewed perception

Only the canvas knows of this change

More can be done with paint,

I relent like Dorian gray.

It’s silly to think, that a self portrait would be of my face.

Instrumental kaleidoscope to peer into my soul

Revealing every speck of kindness

Every varying pigment and tone

Every hue of acrylic disdain

Only to ask, who am I?        

This colorful brigade

Refusing to relay

The black and white mundane

Full chroma saturated aura

I defy to splatter outside the lines

Oozing moonlight off my page,

Just to sketch the silver lining

Depicting sunshine with my shame

Creation, destruction, art, corruption

Illustration of my story

The final portrait to portray.
 Nov 2014 Jade Melrose
SE Reimer
~

do you know the way
to the place her heart resides?
or does the beauty
of her face,
her shape,
blind you, as you to fail to find
the many hidden pathways
that will lead
to love that's meaningful;
obscured in the shadows,
the depth that makes her beautiful;
for the beauty that you seek
is a treasure buried deep inside!
but infatuated longing,
is a hunger never quenched,
for companionship cannot be found
in what only lies skin deep;
in taking shortcuts to desire
while her depth is pushed aside.
just remember danger lies
in well-worn paths, and
cliched answers,
over-simplified.
but if you take the road less-traveled,
walkways most will never see,
the door to all her hopes and fears
will open wide with liberality;
the steps that lead past all the latches,
her towers of security,
for her heart can ne'r be conquered,

no!

instead it must be gently freed!


*post script.

she is everything to me! and i am reminded, often, that her heart i never took, for she gave it... freely, and with liberality! she is a treasure... in deed!  and the day that i take this simple truth for granted is the day that i will begin to have lost her!
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