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Dean Nov 2020
The tears of a man

Don't fall down his cheek

He learned as a boy

To never look weak

Instead they gather

Inside of his brain

Endlessly swirling

On top of a drain

Whose one relief valve

Never gets lifted

The liquid remains

Forever unshifted

Pressure builds up

A mental monsoon

Dam walls are bursting

The overflow strewn

Into surrounding

Channels nearby

Causing more damage

Than a measly, old

Dean Oct 2020
when you sleep it's like you never cried,

breathing soft and steady, wet cheeks dried.

when you sleep it's like you never lost,

boundaries weren't broken and lines weren't crossed.

when you sleep it's like you're still there,

and you still smile and you still care.

when you sleep you look young as I,

no crease in your brow and no old worn sigh.

and so if sleep is death just being shy,

is it still so wrong,

to wish

to die?
This was made by yamiyurei
Dean Oct 2020
A man told me once that all the bad people

Were needed. Maybe not all, but your fingernails

You need; they are really claws, and we know

Claws. The sharks--what about them?

They make other fish swim faster. The hard-faced men

In black coats who chase you for hours

In dreams--that's the only way to get you

To the shore. Sometimes those hard women

Who abandon you get you to say, "You."

A lazy part of us is like a tumbleweed.

It doesn't move on its own. It takes sometimes

A lot of Depression to get tumbleweeds moving.

Then they blow across three or four States.

This man told me that things work together.

Bad handwriting sometimes leads to new ideas;

And a careless God--who refuses to let you

Eat from the Tree of Knowledge--can lead

To books, and eventually to us. We write

Poems with lies in them, but they help a little
a poem by Robert Bly
Dean Jul 2020
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

The gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,—
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

— The End —