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Lucid dreaming is the doorway
        to the unconscious.
So dream.
Do not stay closed
        behind cement barricades
        blocking the moon
        from shining.
Live.
Each second is for you.
The tumbling of life
         does not promise
            anything.
In one breath
you can have
        a time table
        handed to you.
A distinct framework
        of how much
        longer you shall be.
Stay in illusion.
Keep in mind
that very little
is worthy of
being screamed about.
Politics
        and
people games
        are not
         the substance
        of existing.
Picture colourful images
         that flutter
          playfully
            across the
           mental horizon.
A traffic light
      will
       blink
red, yellow, green.
A noise
        will dominate
         the shading sky.
These mean nothing.
Moments of distraction
        soon
         gone away.
Focus on fantasy.
Allow yourself
the freedom to
         celebrate
        the essence
        of harmony.
When you die,
       it will be
         your dreams
         that are
          remembered.
Breathe.
It's just
      a bad day,
      not a bad life.
for those whose mothers are no more
the annual business hype of what to give
    and where to take your mother
is but  a sad remembrance of loss
stirring up memories of happier times
when she was still a pillar in your universe
loved and revered, and sometimes feared,
who taught you, patiently or not,  
the basics of survival in your expanding world.

She knew, while you were as yet unaware  
that all her loving preparations
would over time mean separation.

When you struck out to shape your life
all by yourself and left her with her fears for you,
her wishes,  and the hopes that what she tried
to give you was enough and right,
your heart and mind were elsewhere,  far away,
focused upon the future of your independent life.

Your years run fast and busy, and suddenly one day
you stand before her coffin
and discover that it is too late
for all the questions never asked.

What you have left are memories
and a vague sense of having missed the chance
to see - and maybe even understand a little -
the woman she has also been
throughout her life, behind her loving face
of a dear mother’s care and grace.
The recent Mother’s Day triggered these lines and made me remember the time when my mother was alive.]
The music is blasting out loud.
You can feel the bass diving into your body.
Sweating mortals, creating chaos in a crowd.
It’s here where nobody becomes somebody.

Fragile glass filled with colors of a rainbow.
The liquid’s job is to make you dizzy.
Turning strangers into people, you now know.
It’s here where lazy meets busy.

Wanting a good time but is being oddly exposed.
Intrusive questions, stirring up the tension.
Asking polite for the door to remain closed.
It’s here where admiration turns into obsession.

Light is out, except for the lighter’s flame.
Shattered bottles and broken high heels.
Skin meets ground, leading to tomorrow’s pain.
It’s here where your alter ego is truly revealed.
I am not the party type at all. I will always prefer staying home surrounded by nothing but silence.
 May 2016 john p green
Jack Maher
I love thy mystery man,
I was such a big fan.

I love thy mystery man,
He lead me on through thick and thin,
Then tossed me in the bin

How i loved my mystery man,
But now I'm not a fan.
My soul is brimmed with sin draped along grainy coasts,
My heart is thrilled by whisperings of ghosts dripping lust from their tongues,
My mind is a cramped shed of shadowed thoughts wandering inside my crisp burnt skull.
An anonymous girl ©
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