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 Dec 2014 Vitæ
Sarah Michelle
That is a lot of gold,
Missy.
Everything is metal,
it attracts me like the
reflection.
That is a unique thing,
Darling.
It brings me to
introspection;
is life vast? is there more,
for instance, than
that shiny--?
The word jumps from my lips
but you,
Sweetheart,
are bought for a high price.
The bidder is my heart.
Please try not to  object
to my being so objective.
"excessive", "enormous"
 Dec 2014 Vitæ
Phosphorimental
Everything we see is
it’s pristine essence
casting the same light
from the womb of darkness.

Gripped by the dolor of a glaucous sky,
love's longing reminds us
that nothing is ever truly lost
to anything less
than the visual acuity of a heart.

Unseen signs never give up
their quest for being seen.
With a slight tilt of the head,
the light of the heart changes...
and so does everything,
everything.
 Nov 2014 Vitæ
unwritten
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.

but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?


this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)
this is more of a story than a poem but i like how it came out so leave thoughts & comments please
As each drop falls,
A thousand eyes cry.

As howling winds blow,
A thousand hearts are frozen over.

As piercing bolts strike,
I know that hate has taken all my love.

Maybe one day this storm will blow over,
Maybe one day I'll see light again.
But can a storm end,
When it is all you know?
Can clouds part,
If you don't want to see through?

It takes more than one day,
To change a heart.
The warmth of the sun needs time,
time to thaw the depths of my soul.
It takes longer than I have,
to rewrite my never ending story.

As each drop falls,
My anger is washed away.

As howling winds blow,
It rips away the mask I hide behind.

As piercing bolts strike,
I feel an energy within.


Is it enough to change me?

Maybe.

Is it enough to save me?

No.

But it is enough to keep me going,
Long enough to try again.
 Oct 2014 Vitæ
JDK
Small Talk
 Oct 2014 Vitæ
JDK
Keep it safe
in familiar territory.
Nothing non sequitur.
Nothing out of place.
Don't go sailing off into outer space.
Stick to topics that relate.
(Ignore how everything is connected to everything else -
not everyone thinks that way.)

Nothing out of left field.
You've got to save some face.
There's a reputation (somewhere, somehow) to maintain.
Be polite, pleasant, and plain.
Leave the madness in your brain.
Hide your heart;
keep it tucked away,
and above all else,
don't go digging up those corpses from their grave.

"Wonderful weather we're having.
Isn't it a lovely day?"

There's so much more to life.
That can't be all there is to say . . .
It's so boring to be sane.
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