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Liora Jensen Apr 2017
I only wish to see the artist play
a game that does not interfere with this.
A portrait of a mind that doesn’t stay
in line with what is taught to all our kids.
A nuclear weapon set to self destruct
a tiny tear in threadless high design
an addict who is honest to the rug
to which he whispers into every night.
I want to see the artist make a dent,
to smash the frame until it’s fine enough
to form into a line he might regret
and breathe it in until he can’t stand up.
How obvious the stakes become, at last
when every perfect piece is printed fast.
Liora Jensen Apr 2015
I never wish to grow old
and become numb to the things
that bring me life, laughter & love,
the most prosperous gains.
Instead of gray hair, I ask for budding wisdom & truth.
I'll trade a life with ten cats, for ten short years with you.
I'll dream away time.
Into space & spirals.
I'll trace your wrist with my thumb
just like when we were young.
complex  internal struggle with everyday changes and ever wounded emotions  
found this from a while ago  so why not share it
  Jan 2015 Liora Jensen
Rae Slager
Red                                                              ­Red
blood                                                        ­    poppies
splatters the ground                                       blanket the ground
on a cold                                                      on a calm
Orange                                                      ­   Orange
autumn day                                                   autumn day
a bitter, biting wind                                        a cool, rousing breeze
meets the                                                      meets the
Yellow                                                       ­  Yellow
piercing sun                                                   warming sun
beating down                                                shining down
on dead, littered bodies                                 on thriving, vibrant flora
skin turning                                                   emerging from
Green                                                       ­    Green
decay                                                      ­      grass
an ugly scene                                                 a brilliant display
of man's loss                                                 of nature's victory
Blue                                                     ­        Blue
uniforms                                                    ­    sky
war-torn, battered                                        endless, infinite
hidden                                                  ­        retires
by the                                                           to the
Purple                                                       ­   Purple
night                                                             night
Sorry this poem may not appear correctly on mobile devices.
Liora Jensen Jan 2015
maybe you just consume yourself with your whole
"system of conversation"
maybe if you listened, you wouldn't have to think so hard,
wouldn't have to worry so much, or second guess yourself.
maybe if you lived in the moments of silence between words,
between gestures,
between heartbeats,
you would understand what you're not just misinterpreting,
but simply missing.
I go on, but it's all over.
side tracked, distracted,
not forgotten, just broken.
all these words just more to float over your head with the rest.
where did you go? will you be back soon?
Liora Jensen Jan 2015
I never really see you anymore.
It's not like you're a stranger,
more like a dark, faded puzzle.
Your words are filled with Socrates,
and your lungs with burning leaves.
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