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It's hard to talk to artists, see,
They've never made much sense
Their memories seem clouded
But yet I found one on a bench.
I didn't find the artist, no,
I only found his work
A broken, torn apart journal
A tattered, beat up book.
I opened to the first page
And saw a true sight to behold
Colors flew across the paper
In reds and blues and golds.  
The pencils must have danced
And the thoughts should have exploded
But what I had there in my hands
Was worth much more than noted.
I held his imagination
Every fiber of his thoughts
Every piece of information
That he ever had been taught.
The lines and circles spoke
Every word that he could not
They all told him not too
So he kept it under lock.
But there those drawings held the key
The secrets to his past
His present, future, all his hopes
'I wonder if they'd ask.'
He kept his secrets quiet
All his goals and all his dreams
I found his only outlet
His saving grace, it seems.
I looked through all the drawings
Some teasing, jokes, and grades
All expressed in colors
His feelings to create.
I never met this man that day
I still don't know him now
I wonder if he's happy
Or does he revel in the clouds?
See, artists are a piece of work
They're masters of the trade
Their specialty is feelings
Like the ones put on a page.
There's nothing wrong with missing people

unless





you're a ******.







:)
...3 am
and the road is a yellow
rainbow, drifting towards
a common dream of
the sleepless
Silence is the breeze that
brings so much
nostalgic sense
of humor and
makes one think how
fast the seconds go, how
life has been defined past twilight
changing existence into
memories you can't relive
Some will, in the days to
come, bring laughter
Perhaps even a single, meaningful
smile
Some will, as certain as
certainties, bring regrets and questions of
"what could have been if...?"
But for whatever shade
the moment brings, the
dawn is inevitable
and everything will be at the edge of
sunrise...
Mek
04.04.13
Let’s divide the sky, you and I,
With Wilco tapping our gut, our eyes,
Supplanting the clouds from our grape cigars;
We’ve been folded, too creased to remember
Those country nights, those starry remnants when I would

Always point east with a fettered finger.
If I held it long enough, just enough,
Horns would bud, deviling my digit,
And the fireplace froze over.
I destroy homes and fall, fall, fall with them.

I play the bench observer,
Cigarette **** to people with permanent smiles.
‘Relax,’ you said ‘you need to relax,’
But your lips chapped and bleeding--
They resemble mine in humid daylight,

And the sky moistens and melts
To the tantalizing tune, yellowed summerteeth.
In response to a Sylvia Plath assignment...
 Apr 2013 MasikaniCrocodile
mûre
recycle my broken heart
separate the clean from ***** glass
and arrange like so.

Step back, look down.
The anatomy is the same
but the function is different

I have always been this way,
but I have evolved.

I am not a woman.
I am not a man.
I am a person.
It changes nothing,
and it changes everything.

Gently probe these timid valves, soothe their staccato poetry
read the weathered veins like palmistry
I shouldn't feel surprised.
My first kiss was
a girl.

It's not a phase.
It is a circle.
It is a cycle.
I want to taste
patience
from the palm of
your hand
& I would wrap
determination
around my finger to
remind me that
wherever the grass is
growing
won't always be
greener

& when you lock
your lips with
mine

I get this *****
urge to become
cleaner
Please
Let me go
The chains
You've placed
Are heavy
And I'm tired

Please
Leave me be
No more
Please no more
I'll let the
Chains stay
If you just go
My past
My pain

Leave me alone
I don't need you
I don't want you
Please go
Your no longer safe
And all I'm searching for is safety

So leave me be
You aren't being fair to me.
About someone who won't leave my life alone.
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