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Slow motion car crash
Circular firing squad
The efficiency
Of the placement
Of deckchairs

Herding cats
Clutching straws
Barking up at wrong trees
Knocking loudly on empty doors

Keep calm
And carry on
Loose lips sink ships
Do you hope to be
On the right side
Of apocalypse?
 2d Nick Moore
RED
I drank the poison—
they named it love.
Sweet at first,
like honey on the tongue,
until it burned my veins,
begging me to stop,
yet no escape was left.

I saw the antidote
shining in the distance—
but if I drank it now,
would it already be too late?

Hours I wasted
lost in thought,
a war between choosing
and surrender.
And when I finally decided,
it was silence that answered—
I had died,
not from the poison itself,
but from the thinking
that chained my soul.

And yet,
reborn in the same body of pain,
I reached again for the glass.
I drank,
knowing the venom’s kiss.
The antidote lingered
just within sight.
This time I grasped it—
only to find
the bottle was empty inside.
Poetry and love

both came uninvited.

Poetry stayed,

love went away .
In my desk drawer
are broken things,
bits of what were,
hopes of what could be.

It’s a journal without words
where a red paper clip
holds nothing together,
and a tape measure
never reached the length
of a bookshelf.

Tucked in a corner
is a faded love letter from my husband,
a few words about roses, and
how beautiful I was at seventeen.  

Sticky notes lay scattered
in confetti colors of green,
pink, yellow, and blue
waiting for ink instead
of just taking up space.

I should clean it out…
send most of it to a waste basket,
but not every treasure box holds gold.

Mine is a cluttered drawer
filled with broken things, the
archaeological site of a dreamer
with a catalogue of stories to tell.
A#1. things I ll probably go to hell for:

I went to the movie theater
sat in the balcony

I had a huge rubber spider
on 40 feet of clear fishing line

I tossed it out
and slowly dragged the spider
across and over the rows of seats...

it was a wave of people rising
jumping up
row after row
men pretended bravery,
the women screamed.. every one ran
out the exit doors.

soon I was the only one in the theater
smoked a joint
(great movie, too)

( ****, I still enjoy the hell out of it!**)

PART 2.

what are you
probably going to...for
the river has no voice.
blue sky no heart.
the swan trumpeting
in the black of night. my soul

longs to be far out
lost in the vastness of ocean.
nothing but rolling waves, grey dark sea.

(no mercy
from the swan's sad song.)

I want to vanish in a cabin in the woods
away from people

and caught on the dock at the lake
in the pouring rain,
i beg the rain,

she's crying
to me
to come to her.

heart of rain,
black phantom born of sorrow, wings whirr,
vanishing into the hush of night,
wings grow distant in flight.

the black swan a ghost light flickering.
she is the echo of every goodbye.
We’re getting on this streetcar
without our permission.
Deciding every single day,
not to get out, just to survive,
until the next stop, the next breath.

Let’s pretend to be naive,
when the absurdity of norms
pushes us to follow the one-way track.

Please, look around,
see through rose-colored glasses,
how beautiful it could be!
Everything would seem easier
and more tolerable.

In this magical place,
we once called wishful thinking,
all the stars spark at night,
the rainbow shines all day!

Why must we be so practical,
when stray pieces intertwine,
forming a cohesive and unique whole?

Passing silently, unnoticed,
in the city of unseen lines,
in the depth of our hearts,
we dream that this tale
could end happily.

We, all Passengers,
craving more space
spreading our wings,
we are trapped in small cages.

In the streetcar called
Bare Existence
until the last trip,
until the last call,
we wish only
to be unconditionally accepted.
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