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weaved into her thoughts
are the disturbed images and the maniacal music
carousel music from the macabre circus of the mad
and in the absolute center of this
steampunk master vision is her pretty little face
sitting with a lace umbrella
and a slow thick smile
she eyes you head to boot
and reaches out a single blood stained finger
and says accusations are for the weak
her pasty red lips are
sour to the touch
she makes no apologies
but rather relies of her smile like charms
which she wears like
a patchwork quilt of maniacal methods
stitched with loving care
and the devotions of the needy
who pay her fare without questions
she is stylin on the main street bus tonight
with her entourage of hungry strangers
just looking for a bed and breakfast
and its delusion that
after a time
the clouds passed
after a time
measured in the millions of years
that her touching your face lasted
looking into your eyes and telling you that she loves you
after a time everything would change
and she would remember what it means to be happy
after a time under a maniacal lace umbrella
November leaves falling—
Blood red backs, salmon cresting,
Eagles rake cold lake.
I'd almost forgotten the blanketing beauty of sorrow
and the unbearable lightness of joy
that leaves you wondering why you were so happy
this must be what she felt when she decided to let go
I don't remember when I decided to stop trusting the world
or when that decision seemed foolishly myopic
but when I picked up my mat to walk it felt heavy
if there is miracle in healing, it is the miracle
of seeing yourself die, or at least an older version of it
then comes all the newness that really isn't new at all
like reminding myself that this is the first time
to hear our song, now that she's gone
or remember the way she loved the ocean
because I saw a seashell in a fisher's net at a restaurant
when did I ever start liking U2? Maybe she played it too much
and when did forever become yesterday?
maybe I saw the end coming, like a wave spotting another
breaking on the shore and disappearing never to be seen again
I suddenly felt my trough deepening, my crest folding
I felt my own demise inching closer to the rocks
reminding me of the pier in Longbeach where she said goodbye
they don't teach you how to have a broken heart
anymore than they teach you how to fall in love
then again, no one thought to tell the wave that it is the ocean
Afraid to take that next big leap, what do I fear?
Conscious of my decisions but when will I care?
Expected limits of my life, will I remain stuck here?
A last resort, my mental breakdown
The trembling of hands that would make anyone seem nervous
Straps and pills couldn't do the trick
Time to myself, always been a riddle
I haven't learned to swim in the real world
Have I asked for help..or will I be forced to drown with my ship?
 Dec 2013 Niveda Nahta
Adam Mott
Eyes that call to mind vast and beautiful vistas
Warm soaring stretches of natural wonder, quietly leading into the tranquility of home
Bringing temptation to my heart, mingling with the material of my soul
Together, they dance upon your serenity, beautiful and gracious
So reminiscent of perfection, they serve to anoint the life around you with an ethereal quality
With a blink you emanate the sweetest taste in my mouth
Looking back upon you, is unlike looking at anyone else
Visit
http://consciencefalls.blogspot.ca/
or
https://www.facebook.com/consciencefalls?hc_location=timeline
For more!
 Dec 2013 Niveda Nahta
gemi drey
she sat in her room,
in front of her broken window.
the glass was tinted black.
the metal frame was starting to rust.
the bottom left corner of the window,
was shattered.
shattered by what?
shattered by her fist,
2 years ago.
she could still see,
her blood stains at the ridges.

she sat there on the cold ground,
her hand holding her screams.
she wanted to let everyone hear,
and know,
that she wanted some love,
some attention,
some words of advice.
so she screamed out of that broken window,
but no one heard her.

she sat there on the stone ground,
her hand holding her heart.
she wanted to let everyone see,
and know,
that she wanted someone to understand,
someone to love her,
someone to kiss her cuts.
so she threw it out of that broken window,
but no one saw her.

she sat there on the blood stained ground,
her hand holding her soul.
she wanted to let everyone feel,
and know,
that she wanted her dreams to come true,
her wishes to be fulfilled,
her love to be reciprocated.
so she let it out of that broken window,
but no one felt her.

she sat there on the tear stained ground,
her hand holding herself,
she wanted everyone to smell,
and know,
that her hair smelled like rose and lilies,
that her clothes smelled like lemon and rosemary,
that her skin smelled like strawberries and cream.
so she freed herself out that broken window,
but no one smelled her.

she sat there on the heartless ground,
her hand holding her dreams,
she wanted everyone to taste,
and know,
that her favorite food was marshmallows,
that her sweet tooth loved chocolate,
that her kisses tasted like the sun.
so she said goodbye to her dreams out that broken window.
but no one tasted her.

no one cared.
{gemi}
the rag man
sits under the freeway bridge
while it rains
a small lizard crawls out of
the sandy soil
its emotionless eye focused
the desolate day
breeds sand blown wind burned faces

a chill wind speaks its mind to him
and while he huddles within his torn coat
and with one eye bare to the world
watching for the rains retreat
the rag man eats slow
savours the fresh water fish taste
of his divided mind
waits for the rain to retreat

remnants of his life
cling to his pocket
lint covered photographs
dust filled half remembered dreams
he believes he carries all he will ever need for
the road he sits by that
follows the coast down into the sunny islands
where they say you can live on the beach
where all you need is a dream to thrive

each sound is the great beyond
trying to tell him significant moments of his day
no rattle of the chain to be taken lightly
even the silence has voice in the grand scheme
even if its single contribution
is futility of waiting
step boldly or timid as doormouse
but step kiddo step

the freeway is a river
upon which the concepts we call lives float
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