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The chrysalis will open and
'one day I'll fly away',
today it's dark,
but very comfortable
inside this bubble where I lay.

Could I try something new?
Nah,
I'll stick to what I know
until I grow my wings,
other things come to mind as well
and well
are other things.
Poetry until the end
and the end
is surely
poetry.
Chop me then,
a million cubes
and dice me,
be nice to me and then
I'll make the meal you
so desire.

you lit the fire and if it should burn
the house we built will burn down
and in turn, we'll both burn too.

You chop me
photoshop and you crop me,
but no ****** will I be,
watch me as I come to life.

But it strikes me
that you like me and
I'd like to
burn with you.
a quote from the movie "The Big Short"

~

*a screen provocation,
you laugh out loud,
mime hating yourself
that you are joiining in
tacitly acknowledges the truth
of abbreviated wisdom

you,
disguised minority of
modest disagreers,
c'mon, admission submission,
more truth in it
than deserving of argumentation

a one liner throwaway,
neatly designed,
leaves you disturbingly
probed,
thoughtfully tormented and
aroused

poetry just a vehicle,
your vice for revelation,
the critical door to open is this:

do people hate the truth?

inescapable reality
ironical probability,
truth well disguised,
in plastic shell of lying
from the Hollywood's would be poets,
an escapade from the escapists

let us not pretend
that you and I
uncaring, for by virtue of
your reading this, you are
poetry aficionado,
required to deny the lie,
and yet,
accept
the
granular view
that we are rising writing thru the wronged end of
a telescoping microscope

so I scare scar a tissue sample from my tongue
and the cells spell
this rejoinder:

all your lies are poems,
incomplete truths,
and that's why people hate poetry
fallow lain since
Jan . 2,
2016
until today
 Apr 2016 Olivia Kent
Mike Essig
Twenty or twenty-one. All volunteers. Barely women.
Straight from school in a thousand small towns.
Straight into the mud and blood and madness.
We dragged our dying to their open arms.
Twelve hours shifts; often more. Wreckage of violence.
Round eyes. Smiles that healed. Hearts that broke.
Girls treating boys. Telling the necessary lies.
You're OK. You're fine. You're going home.
Valor danced in their faces. Lips that spoke hope.
Old now or dead. But forever young and alive
in the memories of 150,000 wounded soldiers
they saved and sent back to the world.
   ~mce
 Apr 2016 Olivia Kent
Haydn Swan
Miscommunication is the tearful demise,
words unrecognized on a dark sunrise,
knock on the door of a hardened heart,
this unfinished symphony tearing us apart,
both reach out to touch the others soul,
grasp the empty space its secrets stole,
love lays in this old wooden chest,
so blow of the dust at your behest.
Can they dream at all?
or would a surrealists dreams be in 3D
maybe hand touched textures
that they feel can hold and touch in there minds dream
maybe scents that they smell with there brains
so take care of your heads
and that remines me of a thing my Dad once said
if you want the get a hat
then get ahead.
True Story  P@ul  LoVe you all so much,  ***.
 Mar 2016 Olivia Kent
bones
Easy flow the waters
of the river passing by,

though we straighten them with walls
and narrow them in time,

and lace them up with bridges
to bind them where they lay,

still the waters, like a lifetime,
slip their bonds and pass away..
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