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BJ Donovan
I've never read a poem without
the poet's heart and soul in each
line. I wish we could take snapshots
of our emotions and capture pure love.
Maybe all drugs should be legal. . . .

Every biochemistry prof I know
believes that this is true, but
they themselves do not use illegal

"It has been proven to  be
an intrinsic part of our
human nature: that our brain
seeks to alter  the way that we
experience reality."

So to criminalize something that
defines us, in a way, as human
is essentially pointless and destructive.

I haven't used any illegal substances in a long time. I am essentially concerned with the legal horrors of the prison system here, but I wanted to respond to Johnny Noir's poem regarding same topic. I was quite shocked when I first began hearing this from my step-mother and her lab professors, because they were so straight, but this is their opinion as biochemists who specialize in the way that our brains work. And I believe in the brain, and I believe in biochemistry, even though it's not (ha) my forte.
I despise myself for not being someone you could love.
Hannah rose
He doesn’t like to cuddle. He likes to grip my hips and touch my lips, But only when it suits him. He sticks his head out my window because its too hot in my room and he doesn't like the sound of my fan easy.Breath.caffeine.breeze. We laugh quietly and kiss quietly and moan quietly. He mouths vulgar things that make me giggle in front of our friends. I run my hand along the seam off his far too expensive shorts We take every opportunity to be with each other to talk , to feel, so secretly. So public. Exhibitionist pleasure. We talk night after night rapidly and vigorously and trip over each others sentences like a sidewalk crack. He says “her” like it means “amen” i say “us” pretending i could be them.We get drunk off of music  and skin and things we love. His smile erupts across his face like it could shatter his cheekbones. His eyes glimmer like a lake catching the glare of the moonlight.He loves to be so much taller  than me. He thinks it makes him wiser. We spend a lot of time in my room with the doors shut. (We spend a lot of time outside of my room with our mouths shut.) I always wake up first. I lay there looking at him Vulnerable and quiet with the occasional sleep talk. Soft face. Soft sounds.We bond over love for our friends We fight over who gets the corner in my bed.
We tease and We kiss, ooh we kissed.
He loves classical music. We listen in silence.I sit on his stomach and laugh maniacally and pout my lips when he won’t be fair.
He is my occasional constant.
i think i'm falling in love with him.
I think he's fallen for her.
We are forgotten yesterdays of tomorrow,
note-booked mementos on thighs time travelled,
back from the future, few tsha-tsha with flashes,
blackouts and gray-matter gashes
The slurred dance of good memory,
crib-notes on collar-bones,
bare chest, a loose tie, knots, not around neck
formal education white-suits, tucked-in remembering.

A formal date chasing me indoors.
chasing me into doors of consistent
nurturing nature of the neuro
doors on the right, left doubt outside.
A manner of hindsight sighs.

Running back to tomorrow to save my 4 unborn children
from my present past. Amnesia.
The pendulum swings in reversed backwards.
Forward is just an antithesis, poor protest-art
An analogue, roman-concept coded in digital now.
Fraudulent, faux and pseudo. We look at the sun
to tell day from night. Progress practising stillness
Passage of pain frozen in time,
sun is amber lantern,
phantom of what & who has risen,
out of resin's
suspended-infinity-loop prison.
The bitterness of honey stings
sour-sweet on the taste buds of trauma.
Strolling up memory lane, compassion
for former faults. Less envy, only empathy
Fragments of a broken dream further smashed
can’t fill in the gas smothered cracks.

We died many deaths.
A mass burial, a mountain of bodies brewing
under the garden, the slumbering soil wakes.
3 is the number of perfect balance and god.
Ma’, Sister, and I.
Mother died the day Doctor
told her that the body she named
Home was evicting her, with a 10-year-notice.
She must have watched herself
watch herself
sitting on covered couches
thinking what a theft of life
this holy trinity is –
what is left
to see

I saved all pain of breaking
bones for this,
I ran in opposites, dislocated my hip
tore tender tendons, I have a Belgian-Congolese tendency
never stood for much but numbness
an absence of nothing because
feelings kill.
I saved haunting ghosts of night for day
For this day
For today.
All these reservoirs of resilience won’t be enough,

I wept
winter sunsets –
to remind my new self on the coldest of nights
that once time was warm days
a slice of life’s beauty in Redemption.

Efforts tuck sweat under my arms,
gravity grounding my prideful chest down.

A bed of waves
afloat sober dreams
nightmares of wrinkled water
submarine my day dreams
and flowing peace.
Please be polite and let me be.

I now know, less hoarding.
A pair of paradox, or pandora's box: written by Phila Dyasi
Published by: NuBlaccSoul

To call it an existential crisis
would speak exclusively to a disturbance relating to the decaying case
that encapsulates my eternal hold of being.
This crisis is a crises extending to the infinite.
A philosophical and metaphysical troubled state.

NB: Please comment and critique and share :) Feedback is always welcomed.

(C) 2018. Copyrighted 19 February
2018 NuBlaccSoul™. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.
Love = Lust + Respect
In poetic manipulation
In magic of our words
Beneath the breath
Above duress
Let your heavy
Hearts be heard
In power of rhyme
Upfront sublime
Equal syllable
In each consecutive
Spellbinding high
Emotionality low
Crafted on
The twist of tongue
Either way
Let poetry make us whole

We all have the power
Write it down
And load!
Traveler Tim
A whore standing
on a corner
blowing smoke
in the dark

The undertaker
waiting on the headlights
turning up the drive
a drink with ice
rattling in his hands

Someone turns a light on
in a house down the road
it must be a man
going over all the words
he ever spoke
all the fields he ever left
on his way to open a door

Away from our homes
and on roads
we thought we knew
holding a light for a stranger

A woman in the moonlight
wading a river
raising her dress
above her white thighs
but the gully is dry
it hasn't rained in forty nights.
I've looked bad but felt good
I've looked good but felt bad
I've looked bad and felt bad
I've looked good and felt good

I've failed so many times I can't count
I've learned so much I can't find individual moments

I have gradually increased

But I am finding myself

I am finding the confidence to strut out of my dorms like I'm walking on the runway
I have found myself so sad my body has become immobile

I am growing stronger

Physically. Mentally. Spiritually.

I am finding God in the most random moments, but when I do it is glorious

I find myself alone too often
I find myself feeling alone too often
I find myself hiding too often

I'm ready to let my potential loose
And become the lion I am meant to be
I stopped writing.
Not because I fell out of love with it...
My emotions just seemed to disappear.

I started a new medication.
The doctor said it would help my panic disorder, and it did.
I took that pill, like my mother talks to God (every morning).

When I went back to the doctor she said we had to up the dosage because apparently having 2 panic attacks a week still isn't okay.
I told her that when I woke up this morning I got out of bed without crying, but she didn't consider that as much of a victory as I did.

When I was put on a higher dosage, my emotions shut down.
After a few weeks I stopped crying, my OCD got better, my panic attacks were gone, and I could even go into the student union of my college campus without my heart trying to win a race against my thoughts.

I could breathe.

But, I also stopped having fun.
I felt like a stranger in my own body.
My emotions found the exit on the plane and jumped, never to be found again.

Since when did being able to breathe require me to feel like this?
She Writes
Tell me this!
How can you cage a bird
When you fell in love
Whilst watching it fly?
If I die today,
Would tears flow,
like a rushing river?
Or the clouds weep,
screaming in thunder?
Would the earth break,
shaking in anger?
Will the world care?
And for a moment,
forget laughter?

If I'm down
to my final heartbeat.
Will anyone be there,
sitting beside me?
When I draw,
the very last breath.
Will you hold my hand,
and feel upset?

If I go,
without saying goodbye.
I want you to know,
that I really tried.
To live and love,
to endure and smile.
To find the truth,
in this realm of lies.

If I'm fated
of leaving soon
to talk with God,
in his glowing room.
I'll be rejoicing,
when I face my doom.
Even I end like a flower,
that withered,
before it blooms.

If inside the casket I lay,
Would there any heaven for me to stay?
Or will my sins, demand me to pay?
Don't even know, how much this life has weighed.

If it's my time, to step on the scale.
Done of my part, in this play.
A lot of regrets,
but nothing more to say.
Wish me luck.
If I die today.
The human condition may be
characterized by the posing
and re-posing of this most
fundamental of questions:
For what purpose, if any
is the suffering, the fear--
indeed, the utter bewilderment--
peculiar to Earthly existence
endured? Incessantly, we search
for an answer we can live with
and die for.
Ciel Noir
We are such            clever creatures to divide
Most everything             into its different sides
With chaos versus             order, dark and light
The stark duality of         wrong and right
We even split the very        world in two
With human versus human,       we and you
But still no matter how much      we divide
Each thing has infinitely many      sides
JJsbdksndkkdmxmjshJustletmediemmmkbhbxjdnxnbdjxbdnxnnxnxnImsotire­dofthisnsjs nkksbdndnbdthese tears wontstopjdjdnn znjsnndudndkdknfkdmssnfnjdndnndbdbdbdnWhythepainstilllivesin myheartjjxnxjxjdn mykdjdvjsndjcjndndncnxkxnkxndkdkjdnskxhjshdjddndeImsofuckingtired­msnndksnxonshxidnkxndjsjdbjdkslmsndjjdbdisbdjjdksndjdhbsndnndjdjd­ndnd

Youllneverunderstand me

— The End —