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Bad news is:

You cannot make people like, love, understand, validate, accept or be nice to you. You can't control them either.


Good news is:

It doesn't matter.
be kind to yourself
I saw it coming a mile away.
I knew it wouldn’t end well,
But I didn’t bother avoiding the wreck.
I only stood in shock,
Engulfed by euphoria,
Feeling as light as a feather.
I was flying
In a warm sunny sky.
And then bam!
Ringing.
Discombobulation.
Searing pain.
And in an instant I felt like I was dying.
Of course I didn’t.
Even after these long months,
My wounds have not fully healed.
And even when they do,
I will be scarred.
This is love.
All of those things that we would say
In those enraptured, early days.

‘I’m crazy about you baby.’
‘You make me crazy.’
‘I’m so crazy in love with you.’

But the ending had other intentions.

Although
I guess it all turned out to be some kind of true,
Just words
with different dimensions.
not an object
just rhythm and beauty
pain knows no bounds
silence echos a voice
lustful eyes
gluttonous hands
fragile vase
SMASH
pieces everywhere
the day moves on unaware
To me this describes the modern life for a woman hurt but expected to remain undamaged and unaffected. Sometimes no one to vent or talk too I am a male however a woman is much more then an object
I am a camera.
My skin-- a metal slab,
cold and real.

Time touches me like love,
feeling me up as If I slept with it.

My brain is a roll of memories
embedded in flashes of time.

I have seen life--
**** and unclothed.
I take it all in--

My crystal eye-- the grand abyss,
looking back at me.

Oh do I terrify?
The world I built with memory.

I have seen life--
depleted, dead--
living in pictures.
I dreamt last night,
sometime in the wee hours,
about cherry marmalade.
How I'd like
to have had it
spread all over my face,
from chin to forehead,
covering both of my lips.
When I suddenly awoke
breathless,
I thought  how'd I've used
my tongue and fingers
to get every last
tasty morsel
of a dessert like that,
even in my dreams.
I remember the crazy times
we'd travel down south
to the outlaw town of Ensenada.
We'd swing by Hussong's
for some golden elixir
& Mezcal mixers.
It was a fun wild-place,
where having your face
rest in your own *****
was allowed at your table.
I mean nobody gave a ****** about such things.
It was truly a place where anything went,
especially drunkenness.
The last time we visited,
some twenty years ago,
we lost two hitchhikers
we had picked up
in Malibu
on the PCH.
Now years later,
I wonder how,
or if
they ever made it back.
The outer world is trembling,
boys are dreaming here,
you cannot hear their voices.
Metal clanking,
those fireballs &
tracer rounds
cannot touch them
tonight.
Not in this state.
My Drill said,
"Jump soldier."
I asked him,
"Why &
how high
Sergeant?"
He said,
"That doesn't matter boy,
yours is to do,
not to ssk why,
just die."
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