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 Oct 2013 Raven Black
This One
Illegible words engraved into the weathered stone in his chest
He can only believe he etched them there himself
Oh, so long ago
As a warning, or a sign
Now, he can only wonder what they mean
As he traces the markings with his fingers
Feeling like he could linger there forever
Just contemplating what they mean
Aching for a love, for affection
And suffocating in the mysteries of his own heart
 Oct 2013 Raven Black
Darious
Listening to the rain**
Listening to the rain pitter patter on my door steps
I can feel each droplet disperse and become one with the earth.
each rain drop falling so gently and innocently as it rushes through the grass and into the innocent soil. I hear a car passing
as the tires brushes the rain against the cement that had been pattering from the rain.
Still silent, as I listen to the noise that may come in between this moment of beauty.
Another car passes with the same rusty red look that the other car had.
The rain brushed against the tires as if duck tape was being peeled off of the ground.
Sitting in silence listening to the lost droplets falling gently, and empty.
I can almost taste the sound of the rain.
as it pitter patters on the concrete,  as though if it were falling onto a tin can.
Empty,
pure,
at peace,
as I listen to the rain pitter patter.
 Oct 2013 Raven Black
Anais Nin
"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)
As the planets orbit suns
so do we in those orbits see
our worlds collide.
In the passion that makes jelly of my being
I am seeing
for the first time
all that is and will be,will be mine
and there is time and time to see it, and time to see it all
and should I fall along the way
I shall say it is the haste I make
the haste that takes me
makes me see
our worlds collide
again.
How heavy the days are.
There's not a fire that can warm me,
Not a sun to laugh with me,
Everything bare,
Everything cold and merciless,
And even the beloved, clear
Stars look desolately down,
Since I learned in my heart that
Love can die.
When I was in 4th grade a girl named Claire
Kicked my ***
And left me on the blacktop
I swore it would never happen again

When I was 17 a girl named Ashley
Kicked my ***
And left my heart in pieces
I swore to never trust love again

I just turned 23 and a girl I shouldn’t name
Kicked my ***
I wanted to give her everything
For the very first time

But I never got off the blacktop
My heart is still in pieces
Love is still untrustworthy
I need to learn to fight.
We accept the love we think we deserve.
I don't accept much.
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