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reflectionzero Apr 2014
{Some old writing from when I was younger. A piece about the past.}

Smoke bellows outward
in a plume from parted lips
and rolls off my arms in a loving caress.

As I lower my hand from my mouth
and gaze at the stars
I am brought into a catalyzing train of thought.

As the domino's of the past
experiences collapse in my mind
I reach a dusty black box
i put away long ago
in the innermost regions of my brain.

Upon looking at the box
I see in gold letters, "do not open"
On the surface. I inhale once more
a drag most satisfying.

I exhale and gaze at the black box.

As I stare at the stars I am happy in this moment.
All tragedy's and shortcomings,
problems and obstructions
in my path seem to breath themselves calmly out of existence,
as I once did.

I am happy in this moment.

The horizon does not end
for those crafted of the infinite,
and the sun never sets in a perpetuating sky.

I create myself instead of searching.
For reality is not repeating itself,
rather it's extending toward nothing
and everything at once.

It is one and all.

It is black and white
and it follows no pattern or circumference. 

I inhale once more.
grind the embers of my cigarette into the surface of the box,
and exhale.

Dwelling not on anything
but the short life I have left to live
with each breath.

I watch the embers die out,

and leave.
reflectionzero Apr 2014
Here is the line I draw in the sand.
Here are the words you spoke to me.
Here is the complete detachment of care and empathy you've shown. Here is documentation that I'm going to be alright.
There-
is the place for you in my heart.

Why do you focus on the worst in us?

These are my lips still untouched
by how much I thought you loved me.
This was the motivation I used to show you my world.
These are the walls that saw everything, here and there.
These are your letters collecting dust.
This is me staring at the place where you were supposed to be still standing.

How could you let me go?

Here is my realization.
There is your pride.
Here is the phone that won't be ringing.
Here is your realization.
There is a year gone.
Here is one of those other fish in the sea.
This is how quick I can rip that band-aid off.

Where are you running to?

This is the image of me.
The lack of my being in your life.
There- is the fading reminder of who I used to be.
This is how strongly I loved and believed you.
The only (  ) who did what ( ) did. There-- (  ) was.


This is the love that still stands.
The love that forgives and never forgets a second.
The place in our hearts that can't be filled by anyone else.
The love that knows no limit.

Here is the clock ticking, recording it all.

Here is how quickly I can rip that clock off the wall.

-r0
reflectionzero Apr 2014
He had punched a mirror.
We found him on the floor,
sifting through the shards of his
broken reflection
to find the piece that nobody liked.

He cut his hand in the process
and we asked him to stop bleeding.
He  had  always  been  difficult.

We wrapped him in gauze,
cut a hole out for his lips,
and told him to smile.
reflectionzero Apr 2014
[I appreciate all of the people who have recently taken an interest in my writing since my poem was featured on the front page!]

"It is not the critic who counts;
not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles,
or where the doer of deeds could have done better.

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena,
whose face is marred
by dust and sweat and blood;
who strives valiantly;
who errs,
who comes short again and again,
because there is no effort without error and shortcoming;
but who does actually strive to do the deeds;

who knows great enthusiasms,
the great devotions;
who spends himself in a worthy cause;

who at best knows in the end
the triumph of high achievement,
and who at worst,
if he fails,
at least fails while daring greatly,

so that his place shall never be
with those cold and timid souls
who neither know victory or defeat."
-Roosevelt
reflectionzero Apr 2014
shivering moss
of deep green
I am a ghost
lost in a waltz

haunted moons
shroud me faint
open graves
my crumbling face

nowhere
moist earth
and ice air
take rusted scissors
to this angels echo

-r0
reflectionzero Apr 2014
i know you're bad...

but *******
******* your looks
my eyes are hooked
you should be booked
for aesthetic crime
so fine  

*******

handcuff my mind
the cities grime
your street-light sublime
my ball and chain
beauty profane.

*******

graffiti heart
in a shopping cart
you pick my pockets
street scam smart

*******

knife to my soul
tag my wall
pretty on parole
let's brawl

*******
*******.


-r0
I like it rough.
reflectionzero Apr 2014
the  future  is  coming*

I'm often reminded of this when
the other students in my class
ask me what my major is.

“Liberal Studies,” I say.

The follow up question is always the same cookie-cutter inquiry.

                        “So you want to be a teacher?”

                                                      “No, not really” I say.

                                        At this juncture the person who is blandly     asking the questions begins to express
genuine interest in what I might do next
in the “real-world,”
spiked with a fear of the unknown.

“So what do you want to do then?”

I've come to realize that this is the point where most of my passing conversations with peers are brought to an abrupt end.

“I don't know.” I say.

And there it is, out in the open, lying on the floor-- the ******* future. I search their eyes and find panic,
                                                    then doubt,
                                                                ­ followed by pity.

I have officially shared too much information.
Figures. Honesty  creeps  people  out.

We part ways with, “Oh, that's great” or “I'll see you around!” and march forward to that inevitable, tantalizing ***** that is the future.

I've found that when I express a modicum
of trust in the world,
                                            it is often met with an alarming dread
                                           and concern for my prolonged well-being.

I am without a plan, so naturally-- there's a problem.


That if I don't have my calendar
              marked up through to the second coming of Christ,
                    at some point all of my limbs may simultaneously fall off.
Or I may simply cease to exist
           and all the joys of life will slip through my fingers
                                                       as I descend into my faithless pit
                                                                ­   of poor-planning.

I'd like it if everyone could just breathe--
get your cell-phones and computers in class,
and live in this moment.

Because yesterday is today
                         and today is tomorrow,
                                      and there is no future more important than now.

Until then and philosophy aside,
I guess I'll keep careening on the edge of reality
with my thumb up my ***
because god forbid
you become anything
          like me.


                                                           ­   -r0
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