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Bad Luck Sep 2018
I've been trying to see the in-between;
The overlap in separation...
                            I want to see what can't be seen.
                            I want to embody imagination.

"That's a tough way to go." They say,
                    "You shouldn't try so hard to know."
But a river is a tough thing to stop,
                                   So I just let the water flow.

Because you don't come upon an idea...
You always start from within it,
Both springing forth and unfolding,
From their inception, until it's finished.

Your ideas, as you are, are intricately connected
To a place where no thing exists without a purpose...
No answer without a question.

The question and answer, you see, exist in simultaneity...
Born from the same concept; they are stuck together, forever, genetically.
L B Oct 2017
...gone flat
Just fizzed out of me
But I do write sometimes....

Not tonight—
Only frantic sparrows roosting
Heavy overlap of clouds
grace  Apr 2018
grace Apr 2018
thoughts overlap
the voices merge into a whole vibration
gelid tiles
struck by thick humming of embarrassment
my eyes flick back to the stars, i wonder when they’ll get farther
i always feel my thoughts freeze and crack away
hi guys!! getting back on my feet is getting easier by the moment... i feel good. hbu guys?
Rizna M Rameez Jun 2018
We are the people of Internet America
We grew up on the neighbourhoods of Hollywood
We called our own
We were so detached from reality
The neighbourhood around us
That kept changing

American politics were generally ours
American English we never distinguished
From ours

American thoughts
Strike us to reality
When we look around us
And it does not overlap perfectly along the lines

We are the people of Internet America
With not a blood of American in ours
You gotta admit, most stuff on the Internet are more inclined towards America, at least, a huge amount in the past. Not just the Internet, but all the books and movies I read and watch. Not because I chose to. But because I am used to.
Be kind when criticising this, because for me it is an impulse I can't break away from, a part of me, in me from so long ago, I can't remember a time I haven't had it.  That I partly do not want, because I feel I do not exactly belong. At all.

02.11.2019 -
At 17, I've evolved into a resolve. I am, proudly, no longer internet-ly American.
Bad Luck Feb 14
I think I've always been alone . . .
At least, as long as I can remember.
But there's a part of me,
                       that still feels so connected --
To something near the source,
                        At the core of somewhere true.
Where we exist without our existence's limitations.
                        Where duality begins to mean overlap,
And both fiction and fact,
                        One and yet another,
Things like "this" and "that"
                        Are the same, still . . .
Innocently unseparated, in this place near to creation.

Maybe it's just my brain . . .
                        I do have a habit of creating dualities.
"Together, or apart? No," I think.
                       More like doubting infallibility.

So when I say I've always been alone,
I have to ask myself:

                                              "Have you really?"

"Of course you haven't been.
But who you are right now,
is no longer that you . . .
At least . . . not fully

                                      "So, if I was alone then,
                                       Does that mean that I
                                       might not be any longer?

"Oh, no."
I explained back to myself,
"I think you misunderstood me.
It's just . . .
That you'll never truly know,
Until there's nothing and nobody

That's a haunting truth to tell yourself,
            When you're off in your own head.
At least I won't be alone in my regret,
                         When I'm among the dead.
I'll find community in that.  
Surely,  that's the place to which I feel so connected!
The place where maybe two of myself is enough
                      to make just one of me feel,
Like I'm worth something more, than more or less,
                      In a place that's neither there, nor here . . .
At least, there, if I don't feel connected,
                     To myself, I may feel near.
Umi Mar 2018
Antimatter mirroring our existance on the pathway of a reverse world
Imagine it, time stands still, halts without a will to  continue its flow if it were to possess one to begin with, and everything is but fragile,
Illusionary moon, shine on in this distorted realm in which not even gravity is reliable or even trustworthy at this point, up is down here,
An imperishable night caught under a spell of eternity, uninterrupted
Everlasting, permanently shining, the fake moons appearance is clear,
Unremitting, sweetly told as a if it was a lie, the rumours of this world spread more likely like a disease through the ancient, young earth,
A line parallel drawn to ours, a dimension coexisting without sense,
It appears to be fragile, like a newborn child, the smallest disturbance would mostlikely ruin it's balance, bring tremor upon it wretchedly,
But where that life sparkles as then fades, two dimensions surely would overlap, of course, maybe it will be the world you inhabit, no?
In the realm of the dead, a loitering, lingering darkness thins the borders of reality and illusion, causing them to exist as one, now with the same heart and soul, a fantasy heaven which became reality,
After all, that place is only temporary,one surely could even call it a;
Short living eternity,

~ Umi
there was no poem neath my pillow

no poem on my tongue, none from eye envisionaries, no dew gift from my grassy emissaries, parting residue of an unknowable finger touch

nothing stirring, the mother muses mushing their shushing noises,
only breathy quietude, an airy surround sound tissue,
the cadence of intermingled hearts, the mother and the child

two awakenings, one instantaneous, the other restless unhurried slow, but within an impatience to intersect,
the overlap is love stars crossing,
impatience weaponized to make
momma aware her companions refreshed status,
a needy for love’s suckling,
embrace of fresh baked smiles from hot heartedly hearth furnaces

thus a-born a new poem, a welcomed well coming, in words,
the alliance of alliterated words from the interlacing of the mother’s chest heaving and the sniffling joy of a five year old boy reimagining the dreams that crossed from mother to son, and back again, requiring composition and joint authorship of them

the only and only true authentic authorship,
mother and child, their owned unique
duality of singularity
Michael  Jul 5
Michael Jul 5
if I am myself am I the silk dress
or the blue water of the eye
trickling down your moon of skin
sunset colors linger chapped
eyelashes catch each bead of light
even distant hills flicker
undulating multiverse
translucent overlap
giants fade in and out
I think perhaps I was the only ghost
what’s the difference between mist
and a slow exhale on a winter morning
the belt buckle drops to the floor
and I shiver
it drops against the spine
and I curl against you
my palms are the diameter of your stomach
I can’t pull anything in except your shadow
and you remain
warm and lonely
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