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Keara Marie Mar 5
I’m beginning to know myself.
I don’t exist.
I’m the space between what I’d like to be and what others have made of me.
“We read to know we’re not alone.”
C.S. Lewis says, as a character in the film Shadowland

~~~

my lovers mumble when they leer and clear the
assorted sordid, livres with dust jackets, spines,
and notable ideas, POV’s that dare to offend; me
thinking seeing they’re uneasily resting uneasy, for
there appears to be some scales, mountains that need
mounting before they can successful scale my
heights, a big BE WARY atmospheric global warning
signs prior to enter my magic kingdom,
quizzes  they are unassuaged they will pass
with  any color schema,
let alone flying ones…

that amuses me, ah well, a sign of my changes, when
those  days when a merely handsome man turned this
now skeptical-woman agog, and flushes of heat made
a breast beat,  a flesh and blood chin, ***, eyes, rock me
like a movie poster definition of movie poster handsome

they are smarter and when they cautiously inquire re my
diversity, a broadening array of fiction, philosophical disput-
ations, that lay and lie with me, they, and I bare skinned,
open to the ah ha! of titillating notions of human endeavor,
or British ****** mysteries, and lots and lots of history…

this commends and cerifies
my screening choices for,
when alone, I read
to know I am are not alone,
for my thoughts need hot
company, and my caress
of divers words diverges,
in so many directions, I need
assurance, insurance that the
men who wish to bed me are
capable of making love to my
mind, where stimulus and that
they can feed me endlessly a
variety of bouchées amusantes,
that wet my appetite for their
entirety

should they fail,
to for want of trying,
I comfort them obliquely,
informing them that
*”We need to read to know we are not alone!”
B Mar 3
How lovely you look, so lit up.
I always keep my room
glowing like a subtle dream
sunset; orange, lavender, vibrant peach.
Now you're mine in the midnight hour
overcome by it, for a week.
Hoping you'll notice
the lonely pothos leaves
she's survived so much
we have both survived living with me.
I never liked this town
but you are so beloved
brought you here
now we're so above it.
Sipping on french champagne
(forgot to budget)
no worries, I'll be gone
this time next year
in some strange place with the curtain drawn
thinking of us here.
silence
sweet silence
like none other
despite the library door
slamming everytime
someone leaves or arrives

it seems to slam louder
when they leave

i am not perturbed
or distracted, nor am i
expecting not to be

here, alone, surrounded by books,
i just am

lamenting this place not being
as busy
as it should be
who’s fault is that?

celebrating this place not being
as busy
as it should be
guilty as charged

all these faces i see
it’s like a small town here
sometimes abandoned
sometimes inhabited

once again,
i don’t care

how can i?
my head, full of
Aurelius and Bukowski
doesn’t have space to

well, deep down,
i guess i do care
but not as much as
i suppose society begs i
should

how can i?
i’m too busy figuring out
who i truly am
and the books help, Bukowski
was correct, these philosophers are
like brothers to me and i speculate
my deep “connection” to them
to men whom i never met
yet felt more fatherly care from
than my own

maybe that’s the root

sometimes, all this reading begs the question

do i like books
more than people?
or people more
than books?

i think i know the answer,
eureka!

i love books, and individuals alike
i don’t like people
especially when they group up
in congregations and crowds,
strangers in a
can of sardines
with no space to possibly
ever care

only to survive and barely breathe
or to escape such a reality

how could i?
when they don’t
even care for themselves

it’s disheartening, really
to witness such potential
in one soul
and watch it *******
melt away
around his or her friends

around their families’
incessant influence and needs
abusing providers

consumed by their personal troubles and struggles
and vices, infected by the amplification of
a hang out
girls night
boys night
the clubs, the bars
the gossips of nonsense and ****
that simply isn’t their business

sewage

their obvious and yet
radiantly painful,
like a sunburn that isn’t on you
but hurts to look at on someone else,
avoidance of themselves
begging the following:

could these souls spend
an hour, alone, with a book
and paper and pencil?

how could they?

they’d like to, i’m sure,

but hate themselves just enough
to not be able to.

-melancholicreator
i dont know, i was in a mood

enjoy.
Ant Feb 25
i dropped my phone
and it cracked.
this just feels like life,
except im in a freefall
waiting to hit the pavement
and shatter,
just like my phone.
tryhard Feb 25
opened my heart once
after keeping everything in
years and years
filled to the brim
and now i'm spilled, entirely
maybe nobody
can be fully prepared
when the cracks in my heart
can no longer bear
all of its weight
the dam finally breaks
and i am the flood that drowns them
i am spilled, entirely
you see
victims of a flood
have the choice to leave
and i will be left here, still
caught in all the debris
spilled, entirely
Hawley Anne Feb 16
I gather up all the tiny shards,
pieces of my broken heart.
And I hold them oh so lovingly,
so they don't further fall apart.
I wrap them so very tightly,
in what I think is love.
And I whisper to them so no one hears,

"I promise that you're enough."
Aidan Feb 9
What happens
When someone has no one
When there is no one to lend an ear
When a your mind comes crashing in at once
What happens then
Do we go through the motions as usual
Do we waste away and drown in thoughts
Do we question what’s being said
Do we finally choose to open up
What happens next
Beats me
If only the answer was clear
Because if the answer was clear
There would be a shining arrow
Pointing the way
Lighting the path
If all of that was true then we’d have bliss
We would have peace
But then what
The next wave rolls in
Crashing into the tranquil shores
Crashing through the walls just rebuilt
Crashing any bond with once formed
Now it’s back to square one
Back to the drawing board
Where will the dart land next
But when it lands
Will you take action
Or
Will you continue into the same path
Carlo C Gomez Feb 12
~
She is not our shrine,
she prays differently
with eyes wide open,
fingers on votive offerings,
preferring her solitude
in the Tea Garden, drinking light

Tomorrow on the tarmac
one flowered suitcase,
stamped for the city of neon people,
will travel to her song,
the pilgrimage of anemic lovers

Her hoisting from water,
(ampullae in hand),
and the unique boutique
growing out of
an alabaster chamber
bring monks out of hiding

The center line of her,
where the flower blooms forth
and learns by observation,
is still an unvisited temple

Until in season of calligraphy,
when she releases the Kogai
from her hair and sits with friendly toes
outstretched in the warm intimacy of
shared water

~
Amy Childers Feb 7
You cover my skin in red paint
Each time you scream my name.
They paint my skin green
whilst they mock me.
He throws handfuls of black
On my back for each blow, he ever gave me.
My body is no longer my own canvas,
Society chose to paint over my masterpiece.
At the end of the day, looking in the mirror
I pity the stranger who stares back at me.
The paint won't come off no matter how hard I scrub.
Digging under the paint and tearing skin with it to make my body my own again.
The blood.
It creeps down my skin and drips onto the floor.
What a beautiful shade of red.
It's not like the fiery red of anger but like a freshly cut rose or an unearthed ruby.
This is the color that has been hiding beneath me.
Beneath the facades and the frills of society.
My body is burning from the revisions and my mind is racing with my own potential. This will be a lovely new addition to this canvas.
The pain is worth it.
Society must see the beauty hidden beneath.
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