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Dr Zik Apr 2015
The fragrance: to satisfy
As you present nearby
You are dear merciful!
As it gave me inner bliss
As rain is to catharsis
RC Apr 2015
Trying to describe what happened to us
is like fumbling to forge stars from
the evanescent remains
ever fluent in our veins
of astral bodies drifting further away.

Translunar thoughts extort my orbit around you
regardless of your eyes, their contained gravity
despite your lucid voice and it's fervid pull,
how they all hold me in place.
You are your own universe
and I am lost in your space.

Asteroids of presentimental wounds cratered my trust
you eclipsed unhindered through my life
and flared into hers;
our syzygy was over
but I never noticed our declination occur,
with your ephemeral attention
and I, rapt in limerence,
stayed a sidereal fragment to your sky.

I never did and still don't mind...
Definitions just in case, and because I'm addicted to learning new words.
trans·lu·nar - adj. of, relating to, or denoting the trajectory of a spacecraft traveling between the earth and the moon.
ex·tort - v. obtain (something) by force, threats, or other unfair means.
pre·sen·ti·ment - n. an intuitive feeling about the future, especially one of foreboding.
syz·y·gy - n. a conjunction or opposition, especially of the moon with the sun. "the planets were aligned in syzygy"
e·phem·er·al - adj. lasting for a very short time.
lim·er·ence n. - the state of being infatuated or obsessed with another person, typically experienced involuntarily and characterized by a strong desire for reciprocation of one's feelings but not primarily for a ****** relationship.
si·de·re·al - adj. of or with respect to the distant stars (i.e., the constellations or fixed stars, not the sun or planets).
Rhianecdote Mar 2015
Piece
        by
            Piece
                         I'll

                                find
      
                                               my

                                                         **Peace
EmotionsAreNull Feb 2015
I worry not.
For I cannot see.
I have lost all that is sought.
And let all that is, be.
It is serene.
But not rightly so.
My mind has gone lean,
with little emotions lightly sewn.
Death is nothing.
And will always be true.
And as frequent.
As the morning dew.
Apprehension and guilt are not present.
Life itself is iridescent.
In the abyss we were born.
And into it we shall return.
gwen Dec 2014
and there was a feeling -
a glowing in her chest,
a blooming nurtured by music,
an energy lulled by rest.

it moves through all things,
this pervading catharsis -
you may find it in the cracks,
or the things on your list.

as for her, she found it
on a road to nowhere -
one of a million infinites,
too heavy for her to bear.

she could no longer move the thing,
for hindered by her own weight was she.
she held in her chest a heavy heart,
dry heaving her way to her heaven to be.

and that was when she realized,
as the wind lifted her chin -
infinite is only as big as infinite is,
until infinite comes crashing in.

"what's left of me then?"
she sighed to herself.
and then the wind whispered, humble and true.
"what's left of you is still the very you."

"you may be the girl who has never won
after staring cruel despair in the face.
you may be on a million roads to nowhere,
but this is just the start of your race."

"the you who your mother cradled in her breast,
the you who looks at the world with wonder,
the you with color in her eyes and flowers in her smile,
who thinks light can be both a question mark and an answer."

a smile slowly began to set on her face,
subtly at first, then shining through her skin.
she no longer feared and fed on anxiety;
she felt stronger than she'd ever been.

soon she let go of what was no longer there,
and slowly she learnt to no longer despair.
with an open mind and a heart so true,
she began her journey into the blue.
inspired by the living sleep, an amazing ambient/post-rock band who i sincerely wish to thank. this couldn't have been written without their music serving as a sensory backdrop (:
Lunar Luvnotes Dec 2014
What becomes of the broken-hearted?
I guess it matters who they are.
An artist? Masterpieces.
An existentialist? Epiphanies.
A physicist? Reality.
From my notebook last month. Like Jimmy Ruffin mused in his ballad, What Becomes of the Broken Hearted, I played it repeatedly as a child. His cathartic paradise moved me.
Noandy Nov 2014
Welcome to Catharosia

Come and succumb to our pitiful wail
An allegory written with paints of girded soul;
There, we drench ourselves in colorful shivers
Here, we cleanse our soul for the joy of the universe;

Another day to create
Roses of the night that result in heavy dreams,
Sorority flies, and dead passions of desperate poets;

In the world where we purge ourselves,
Sanity is not our company—

To the torn pages faded by the light
To the worn out tales dimmed by the dark
Here is our salutations and solitude;

Our words untangled and jumbled tears
Will serve you deeds of crumbling back to a piece;

She oozes blood and agony
He ruptures terrors and improbability
They ***** contemplation and daydreams sewn
We engrave beautiful macabre and adored pain—

Where clowns shall dwell and kings lay to death
Where sins tremble and tragedies rejoice
Jolly remains of the day are what we produce
Masked by anxious sorrows and fear so erudite
Tuesday Pixie Nov 2014
I put my feelings in a box
I scatter them across the page

I order them and categorize
Like I used to order stationary
Or split the peas from the carrots
Right before consuming

I try to defrag my brain
Stack the boxes all nice and tidy

But with the filling of each box
Is the finding of more feelings
Littered across the ground
Or, like dust, floating

Hidden cracks and corners:
My mind is a maze
Of feeling, thought, unexplored opinion
Unscrambling is eternal.
Jewel Tiara Nov 2014
I change course everyday which is probably why I can't keep up.

my thoughts are moving at the speed of sound,
the speed of light
and they never slow down.
I can't seem to grasp pleasant thoughts, for they escape me too fast. I tend to catch the bad ones and exercise them to death.

I used to believe in catharsis in that the razor running across my thigh was simply an extension of the paintbrush across the canvas.  the blood was just tangible emotions dripping off of my razor, my paintbrush. "art" was painful but it was there for me no matter what.

I long ago disproved any theory of me fitting into a mold. I don't think any mold is deep enough to fit everything that comes with me. the day that they find such a mold will be the day i fully understand myself.

they'll never find it.
Elizabeth Kelly Oct 2014
Music.

It's within. Without.

We share it with everyone. We hide what it's about.

We protect our privacy. We let it all hang out.

We want it, oh how we want it all, it all defines us until we find the wall.

The wall! What a joke. We're all in on the farce. Just give us your music, we'll decide what is art. Just sell us your soul, we'll take it from here. Have another beer, we have plenty, my dear. You're valuable, oh yes, just keep your thumb on the pulse. Drink up and polish your gift of schmaltz.

But it's false. It's all false. It's the ******* waltz,  our partner keeps face while we're falling apart, and then kicks us aside when we're behind in the race. We're falling apart, we're floating in space.

I want this to have a happy ending. If you ever hear one, its ******* worth defending. Keep me in mind. I've got music for spending. Together we've got the means for the mending.
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