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K Balachandran Dec 2014
"Look at me sweet light, come make my inner eyes yours
light me up, I am the universe, spanning light years across
galaxies of desire and the renunciation at altissimo, the peak
disentangle the  strands, liberate, to my abode let me  go back
How long I've been sitting in meditative wait, for your caresses
for that divine  touch that'd trigger ecstasy in multiples"



My journey is recorded in shades
of light and darkness, it's essence
returns to the flow eternal, dissolves.

I am the remembrance of nights
colored by sad, pale, soft  moon light
that keeps watch to million secrets
preserved in double helix, passed over as
codes that keep on telling stories from
time immemorial,still kept safe within,
which is my zen 'kon' to contemplate
and erupt in enlightenment, my right.

I am melancholy light, driven away
when sea blue drinks sun at last, liquefied,
every tree top then one'd find covered
with fire flies that play an orchestra,
in an ascending wave, touching
the acme,then  comes down rolling and dies.

We lived in a land of unimagined beauty
only a bit of it our conscious mind receives
that anointed us all it has, rain and wind
fog, ice and sleet,the warmth of summer,
remember the way winter made us tenderly
shiver together, as if we are explorers of a
world,we created and dissolve as we return.
Let's try to summerize the adventure we are in
Cate Dec 2014
If I listed out all of the things that have
Tripped me up
And troubled me
Truly my dear
You would never stop pitying me.

Take me backwards around that stop sign I split

My legs churn counter clockwise
To the backyard as kids

But I can't find a moment that will fit
The description
Of the happiness I sought as a prescription
And over took my kind
As an addiction.

I have to find the exact formula
To improvement
Because I can't keep living
In this whirlwind disaster
That has only begun to spin faster.

I have fallen into a
Petrifying and paralyzingly vortex;
The consumation of my years spindling around me.

I am wound in
Sloppy rings,
Sticky with sap and
Last nights spilt wine.

I've grown into where I  will remain now,
Regardless of personal preference.
Mostly I can settle for my comfortable domain
Of limited know-how;
But when my tongue trips
And my knees scrape on
Every protruding corner

I will remember
I am only living,

Hidden behind callouses
Of all those spitfire falacies
I was gullible enough to perceive.  

my bark has turned more
Into a disapproving grumble
When another inevitable wave
Comes to throw me under
In the tides of my troubles.

Perhaps I've grown accustomed
To the briney water rushing towards my ankles
And the gust that carries cold droplets
Across my hot, red face.

Let us jealously applaud
For those who trod on
Our aspirations,
And smile coyly knowing
We didn't let their
Questioning faces
Phase us.  

"****.
I grew up."
I wish I didn't say that so much.

At twelve I was twenty-five and
At twenty-five?
Well,
We'll get to that
if we can.

Regardless
I know that nothing's going to give me back  

Here,

now,  

              My short time.       with
you.

Deep breaths only multiply the weight
Of the question that's lingering in my chest.
I rise,
Against the counteractive distraction
Of avoidance.

I hear the words come out in short blurbs like a stop motion cartoon,

"So...excuse me mister,
there's uh,
something I've got to do."

I'm stumbling up to your room
And betting
On the mood
And the moon.

C.e.M.
I have a lotttt of super lowkey double entendres, symbolism and insinuation in this and I'm curious if anyone can pick if apart. Regardless, I'm always interested in feed back!

Written in soc, as per the usual
S G Dec 2014
Oh I'm so dead.
I'm so dead and you're he's so alive he's so alive and he's up at 1130 and i'm fast asleep and he's hours away and i'm in the green-walled room and thunder can't be written about with gentle drops of rain but thunder can be written about with thunder so CRASH **** HOWL SHRIEK because you he is THUNDER and what am i? you HE is thunder and i am lightning and he brings me to life and I am SCREAMING "oh god oh god" and you he is grinning as much as he can at this moment and my throat is bare (why) and i want you him to treat me physically like you do emotionally and if it had always been this way then i'd be dead at the bottom of the ditch you dug when you smirked like that
bleeding and bruised and unrecognizable and would you look at me look at me look at me but no you'd fill the grave with dirt and your heart would still be oh so empty but you're just a boy a ******* boy and I look up and see starts and galaxies and then I see you and thunder crashes again and I'm not screaming and there's no lightning and my throat is still bare but so is everything else and our sweat has long since dried and you're a doctor aren't you but you'd rather cut me up than stitch me closed and I'm still bleeding and you're still smiling *but you're just a BOY and I am so much more than just a girl.
Cate Dec 2014
I keep waking up
When it's dark
And thinking it's a new day.

But regardless
of the churning minutes
That thicken slowly
on the back burner
Until they've become days and months
I won't feel anything change.

I've got more pennies
Left over from more purchases
Than I ever need make
But I can't spend them-
Not all in one place.

See they're really memories and moments
You say you saw as valueless

Put a hundred in one
And i'm still
Financially powerless.

I'm regressing into lackadaisical
Attempts at metaphor
Writing without a muse
Is such a chore.

So the pain and the deception
Yes I will return for more
Even if door-to-door
We're a hundred miles away.

All or nothing
Never left me with anything.

When we fell off-
I grew happier and
You
lost touch

You told me from the beginning
I should expect as much.

I guess I just thought my touch
Wouldn't make you feel
So cold.

I want to try something new
But I can't fix you-

Or so I'm told.


C.e.M. 12.16.14
SUPER rough. Just stream of consciousness and some really ****** rhyming. Meh.
JM Larsen Dec 2014
She leaned over
her concrete canvas,
       --The canvas
       that wasn't
       a canvas until
       the smile
       behind her smile
       made it
       So.

Ready for color-

She danced with
frozen rainbow
brushes
      --Solid/liquid fun
      that leapt
      and pirouetted,
      deliquescing in
      her hands
      . . . seemingly.

Made for making.

He watched her
steps, in their
       -Beginninglessness;
       projected-threw
       newborn light of
       old consciousness
       in motion
       Speaking.

Gestures of love-

Drawing together their
formlessly-aligned
intentions,
     -His two left feet
     tripping
     over her lack
     of back-
     facing eyes,
     that are
     without
     Purpose

when life is lived
by the living-
who do not try to
fold fate into
        tiny
        shapes
        of
        futility
  --Other than
        Themselves--

But prefer (rather)
to gambol with
existence
       in the fleeting
       endlessness
       of
       selfless
       company.
lachrymose Dec 2014
what a life it is
to live in love
with an ideal self.
to be in love with one
who doesn't exist,
not even in fiction,
only in the realm of your mind.
what a life it is
to look in the mirror
and feel your soul shatter
but when you look away,
you can pretend you are
the version of you that you see in your head.
I'm not the only one. I know it.
Biographers say that Sylvia Plath was in love with her dream self, encompassed in a strange egotistical fantasy.
I live in that same fantasy.
How do I make fantasy me
the real me?
If you can't tell, I haven't found myself. I know who I want to be, and I think I'm in love with her, but she isn't real.
Phoenix Rising Dec 2014
kaleidoscopic geometry
                                   and shapes made from sound
human reality
             is an experiment
say hello to the machine elves
                                who reside inside mandalas
Homunculus Dec 2014
Have you ever...

Heard a color? Seen a sound?
Smelled a thought, or all around,
Traversed an inward universe,
Where waves of mind abound?

Have you ever...

Climbed upon a ray of light,
Ascending towards the peak, and
Visited a place, of which
Mere words could never speak?

Have you ever,

Felt yourself expanding,
Out into the atmosphere, and
Glimpsed your tiny world below,
While laughing at your fear?

Have you ever...

Stepped outside that little box,
The one that some call "you?" and
Probed the depths, to question
Why you do the things you do?

Well,

...have you?
Chloë Fuller Dec 2014
amsterdam. tension. relief. release. accent. bowl. swig. bowl. bowl. reverend. mole. alley. fifth beer. bowl. sixth beer. blur. catching up. *** standing up. normalcy. hiding. secrets. bowl. friends. family. couch. spinning. smiling. exit. diner. bathroom floor. steam. bowl. her legs. beautiful. her teeth. beautiful. it hurts. keep going. sleep. sweat. 8 am. warm wind. splitting headache. packing. bowl. relief. amsterdam.
written during my freshman year of college in 2011
William Keckler Nov 2014
If the tiles of talking
are replaced by something else,
say, lexical snowflakes,

where will our linear minds be?
It's not that we don't understand
weird, multifoliate simultaneities

in dreams, in anguish,
or in ecstasy. It's just
the rest of the dumb time

we stand there and pull
from our mouths a usual
piece of numb string.
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