Oskar Erikson Jul 19

can you tell me where the rest of this love goes?
i don't want it wasted.
or is it just the same love i once gave
repeated again
and again.
its not supposed to expire.
its not supposed to die.
can you tell me where the rest of this love goes?

Zowie Georgia Jul 11

My emotions leave me and encircle me
like a residue of a puddle after a heavy rain shower,
Even though an emotion has released,
I’m left with a knowing that
No feeling ever really dies.
I know another river is flowing inside again,
We're always running through so many different rivers
like small intricate fish in the swimming pool of life
going in so many different directions
And yet continuously connected,
Always moving.

There’s something so beautifully deep and yet fickle about this movement,
And the stillness
Even if it feels just momentary.
As we search for harmony
Within the chaos,
Through the pushing and pulling of our lives
Trying desperately to find the midpoint
To start all over again.

Do you know what I mean?

Just when one thinks things are goin' forward,
They start goin' backwards.
Backwardness develops
In pursuit of Power and Domination.
So, the Resistance to Backwardness
Becomes  the new Progression.
It's a cycle that can't be avoided.
Society doesn't just
Advance.

Zenith Apr 24

My god, I think I’m going insane
because it seems like every time I think I'm done
you keep coming back around, but who's to blame?
You confuse me, you hurt me,
but you make me feel loved, so I come back too.
But then I come to and I realize you're no good.
You can be right in front of me and tell lies;
you make me angry and tantalize.
So I start to realize that I left you for a reason.
A fall fling, a thing only good for a season.
Why would a girl like me settle for a boy like you?
You only seem to want me when it works for you,
and what about me?
What about my pain, my suffering, my agony?
Or do you not care about that,
because you'd rather me lie on my back
or tell you that it's okay and to cut you some slack.
But I swear, it's over and it's through.
Unless you start sweet talking again
and I start feeling lonely again
and you make me feel happiness again
and you make me feel relevant again
and you tell me how beautiful I am again
and then here we go again.
You're so bad to me and even though I know this,
I'd let you in again if it meant just the smallest kiss.
Yes, you're rough on me and but it's your craziness I'd miss.

originally written 3/31/17

We all had to be a water droplet,
a blade of grass,
a piece of metal and shard of glass,
We all had to be an air molecule,
a mess of dirt,
we all have died and we've all gave birth. We've all been insects that live in the earth. We all had to be fleas,
We all had to dogs,
We all had to be Lilly pads and had to be frogs.
We all had to give and we all had to take,
We all had to lose and we all had to make, We're all on one team so we all have a say.
We are the characters and life is a play,
A roles a role but still we must not delay.
Your path is the only thing in your way.
We've all been here before but we don't have to stay.
Enlighten and leave,
the cycles recede,
and birth is at death,
a spiritual world of love and light is all that will be left,
without our skin we look within and see at our best,
the problems we had in life were nothing but a test.
Individual strength brings you closer to the source,
so never look back in remorse.

Written on 2/20/17
Data Apr 18

Today
I feel the ancient art returning
(slowly,    blood de-congealing)
I eat the gathering breath
of the long-dead poet
who now
rolls in
on this baptismal tide
forcing a way amidst the tiny
stones
 
gasping for air…
 
In a splutter of froth
you hear him whisper
‘I remember
this is sand!
This is where you buried me
it was here on this shaky land,
and when the sea came in
I drowned.’
 
Once more
I lie on the beach
(Iam) emerging,
my body washing to & fro
a pendulum gently prescribing time
to the soundless swell of crestless waves
with head lolling but eyes still finding time
 
to gaze at the endless blue
of the empty everlasting skies
to wonder
why resurrection
should happen here
where the the land and sea and sky
dissect so succinctly on this gritty line.
 
My murderers watch from the dunes
disbelieving,
Perpetuity beckons beyond the sun
and that prescience hung
on these warm lips
waiting
to be spoke
waiting to be sung
 
lingers in brackish air:
 
All slaves will rise but wither
(as before) (these are the tenets)
And kings will rule
as before and forever more
After all…
 
these things don’t change,
For here in the shifting sands are the cycles
and this is Eternity.
 
 
_____________


by Data © 2017

(Iam resurrecting)
Pisceanesque Apr 14

It is here
in this bottle-necked existence, locked
into days captioned by ticks and tocks,
where time resides in each of us
until it stops,
rotating the same hands
inside the same third dimensional clock;

it is here
where every breath exhaled is a universal kiss –
it is simply one moment and
the space in between this
that binds together our journeys, which,
as uniquely defined as we feel each is,
are all chapters of the same book
we write to reminisce,
primed and pained with the same theme we
create to self-exist,
scrawled by the same pencil, held
by the same hands as we persist…
each of us artists
with the same precise and leather-bound twist

It is here
where we long for real purpose or true faith –
to believe that something
‘other’,
external,
or
majestic
awaits…
but in nothing we trust
yet, cry blame for our fate –
each a different monologue of the same hate;
the same distracting soul state;
the same periodic and prolific bait –
God would not want us, at any rate

It is here
in darkness, arms around each other’s back
that war hangs overhead in stasis,
circling, cycling on a track and
wearing thin our patience
while it leaks like yolk from all our cracks
(we watch it drip indifferently as we huddle tight within our pack)
S
I
L
E
N
T
L
Y
preparing
for the next surprise attack:
we, like wolves, insane
and seeing red with every flash –
our lonely pain inciting hunger,
our deep abyss as black

It is here
in this cosmic explosion,
and it is now just as it was then,
that peace is nought but a tragic parody
of the dreams of passing men,
and nothing changes but the theatre of stars
in lines, in queues, end to end,
enemy to friend to
ENEMY
for decades once again,
consuming pain like greed as our bellies all distend,
living every angle of the lie like it is money we MUST spend,
the broken tales of each of us
portending, true, our end;
dangling one more burden
like a dog-tag for a past we’ve penned
at rest beneath a headstone
in a yard of human bookends

© Tamara Natividad
www.pisceanesque.com
Written 14 April, 2017

Over and over,
this smooth sound is going through one
ear and the other, the settle sound
of the rushing of blood
flowing through my ever shedding,
ever alleviating body, by nature? NO.
Still accompanied by the "truth," my human
parts being made without molded clay,
all of them free now, a part of something many
find "naughty."
You can find similarities in the mountains,
in the various hills arches, like the back, the neck,
the lift of the full volume of your chest,
You reach for the toothbrush, the comb,
ashamed; your hair in tangles, of the teeth that decay,
though one time you shall see how the
chest is so filled with pain. Nevermind.
We all don't care about that pain until it happens that
eventual day. This human body made "without perfections,"
it continues to smell, to pleasure or suffer, to be hungry,
to find itself wrapped up in it's sole need for sex.
We must remember to be clean for inspections.
No exceptions, no matter what is being said.
It will keep clawing, keep scratching, until it finds it's
way out, once it escapes it's metal cage.

He came back to me in vicious cycles
He knew where I lived, and where I learned
No matter how many times I screamed at the top of my lungs in his face that his power was useless,
My screams only tightened his grip on my throat
I knew I couldn't be free
I had to end the vicious cycle

-E (c) 2017

Vicious Cycles is my concept for a book that I intend on writing related to the abuse that my ex-boyfriend inflicted upon me. It's not even remotely close to being done, or even being formed. These are the premature sketches of what is to hopefully come.
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