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This obsolete word- love;
in its pathetic love passions; - a lover’s promise
to do better– is a sorrow for a morrow. Digging in
your heart to express jealous feelings- love has just caved
in; loving one from the very pits of their own darkness.
Love is beauty, but also promises probable harshness.

In the letter ‘L’-
is longing, but also many let downs.
‘O’ – openness to broad communication; also the
opportunity to opposing standards. The rest of the letters
are blurred- as to why you won’t see me express them well.

Of cos, one should be sentimental;
still the mental response of love- gives tears;
of a heart building up a great sentinel…
Jeremy Betts May 21
I don't deserve her
She deserves better
Didn't know you could experience a record skip with a paperback chapter
Forever risking this status of together

Thomas Harvey May 16
He wakes in the morning
Sore from all the years before
But he's still strong at his core
As life always proceeds without warning

This morning's no different
He gets his coffee and sits at the table
Looking out the window, admiring the horses in the stable
Though he's at the age where he feels indifferent

Later on in the day he gets moving
For a dead man is a lazy man
He knows long ago he would have ran
But these days he’s bound to keep improving

A man that should be full of sorrow
He finds a way to enjoy the moment
Grief to him is a worthy opponent
As he looks forward to each tomorrow

The trick is locked away in his mind
He figured it out long ago
Back when he let go of his ego
The trick is to start with what you want to find
Zywa May 5
Home is: where you live.

We are not from a country --

but from our childhood.
"On n'est pas d'un pays, on est de son enfance" ("We are not from a country, we are from our childhood", René Frégni, 2016, in the poetic short story collection "Je me souviens de tous vos rêves" ["I remember all your dreams"])

Film "Interdit aux chiens et aux Italiens" ("No Dogs or Italians Allowed", 2022, Alain Ughetto)

Collection "Being my own museum"
David Cunha Feb 10
Vibrant despair blowing out like sand paper from the soul
Dreams of colour
Fearless hallucination of love
for the World

A stream of consciousness so pure and thick
like a raw gem
like a river
like a marching bull
Painfully fulfilling me full

I could run for miles if I had the Sea to sightsee
if I had the Sun gleaming on me
if I had your figure in memory
even if I had nothing and wasn't meant to be

A fuel that bursts my pupils into a huge void
and so
a rocket to the Moon and my hands on this keyboard
setting the stage for another round

I cannot be stopped, I can only be blunt
I can only do it
I can only run
Veins bulk in a steaming rush
and thus time disappears like a fog

I am lucky I am here
- David Cunha
february 10, 2024
5:16 a.m.
Zywa Feb 1
Today, too much is

happening, I must pretend --

it is a story.
Novel "Buitenstaanders" ("Outsiders", 1983, Renate Dorrestein), § 3

Collection "Truder"
Zywa Feb 1
Afterwards it is

only vague what it was like:

a passion, a pain.
Novel "Buiten is het maandag" ("Outside, it's Monday", 2003, J. Bernlef), § 8-1

Collection "Over"
Spicy Digits Jan 29
For gods' sake,
Life, meet Weird.
Weird is your breath
And Weird your legacy.
Alas, You can't be alive
If You don't let Weird free.
Zywa Jan 20
End of the story,

because she says the sentence:

But I did not cry.
Novella "De grote wereld" ("The upper world", 2006, Arthur Japin), § 9

Collection "Being my own museum"
I want to experience the world
But I don't want the world to see me,
I don't want to touch it,

I want to know the whole of the world
and the whole world to know of me,
Without it really knowing me at all,

I want to have it
without it being had,
And love it,
Though I'm in denial that it could feel so
Or I could be
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