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Toxic yeti Mar 2019
As I got to the dietitian
I go through a summer
Forest
Full of oranges
Then
As I get caught
In the forest
A lady with oranges in her hair
Comes
Gives me an orange
And says.
“This may help you!”
Ian Mar 2019
A story of love aged with time,
Enveloped and inmortalized in joyous rhyme.

There once was a fae guided by the Sun,
Showing the way, he need only follow and run.

Kept under close watch by a vigilant eye,
The fae boy felt that all must be ary.

The world the sun showed him he was sure,
Must be perfect, whole, and infinitely pure.

But hardly was that dream so true,
And with each moment, the sun's fervor grew.

So demanding and resentful were the Sun's ways,
The boy cursed with scorching, destructive days.

But his will persisted, for he knew no other,
Stranded and tired, trading loneliness to suffer.

One evening he pondered on what to do,
Escape back to suffering alone, but where to go?

Then, with the gift of the sunset all was clear,
For what came after was what he knew to hold dear.

Before the fae arose the shimmering Moon,
His eyes fixated on such a dizzying boon.

The Moon wrapped him in bright, soft light,
Assuring the fae that now all would be right.

He felt comfort in the welcoming glow,
At last a gentle soul wanting to see him grow!

The fae openly proclaimed his adoration,
The Moon's presence the source of his frantic creation.

Weaving words of passion and desire,
Finally free of the past destructive mire.

Never once moving in such a flurry,
Desperate to prove his love, but he needn't worry.

The Moon enamored with him for what he was,
And valued him for all that he does.

With guiding light and a glowing heart,
The fae boy knew they'd never want to be apart.
Zywa Mar 2019
Love does not have to be
lovely all the time, they say
if you keep rough and soft
balanced
and use your imagination

We do it
we love
fantastic films
with a little horror
deep gorges, high mountains
the pleasant begging
for more more, for
a happy ending

We are nice and easy
they say, and we are
but at home, we play
like falling angels
nice and rough
Introduction to “Proud Mary” (1968, John Fogerty) and “River deep, mountain high” (1966, Jeff Barry & Ellie Greenwich & Phil Spector) by Tina Turner in 1985

Collection “Freend”
winter Mar 2019
i wished to be whimsical
but my words remained bitter
a cold, guttural stinging
to be everything was to dream
to have something to prove
to love and be loved
i still cannot tell whether or not
it is greater to live in the fantasy
to wake and lift into your mind
to blur your vision, finding any reason
any reason by any means
to wake at all
is it better for one to wake if everyday
they have to envision candy-canes
as the railing on their staircase
if they insist on their futures
or pray to their God
"Don't let me suffer"
is it better for one to wake if everyday
they dye their hair a new colour
just to stop thinking of how they will rot
and how it will smell
and how long it will take
to completely crumble
so deep into the soil that the bone dissolves
do these thoughts make people "open"?
knowledgeable?
sentimental?
wise?
even if, every morning, it may as well nearly cost them their lives?
how severely should truth be praised?
do not medicate me for i can alter my vision
if it takes a fantasy to let me be real
then god bathe and drown me
in the worst of whimsicalities
btp Mar 2019
Maybe I just need someone to feel what I feel
If you do, my heart you can steal
I'll spin my web on a hollow reel
Better myself, for you I would kneel

For you I'd become unbreakable
With you I can feel stable
And you might feel like a fable
But I know you're there
Even if I don't know where
zee Mar 2019
It was intensity in the eyes of the beast
With his romanticisms and optimism ceased
Gashes, cut bottomless within his soul
Who, would possibly aid him as a whole?

The king who had executed blasphemous quantities of sins
And pride fully worn, his foe's skins.
Could not be comprehended and eased after all
He lived to stalk, persecute and brawl

For behind all the masquerades and shells he wore
It was against himself, that he always swore
At the break of dawn, he held a face
In the midst of darkness, he could not sense, embrace

A battle came forging against him, he felt grim
Though it was not his form which was to be dithering, limb by limb
It was his trepidation, his need to stop his despair
Oh, how he craved to vanish into thin air

For he realized that the only thing meaningful to him now
Was for his annihilating words, to be a vow
A vow to soon meet, the eternal light alas
For his heart had become, into brittle glass

The light was his way out
To permit him, of his emotive drought
And so, as the stars blazed up in the sky’s high
So did the tears, imploring, to be let out in both his eye

How far more, would he suffer?
How much longer, did he have to be a bluffer?
The possibility of freedom, is all that made him wait
Little did he distinguish he was just another prisoner in the chambers, of fate.
Ethyl Mar 2019
Chasing fallen Aspen trees
Screaming out into the breeze
Running, running, can’t catch me
Out here in the Ashen trees

Ashes of the Aspen trees
Burnt down beauty,
No matter to me
If you call out
They’ll answer thee
Fairies once in Aspen trees

Falling, falling,
Fallen leaves
Spinning off along the breeze
Spiraling onto the ground
Make sure not to make a sound

Summon spirits in the trees
Reach your hand out to thee
A touch of faith,
It’s time to leave

The Fairies’ dying Aspen Trees
Again, just from a story of mine
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