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Bohemian Feb 18
Before the day when my mind flickers
Before the night when fear grabs my wrist
Before the moment of emancipation

When I lose my sanity,
To the courageous fear beneath the beds of my heart.
When the flood comes in dark,
And the moon ditches without leaving a mark.
I sink and sink.

The way I feel possessed,
The way mad I am,
The way I know not about my constancy.

I know I shall stumble,
I know I may fall,
Amid this,
This which is no revelry.
Carter Jan 30
A flickering lamp post,
A quivering spotlight,
Illuminating two souls sparring in the night.
Time stands with him as she walks.

The tragedy of loving.

Is that simply being in love,
Isn’t a good reason for two people to be together.
Peace with her was worth the war,
And he gave her pieces he never gave himself.

The tragedy of loving.

A faded memory of what once was,
But the feelings still etched on his skin with fresh ink.
He will feel those for the remainder of his life,
Even though she won’t be apart of it.
DeAnn Apr 2017
Where is my light?
I seek it
reach for it
crave it
But the light is only a candle
It flickers
is unpredictable
how can i be a light when I have no light for myself?
My doubt presses in
My patience grows thin
There seems to be darkness all around me
Yet, there is a fire in me
I have found my light

but how long will it flicker?
Will it ever go out?
Enola Cabrera May 2016
As still as a flame in the wind was our relationship
Wild, Deranged, a Soft dance
Flickering in and out of existence
5000 years ago
the shamans and the medicine workers looked into the fire

they saw me and you
you and I
They saw us

They called us gods

smoking cigarettes
They thought we breathed fire

getting in and out of cars, trains, and planes
They thought we could move between the realms of living and dead

using computers,
watching tv,
talking on cellphones
They thought limit was the thing not within our understanding

the fire of the future showed them
what they thought were gods
they couldn't hear our flaws
They couldn't smell our decay

Through the fire
They saw gods

in the mirror
most only see rot

in the mirror
most can't see past misplaced shame.

ⓒ Christopher F. Brown  2015
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
                                                                                 And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
                                                                                                              like a shank of butcher's meat,
                                                                                                                        your dorcel fin peaks                                                                                                         through the sand where my toes peak                                                                       through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
                                                                                                   I take photos, make reservations, and
                                                                                       even after I'm canceled on for walking around
                                                              downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
              left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry:                                                                                                                                                 Stardom.

                                                                                                I don't have room for you in the corners.

                                                                                                The corners of this room, padded walls,
                                                                                           shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
                                               of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
                                                                                                                in the specks of light flicking
                                                                                                  out of the horizon like a carousel ride
                                                                                                                              around and around.

                                                                                        I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.

                                                                                                                 If you want to see me spring,
                                   like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
                                                                                                     I observe you through a kaleidoscope                                                                                                                   of dexedrine and morphine.
                                                                                              Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
                                                            in alien-green *******, at that party in the abandoned firehouse
                                                                            on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that

                                                                                                (a daydream with sawing you called me)

                                                                                             sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
Joseph Bruin Mar 2013
Flickering headlights
Meeting my flickering glance.
Which will burn out first?

— The End —