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Osiria Melody Mar 20
Reassuring flames of warmth mitigate his loneliness from time to time, but not enough to completely eradicate the monotony of his life
Ah yes, the fireside is where he always retreats to, a receptive listener that never shuts him out for his delusional utterances or fluctuating mood swings

Beyond these imprisoning walls of modern Victorian beauty,
He yearns for the freedom of ingratiating himself as a "normal" individual
What constitutes normal is not within his reach, for he was brought up with the concept that wealth is the ultimate authority

Therefore, he indulges in this hedonistic lifestyle for twenty-five years, a handsome young man who did not have to give a single **** about being self-sufficient
You see, this young man knew that deep within his selfishness, that he was not a man

He is like a boy
A reclusive, insolent, boy

Heh, but can you blame him?
Yes, just like the crackle and tackle of the glaringly-blinding flames,
He snaps, "**** it. It's all or nothing."
He packs his amenities and boards his private jet of luxury into oblivion to accomplish something

What had transpired to shift his stubborn heart?
He grew weary of the same old, same stone, fireside

He is a man
A new reflection of the blurry mirror that he once was



Melody
3/20/19
I knew that I had to write this piece when an image of a fireside burned into my mind.
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
On the creaking wooden chair in the corner, hanging on the scaffold, in the circular mirror, distorted and twisted and folding. It stands in the shadows. It lurks in the school playground while parents wait for their children, it’s a runaway train, and it’s the ink streaming down the window pane, it’s the clock melting inwards.
its golden fluidity and baby blue subtleties.
It’s the reason why you wake in the middle of the night,
gasping into darkness and grappling with loose ends... it was just a dream.
The reason you turn a corner just to look back behind you, why you double-take in the mirror, question where did I go?
Looking at nothing, staring into the bleak dark, it lurks. Awaits.
It waits in the form of a child holding a red balloon, staring into our blind spots.
Like shadows, when the sun rotates away from behind the playground wall you know, just then, now, in that full circle...
it’s about to run out.
You bend over backwards to relate to the moonlight dancing on the floor of its own reflections. It shows itself on beer bottles from better nights, you cross one leg over the other, position yourself,
folded linen.
Rushing to endless deadlines for nowhere o’clock, last call for the runaway train, struggling with human concepts.
You’re simply a sum of parts: an addition of flesh, limbs, old and broken battered bones, blind spots.
All the places you can’t see, can’t feel, can’t reach.
Loose ends meet themselves in the corner of that same old dusty room,
the folded linen crumples to the floor,

the red balloon bursts.
Another April 2015 one
Michael Oct 2018
We fight with all we have,
We lose the things that we never had.
Life is one submission after another,
We aim for one, but achieve the other.
We are all here standing,
Ready to take our number,
Completely unaware the we are all going under.
The will to fight is nothing but illusion,
The want to continue is born of confusion.
We all stand strong,
Yet in the end we fold.
We all talk a big talk,
But only our words are bold.
We can give up now,
And be forever content.
Or we can continue,
And be further broken and bent.
Are we broken, or are we beaten? Or are we really never the champion to begin with?
Rohan Press Jun 2018
you fold
blankets into ribbons of
light

(she folds
stars like spiderwebs

     —
to catch you.
i wish i didn't miss you
schuyler Jun 2018
you will find me in
the scratching between chord progressions;
permutations curving and
contouring your hands,
the tips of your fingers press and release
and i fold into the frets.
Dawn Jupiter Apr 2018
jasmine jostles
leaves fold

I watch

steel and glass contain
assuaged by structure

the wind blows
but not here
mint Feb 2018
i so desperately want to fold into myself
want to burn myself and make something of the ash
i feel like a great almost completed puzzle
expansive and vast
dull pieces
but still connected
now one piece has been taken from me and has been replaced
replaced by a misshapen mess in the guise a puzzle piece
and as i desperately try to shove it in its previous spot
i scream
and push my hands across the table
disconnecting the pieces in my plight

i can never be complete again
i’ve changed so much since last year. I dont even recognize my own thoughts anymore.
Beau Grey Nov 2016
I make a lot of marks.
I'm good at making marks.
On paper.
On canvas.
On my skin.
I'm one of those people that folds the pages of a book.
(I hate those people too)
I searched for my place in this world
but it only confused me further.
So I decided to etch my own place.
Luckily,
I'm good at making marks.
I've made a lot of marks.
As she
was nigh
round neighborhood
that she
wrought of
her social
discourse to
flaunt her
reflection with
nowhere sacred
only would
entail generation
of clout
as her
vale would
finally clot
her kind,
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