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Mahogany separates me from the earth.
The world is quiet in this dull dark dark.
So I wait for the end to begin.
I wait for my life to finally end.

I linger in a mist hidden in an abyss.
Still sitting in wait for the deadliest bliss.
I'm happy now or atleast I think I am.
It's hard to know for sure something you haven't felt before.

So I go back and forth trying to figure myself out.
It doesn't work now I'm more confused then before.
Why does life begin only to come to an awful end.
This circle we live in is trully pointless.

Now all that brightens my day is the crimson liquid from my veins.
It flows then slowly makes me whole.
In death I trully fill my soul.
In pain I find my only pleasure.

Darkness.
That's all I see now.
It welcomes me and holds snuggly.
In it's embrace I feel the warmth of a friend.

A friend.
What did that ever mean.
They came, went and never stayed.
Surely if others had them then I was at fault.

A dark cloud rumages around my mind.
It whispers death into my head.
I try to breathe but don't have breath.
I dream of death.

There is something wrong with me.
I crave the night and hide from the light.
I am all that is wrong in the world.
So in compassion I take myself from this life.
Please read my ****** poems
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 12/2/2019

I miss these people: simple and direct,
the green and blue open gate of the lowlands,
the majesty of generations, a real chamber,
conversations around the table, what's new in the village:
that Johnny is doing well, that he was lucky,
even though he has never been a top student in geography,
that Mary has a husband who loves and respects her,
for he knows that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover,
that a kind heart is a real treasure.
It should be taught at home from an early age
that there's a place above the door where Christ on a wooden cross
is waiting suffering, patient - he doesn't complain
that every day he has to see that it's not easy here
- everyone shall get as much as in the will
all deeds weigh on the scale, and the clock
counts the days and hours and works evenly:
sometimes he would like to slow down the heart of the machinery,
but the big hand is constantly urging the small one
oh, how can a whole comprise in one life,
can you excuse yourself, divide into smaller pieces?
- you need to be a human and to be cheerful in your life.

Wieslaw Musialowski 08/12/2017
Colm Nov 2019
When I used to think about you
It was was with the warmth and intrigue of a friendly fireplace
The distant respect of a nightlong star in the bright sky
But now it is only the cold ash and glowing cloud
Which consumes my night in the direction of you
For you are no longer in mind of mine
And I am no longer am to you
Memories do fade. Thank God. LOL.

From the Midnight Wood Series
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2019
yes, only the paper will listen when
called upon
for what is a clean sheet but only our reflection
human

it:
crinkles
wrinkles
folds and bends
yellows with old age,
can always be changed
and always constant if unaltered

it:
speaks in words
embraced with lip kisses
can be cherished
can be destroyed
ashes to ashes
just like a human

print this poem:
place it in your everyday purse
of all things valued, kept upon
your person, close by
for comfort
for reflection
amidst the haste

the paper preserves:
your glory
your memory
your secreted confessions,
an exposure of your nakedness
your innermost outermost

the paper is skin:
can be scarred
held close by
shelved to be avoided
shed cells, store cells,
can be blood stained
can keep lipstick witness
dry tears, elicit tears

when we pass:
we leave behind
progeny
objects of valuable
meaningful to our unique
and papers

papers:
of legitimacy
of illegitimacy
of recollections
future predictions
remnants scraps
full books
our product
on this earth

the paper always listens,
patiently awaits our impatience
our truest friend, confidante
who can be confidently be trusted to
reveal our confidences

the clean sheet listens
as we part with thoughts
that can only be entrusted
to ourselves, our limbs
our entirety castoff
our entirety sustained


3:47am 11/29/19
Bryce Nov 2019
Rumi was a great man,

But as the fire that burns in but one hearth,

The Gala Hall remains damp and cold.
zz Nov 2019
In the darkest hour
Just before the dawn
My mind goes wild
Flies far away
Above the sky

Where my fingertips tickle
The little hairs on your neck
Where your smiling eyes
Read me between the lines

In that special place
Over the clouds
You wait for me

I believe

The same way I wait here
For you
To arrive
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