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How many poems about broken people will I write
Before I realize that I, too, am fragmented.
Equally, if not more liable for the war zones I have called love.
Lost Mar 23
I feel like there’s something dormant in me
That I can’t seem to wake up
But sometimes when you touch me
It’s like hitting my funny bone

I feel a turbulence
I feel a ghost
I feel something
Trying to fight
To be acknowledged

I’ve done so much recovering
I’ve come so far
I’ve fought so much
But here we are

In your bed
Curled up to the edge
You try to comfort me
But I’m not hearing it

What is it?
What is it?
What is it?
What’s wrong?

Why can’t I figure it out
And then move on?

I don’t understand
What the problem is
But I feel something
Occupying my head

It’s strange to feel full
When you haven’t ate
So why am I so upset
When I am somewhere so safe?

I don’t understand
I don’t understand
I tried writing that night
But I couldn’t understand

I picked up my phone
And stared at a blank note
I tried a few words
But only wrote,
“What’s wrong with me?”
And over I rolled

I went to the bathroom
I crawled out of my skin
My fist hit my thigh
But I don’t know why I did it

How infuriating
To feel so disturbed
And not know what it is
That’s making me hurt

I feel like there’s something
In the back of my head
Determined to pull me
Back down to the depths

I’ve recovered so much
I’ve put in the work
I have more to do
And there will always be more

I am at peace with that,
But for now I am upset
I feel like there’s screaming in my mind
But I can’t really hear it

All I hear tonight
Is static and clips
Little fragment
I am a tiny shard

I wake up tomorrow
I will wake up tomorrow
I wake up tomorrow
And tomorrow will come

Tomorrow
Today
Yesterday
Tomorrow

The days
happen
Happened
Happening

I happen all around them

I wonder when
I will wake up
Present?

Without one foot in tomorrow
Without one foot in yesterday
Without happening to fall
Somewhere in between

When will I wake up
Next to you
And feel again?

This numbness frightens me
You hit my funny bone
And it tingled
It reacted

But funny bones only feel funny
For a few moments in time
I’ve been reeling for days
And I feel like I’m fumbling around
Dancing around
The edge of something
B I G

Why can’t whatever it is
Just wake up
And let me feel it?
I am the experiment.
This is my place.
This is my role.
The drug paints hallucinations of meanings around each single of these empty words,
that are naked on a notepad but belong onto a colorful clustersheet,

pityfully fallacy!

Can we, the two of us,
find the meaning of rhymes in here together?
We can engine the searches, only if we want to;
and talking about principles:
Well,
most of it, it's ego ****, and I dare to write and spit on anything forbidding me my will I'm freely willingly willed to write
a *title now, within the flow, than out of it at given times, when it rims
and rhymes and Romes and rums.

*******,
let me write when I want to, not if you could to, how dare you, I'm sensible and easy to brittle, don't pressure me with principles, you son of a dissociative spine itch!


- We were derailing. And still are. Rhymes so easy, reasons so far. Words I delete will never teach me memoriance.
Two tasks,
can't comprehend this nonsense, I slide on the blade of sentences that split my own illusive walls of honour I enhanced -
throughout the conversation with each myotherselves, perhaps
in advance, far before you knew,
this
that's
choppy-chopped chown-chauwn-to-grid-cheese-strings
¿point of view?,
while I faithe for making sense with my course of understandnessless mess of a what's a

what-a hard digest.
~ Personally, I recommend
do not become this experiment.
Dah Jan 2020
1.
… from now on, a reshuffling of diction,
word-acrobatics, perspectives gleaming
with thought: somebody built an orange tree
against the other things around it, to devour
boiled eggs in the porcelain hand of a plate,
the convulsions of the world can only go
a short length, it’s a matter of …

… regression, like tumbling downstream
over the backs of boulders …  

2.
… near the end of his journey the man’s voice,
as dull as ashes, a cracked seed ready to burst,
declining through the dark, a short distance
to a wintry end: traveling alone to the bottom,
sound of his dusty age drawing in the earth
lying at the edge of bones: today, the light,
tomorrow the ledge: think lightning fast …

… his affliction is not pain but death: cold
at his feet, like frail children ...

3.
… even in the icy spring of March, your eyes
were the stars melting lingering snow: we lay
buried in the warm blood of naked bodies, like
refugees in a new land, and the wind that did
not reach us, and the ice that could not find us:
outside, the silent streets could hear thunder
beneath our blanket …

… ask me where she is, the one who ignored
my heart, who was gone by summer ...

======================================

from my unpublished manuscript: Fragmented

©dah / dahlusion 2019 all rights reserved

first published in Record Magazine
Dah Jan 2020
1.
the architecture of waves, pelicans in adagio
but a tempo slower, the silver-colored fish, streaks
of light, like conversations out of reach, counting
waves, the soft and hard ones …

the sun-reflected surface makes me sleepy
as if a hypnotist at work: my thoughts resisting
this sleep that feels like the final dust of
existence …

starfish ******* the life out of clams,
the weight of the ocean …

2.
the frail branches of an old tree, an old woman
an old dog, a city that’s outbuilding itself, straight
up from Hell, straight into the atmosphere, across
the sky, across the universe …

at sunset, the challenge the sun has to stay alive,
as if a magician at work: darkness falls, like the dead
flame of life, several seconds pass, then several more,
I collect the darkness …

time flies, like a harbinger of bad news, like
an awkward simile that needs explaining …

3.
of all of my loves, of those who were actually
lovers, either married or single, you were the one
who drew me in, against our will, both hearts fell,
bodies withered and ****** …

at sunrise everything reshaped, our bodies felt
alien to each other: nothing has changed but  
the distance between us, always these forbidden
remains …

how our voices grew hoarse, outside it was raining,
everything had rusted …

=========================================

from my unpublished manuscript: Fragmented

©dah / dahlusion 2019 all rights reserved

first published in Fishbowl Poetry, Germany
eleanor prince Dec 2019
In solitary spaces
I find parts noise hid
screaming simulacrum
in broken cobwebs

a life pending
in crevices
sensing
chill

broken
concepts
mantles for
ruptured elements
their soft core exposed

casualties of bloodied past
salvaged fragments
society's furnace
discarded

singing
synths
waiting
Cardboard-Jones Nov 2018
….
….
And it was real.

(Why?)

….I was missing.
I hear I was missing.
(You left the world you knew for me.)

Was it that easy?
….can't be real.
The way we grew….

I hear I was missing.
….I was missing.
(I needed your affection and your love.)

What did I do?
(Why did you leave?)
I wasn't ready for….

I shouldn't have promised…
(….I would have said yes.)
….asked for your hand.

You were a casualty...
(I need true emotion.)
Of my insecurity.
(….many ups and downs.
Why did you come here….?)

I was missing.
I hear I went missing.
(You went back to the world you knew.)
Now I can't sleep….

(Yes, it was real.)
And I never knew…
(You went missing.
...you were missing.)
I hate emotions.

Please….don't close it.
(….out of my driveway.
So many nights I cried…)

I hear I was missing.
I'm here, I'm not missing.
(He gives me affection and his love.)
….but this is real.
(It was….but no more….)

(He said we'll be married.
….we'll get married.)
I need you….I'm sorry...I left.
(Why….scared?)
I wasn't  real
And I never knew it.
….
….
….
(Now I can sleep.)
….
….
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