it has come to me that i have never truly known anyone.

speech comes through filters,
through carefully constructed creative collisions
and decisions on what words we should allow to
spill through those iron gates we call
lips.

the people i think i know the best -
the boy with crooked glasses who i can burst my heart upon
and trust him to bear the darkness with a cheery grin;
the man with a crooked bow tie who allows me to critique his jokes
as if they were works of art;
the person behind the stained computer screen i now work at
who takes in my streams of consciousness with a mind that
reads painlessly into them but will never quite understand -
are not the people that i know best.

those people are the ones typing at screens like mine;
those whom i have never spoken to and most likely never will;
those who look out at sunsets like the one i see through the library window and think,
'why can't i paint that with words?';
those who understand that words aren't a gateway to a person -
they are a rabbit-hole that hurries you down through analysis and
worry and
mistakes
into

cold hard truth.

and i realise as i sit here -
a battered blue folder and curling textbook piled next to my computer canvas,
a blue backpack deflated on the floor next to me,
freezing from lack of heating and lack of person -
that i do not know anyone better than

you.

Up in his attic, the astronomer observed both the heavens and the denizens. The celestial bodies overseeing both the miserable and the elated, without discrimination, nor with benevolence.

And the astronomer found that every night, he was not the only one observing the deep blue sea in the sky, admiring the bright jellyfish soaring slowly through the endless expanse. From hopeful young children to the sad war veteran, many people stared up at the night sky. The difference between him and them was that he studied the sky for a living, they studied it for life.

One night, the astronomer heard little whisps of a boy's hope. In that tiny yet significantly booming voice he asked, he pleaded, "Please cure my sadness". The astronomer looked down and in his yard was the malnourished looking boy. He couldn't have been no older than twelve but even so, he was wishing for happiness. They both admired the same star, away from the constellations, the smallest yet brightest. The most enduring, yet the least impressive. The perfect definition for a lucky star.

• \/\/\/ • \/\/\/ • \/\/\/ • \/\/\/

Down inside the dumpster, the boy hid. It smelled like what he thought the dead smelled like after several days of rotting without enough love. It was appropriate. The people who sent him out both declared him dead and unlovable.

Yet he was alive, in the garbage. Yet he felt warm, in that forgotten place. He felt grateful, yet hungry.

flash bump crash

The boy would peek out from his smelly castle, and found fresh food and clean clothes. There was naught but a note, *"From your lucky star"

I Am So Grateful [Anybody Reads This Stuff]



I am so grateful anybody reads this stuff.

Exasperated that most others don’t.

And even with an inner miff

I carry on, pushed by an inner drift,

(some would add an inner gift)

Ambition not my motivation.



A brainstorm popping from wherever popping up pops up from.

You will recall it’s happened to you all;

You know, thoughts over which you’d no control.

And yet you thought them, acted out on

Drives beyond what’s called

Free will.



So, am I grateful or detached?

Dispassionate, disinterested, crosshatched?

Standing alone from strength

Yet obstinate from weakness’ lack of confidence.

I’m sure of this:  the length

Of life that’s left to me,

I will persist in poetry.

(One must

When it lies in the guts)

Tampering with syntax, spelling, yummy slang,

Choice aesthetics in good taste/

Choices ****** and a waste;

Writing with a rhythmic sense,

Caring very much for tense,

But not for meters recherché;

I, utmost mystic and most earthy:

Quelle dichotomy!

Hypocrisy?  No, contrast only!



I am grateful for and to the one

That read Ms Corwin.



I Am So Grateful 11.14.2017

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative; I Is Always We Is You;

Arlene Corwin

My life seems to be frozen in time.
Waiting for the sun, but it no longer shines.
Nothing ever changes. It all stays the same.
Searching for the happiness that I want to gain.
Everyone else is moving ahead.
But all I can do is lay here in bed.
People, their lives, their friends, and their luck.
I'm going nowhere. I seem to be stuck. Some tend to think that my life is quite good.
I don't agree, but maybe I should. Plebeian types have to live on the streets. While I sleep at home, tucked away in my sheets.
I shouldn't complain but it's become very hard, To enjoy life's small moments.
I'm internally scarred.
My life isn't bad. It's just somewhat tougher,
than the people I know, that's  because I do suffer.
It was never my purpose to bask in my pity.
I just needed to express my deep pain subsequently.

And just because he didn't know what it was
that doesn't mean he never felt it
He'll remember it for the rest of his life
He'll get glimpses of it in people he falls in love with
Otherwise he won't fall in love
I hope his heart doesn't sink at the thought
I hope the nostalgia that comes with it makes him smile
God, I wish him so much happiness
He saved me from myself
He was the idea of a God come true
He denied me what I wanted, knowing
it was not what I needed
I will forever be grateful for the stars that brought us together
and pulled us apart when we got too close
Now I know when to set my heart free
and when to simply let it be
God bless his soul and those of the hearts that recognise his beauty