not even overlapping
like a pinky swear,
palms down on the table --
just the reach of a second hand,
his outside edge
for mine.

They throw the sand
And nothing more tomorrow
They never age, just
Crystal and dark lines
A blossom round the ankle
To protect the virtue cure
Fallen, wilted
All that was burned
A year in wisdom, shaken down
A year of silence, full of sound
Walk again into the water
Call a city, can't be seen
Artists of elaboration
They never cry, only
Ice and shattered time
A ship of a feather, to sail the seas
Dropped by a miserable being
Never again returned to the sky
They'll fall instead

Who are you? Are you an angel?

Parts of me are leaking, spilling onto the floor like dark ink.
Those that can see avoid it like the Black Death.
Maybe they’re the clever ones.

But I see you, your hands stained dark as night.
The brightness in your eyes is the only light I can see; a beacon.

I watch as your tinted hands wrap around my heart.
At first, I misunderstand. Think the light is a twinkle when it is a glint.

And then you squeeze.

Sarah has blonde hair
It makes her really proud
She thinks everyone should care
So she talks about it lots- and loud

Emma has brown hair
But that doesn't make her flattered
Why expect people to stop and stare
When she had no choice in the matter?

One day Sarah went and told Emma
"You should treat me special."
"Why," she asked, "what's the dilemma?"
"Well, you have more potential."

Emma didn't see how, and that had made her blue.
Sarah said "More people have brown hair than blonde,"
Emma said "Well yes, i guess that's true."
Emma knew that didn't make sense, but what could she do?
Everyone around said Sarah was right, so Emma just said that, too.

Emerald 3d

eviscerated winter the snowflakes are
peculator seraph with tragic vanilla cartridge
a plump bitterness deprived of repentance fractures
never noticing the damage morbid or rebirth to nature frivolity 'sugar starved volatile
third-degree pollen chronicled to crucible
arbitray's appanage
dandelion parentheses' that acrylic paints
delicate delusional myriads by red runes
inside a seashell purlieu to pixilated caverns
lesioned for red gauzes that live within
an exploitation of continental cadre
and pandemoniums

- G

"I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity." - Edgar Allen Poe
alex 4d

i was underwater.
swimming with the fishes
with the stories
of names i’ll never
quite be able to place
and then you dove in with me
just as i was wading to the edge.
you swam around the room
a rainbow trout
amidst schools of minnows
i love them all
but you’re just such a pretty color.

i let my feet dangle in the water
as you kept diving deeper
you’d look at me
from across the sea
send a wave toward my shore
i feel it crashing into me even now.

standing beside me
both of us swimming in
different depths
you looked right into my eyes.
i knew if i just held you there
for a little longer.
just a little.
i felt like the moon
dragging you toward me

i swear to god you almost kissed me.
i swear to god i would have let you.

k. i went to a party and i wish i would have held your gaze a little longer. i know you would have done it.

I try to fill myself with sunshine
So that I have no time to mourn
The rain,

I avoid the puddles,
The icy droplets
That nestle in my clothes
And soak the soul
Until it can no longer breathe.

I prefer to bathe in light,
To wrap myself in radiance
That pierces the skin
And sets my body on fire
Where all insecurities will succumb
To the flames.

© L.J. Chaplin

we're off to see the wizard
in a yellow submarine
not even a road trip
coz i live between the be
and not to be.

lives in the roots of my trees

but for me
osmosis works in reverse
every time i look down
they do an ivory dance around,
roots to the power of
even more brave

and i live between the be
and not to be.


keep your enemies closer,
don't trust.
the end justifies the means
and don't trust.
never trust.

who jackhammered the message
into my brain
again and again
so that i never
got the taste of sane?

courage lives
in the roots of my trees.

but that whole community is willing
to go on vacation

if they hear the perfect pitch of a divining rod
in the hands
of a true friend.

i live between the be
and not to be.

time is like the shatter of glass
swallowed by the hiss of steam
on some ancient old train.
but forward.

i am nothing,
naked and unnatured
fruit in the gardens on the road to strange.

time is like
a coat made out of
every great taste
you ever had.

put it on,
and my fruit fall upward onto the tree.
from goth maidens, they
lose their deep purple metallic death
and colour bright yellow into a walk of sunrise
without shame.

(how do i take time
without stealing?
how do i steal time
and not get caught?

just take it.
breathe deep.
and kickstart the roots of my trees.)

i live.
to be.

A Spring soul glows and knows firmly its purpose
Since it is anchored in the knowledge that its light is contagious, the soul floats, free of burdens to weigh it down
A Spring soul soars and ignores any harmful resistance, escaping the ill-tempered storm by learning to find refuge in the hearts of those who need its warm and comforting temperament.

A Summer soul radiates its emotions with an energetic power
The spark that accompanies this soul tells a riveting tale of adventurous elegance but does not use words
A Summer soul captures the playful prestige of the sun with glinting eyes that invite all those who gaze upon it to experience the blazing emotions with which it surrounds itself.

An Autumn soul wavers from shrill heights to profound depths
It is guided by the wind on which it rides, wondering if it is actually travelling or if it is always falling straight down
An Autumn soul convinces those who may think themselves strangers to become significant and familiar through the common goal they each carry to find shelter from the inevitable chill.

A Winter soul emanates an ethereal beauty, the frigid ice being capable of so much more disaster and destruction than it would appear upon fleeting inspection of the sparkling expanse.
A Winter soul intrigues any passerby to look beyond the apparent wasteland of snow and ice into the depths where it has found that it only desires to find another whose demons will dance well with theirs.

Our love was like a tablecloth.
White, pleated, and stuffed away for special occasions.
You wouldn't let me take it out, half the time.
I'm clumsy, and you didn't want me to paint it red.
Just let it's gleaming brightness adorn our table.
But keep it hidden.
As for special occasions, I can name three:

One-- The day I met you, while the flowers bloomed outside.

Two-- When we walked beneath the city lights, all in the dark of night.

Three-- The day you left, disappeared from my sight.

So today I'll bring it out...
That white pleated tablecloth,
You're not here, so I guess, I'll paint it red.

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