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L May 28
Journal entry
May 7, xxxx

She knows I love her, my creature. Of course she does.
There are still secrets between us; there might always be. We haven't decided.
You see, some lovers- they reach a point- where they dance that silent dance, and wordlessly through looks and smiles, will decide that some secrets will always be secrets. Others say everything, and find strength in doing so. We're not there yet. And so, some things remain unspoken.

A secret I keep from her now is- I know what she is, yes, but I can't help but think of her as the opposite sometimes. A thing not with dove wings and a halo, like the paintings, but a creature with thick, rubbery wings. Heavy horns sitting on her head. There is something uniquely dark about her.

There is so much I still don't know. There is a heaven, is what she's told me. It isn't as beautiful as you think, she says. When I ask her if there is a God, she looks away. And I know there is something in my question that brings her pain. She has never answered the question.

She still walks to her lake. (Yes- it's hers now.) She visits it often.
She does it at night, when I'm asleep. But I wake easily in her presence. I've caught her walking towards the wood. I know it's the lake she goes to. It must be. I've never followed her.

She thinks she hides it well. But I can tell there is a rage. You visit your lake in secret, and what would you have to hide, if not the fact that over there you must be inflicting yourself with some violent ritual. Something I should not see. You must have some kind of terrible thing inside of you. Divine grief, or envy, something that must be gnawing at your heart. I can see it in your eyes.

Why won't she tell me? I worry sometimes that I'll never be allowed to help her. I suffer with these thoughts, and she doesn't say a thing.

There are silences like arrows, aimed at you, meant to **** you. Meant to maim the heart. But not hers.
Her silence is the kind that hurts to look at, because you know it isn't a choice. The more I **** the more her throat seems to tighten. It's as if she wants to tell you everything, but physically can't. As if telling you was an arrow. As if telling you her truths and her fears would

  **** her


I want to know why she goes to the lake, I do. I want to know what happened before. What is God to you, what has he done? Tell me please, even if I am not enough, even if I am just the rabbit you tell your sorrows to. I may be from another world, I may be the animal unable to ever understand your pain, but my ears are long and my eyes are big and I will listen and watch you intently. I love you.

Sometimes I think I'm too small. How could a thing like you choose a thing like me? The thought used to **** me. I'm learning not to spiral. Even if you won't help me. I have to stay strong. I have to show patience.
Yes, if she wants to keep her secrets, then keep her secrets she must. I worry about her, but what can I do. I can only be patient. I can only do what I can. I can only love her until she decides to bloom before me.

My angel who howls by the moonlit lake.
I will wait for you.
Àŧùl May 14
I survived a life-threatening,
Coma-inducing & memory-debilating
High-speed road accident in May ‘10.
I survived COVID12,
The SARS-COV12.
Now I even survived COVID19.
I, howsoever, know what I am.
I am a mortal. Perishable.
My HP Poem #1929
©Atul Kaushal
Jamesb Apr 8
It's funny how hospitals,
Whence one goes to heal
Or die,
Focus ones mind upon
Profound things,

Life and death for sure
But also the life that's been lived
The life being lived,
Being dead and also
The process of dying,

I do not wish to die
In a hospital ward,
I have seen this and
I have heard it
And it is horrid,

No,
Let me pass good Lord
In the arms of a beautiful woman,
Or the embrace of a wooden boat,
With sails full and ocean spray
All about me,

Let me die astride a galloping horse,
Or in the metal clashing of swords,
The crack and ping of an airsoft war
Or the twang and thud of archery,

Let me pass on a zip wire Lord,
With the scream of a block
In my ears,
Or wining and dining
With my loved ones,

Any of these things Lord will do,
Or anything else the same,
But let me die while living Lord,
Not on a hospital ward
In shame
Some musings while waiting on test results...
Ordinary mortal
Ordinary show
Don't miss me
Let me go
My dear friends
My dear foes
Don't miss me
Let me go
Ordinary mortal
Ordinary show
Don't waste
Your precious tears
As I go
Ordinary mortal
Ordinary show
Don't miss me
Let me go
Look around
So many gems
Take care of them
This dry stem
Belongs to urn
Don't miss me
Let me go
annh Mar 10
I am not my words,
Nor am I the letters from which they are formed;
I am a beating drum,
A cacophony, a riot keeping pace with mortal time;
Spinning order thriftily,
So as not to cheapen the divinely proclaimed language of the soul.

‘Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.’
- T. S. Eliot
No one, can stop My Tears
and make them....Disappear.
Coz each time one Falls,
another is set to Appear.
There are Tears I've bottled,
deep down in My Soul.
It's about My Broken Love,
that went down a ****** Hole.
The moments We spent,
come flashing back at Me.
My Life can never be like,
the Waves that roar at Sea.
So I go about fixing things,
by writing a few Broken Rhymes.
Coz no mortal has gone back
and brought back good old Times.
Ken Pepiton Feb 26
We are the result of all we can imagine came before us,
in this bubble
of being we find our selves staring back
into from
the abyss, where luck is not a factor.
{from the movie}
nay, from Nietzsche, the drinking game
- on
- each time one looks into the abyss
- the abyss looks back, so luck is not a factor

sure. that makes perfectible sense, there's a signal,
a fluctuation,
measure it, man, and tell us all you know it means.

Ferlinghetti died yesterday, I could have known him,
if I'd tried.
I did not care for his view of truth. But he was young,
last time I took him serious.
I notice,
I don't care for my view of truth at that age.
But did you see him in the Last Waltz,
he was unmused, I felt bad for him.

And now he's dead and being reread. That's pretty cool.
For Christmas in 1964, I was given "The Secret Meaning of Things." I think it scarred me. I know it scared me... is this true... no, but I had to prove it myself... imagine dying after being a famous poet in the 20th century...
old willow Feb 9
In life, I cross with red dust.
We are blades of grass, amidst war, we sway.
Visited by lustful desire, we succumb to its whisper.
Should I fight my desire?
Visited by sad news, we succumb to despair.
Should I fight my desire?
Mortal dust continue to drift, landing on my frugal body.
In the end, let them all come, greet them as sire.
Succumb to lust, to grief, to joy, to pleasure,
But let my heart abide - pay red dust no heed.
old willow Feb 8
I dwell in this vast world.
Seeing loved one's passing through life.
Believe that my heart can soar above heaven.
Believed that my heart transcend heaven,
Yanking the soul of my people away,
Place them back on earth.
If my heart still lingers on earth,
How could I soar nine heavens above?
If my heart is above heaven,
Why would my heart desire mortal dust below?
Dust to dust, mortal dies,
let begone bygone, cleaning the dust off myself.
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