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Raven Feels Jan 17
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, best alone again:>

their tongues spoke in languages of dim black
not for the people, not for the universe, just for the humane lack
their mercuries slipped into a coma of grace
is it too much of an ask to grant a questioning face?
their secrets molded, intertwined, & folded
for the eyes to formulate the truth from the lie sorted
their breathes sent  beat to their hearts to syncopate that keeper
then feels out of their laces or not just them alone in the Ether
their dreams although vanished weren't a matter of none
for the hurt to be a double impressionist's helixed one
their souls craved for a carve of that humble form
so do they submit to rain & dance under the thundering storm?
cliché or not
somethings are left unsaid without a period dot
blunt or rude
better feel shame from faults than when ****
what does it mean, to be delicate's recipient ?
to be an exception to the head of a never lenient?
what does these ancient walls say?
if the colors of the face couldn't cover up before that end day?
a crime to deny them sensations
to get to know someone in six conversations

the sky was grey and i couldn't feel my body.
my head was heavier than suburban slammed doors,
and the presence of sidewalk strangers
sent trembles of panic through to my core.
my ears are already pierced,
but i winced at high school football whistles
and garbage trucks
and rattling engines
and raised voices.

do you remember the museum?
do you remember burying your head in your dad's shoulder
because the world they warned you about
was too grey for your hazel eyes and golden soul?

don't forget.
it is not a world you have to live in.
you must not find safety in greyness.
there is none for you there
you belong somewhere so much brighter
Zywa Nov 2021
In the museum, the wind blows
from everywhere to everywhere, like us
visitors from all over the world

We carry a culture web, nourish it
with the collections of the museums
which are larger than their buildings

We carry the art
with us, it is greater than we are
greater than our time and abode

We carry out the art
the history that connects us
and always does continue where it ends
Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam

Collection "The migration"
Raven Feels Jul 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, cold bot still bold:)

just a visit
lifts the limits
for the color of blood to become a stranger
now my hopes are all in danger
do I avoid the future be a savior?
do I souvenir the past a cinnamon flavor?
people you knew
not pictures the memory drew
like the bone failed it pains
to sustain
then in blink to be fractured drained
the mirror cries with me
but in my head laughs and mocked screams
now not my territory
maybe a new ceremony
me attending alone
counting stars and skipping stones
am I the weird one?
the dresses on the opposite borders not fitting
on that ferris wheel I stay sitting
the skied view more interesting than the far party track
staring at one piece when the museum is packed

Zywa Apr 2021
Come in, I kiss your eyes
I'll show you everything
Take your time, come as often as you like
and you will leave satisfied

Take a bath
in all my colours – soft
like powder brushes they caress
your look

I embrace your attention
with the gold of history
Here everything is
forever young

Unconditionally, I fold myself
to your needs
I give
images you'll never forget

Be surprised, enchanted, thrilled
Come inside and flow
through me
I'm there for you
Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam

Collection "The migration"
Zywa Apr 2021
Prosperity in city and country, see
the light under the clouds in the showroom
of earthly paradise, see

a glimpse of ourselves
in the looks of those days
the beauty of their attention

their desires
in younger years of the world –
the same as ours

We process and preserve
we build and improve
we create the beauty

in which we want to live
Here it is collected, see
it is good
Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam

Collection "The migration"
Zywa Apr 2021
The world a maze
under the nut tree
in this well-arranged garden

Follow a path
learn how it goes
what is important

Travel with strangers
experiencing the secret
with our senses

And reach further
re-create the world
beyond our lives

This is our world
how it was and can be
carefully we reach

For beauty and stories
we reach
for contact

With other lives
we connect
we connect
from heart to heart
Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam

Collection “The migration”
Jason Apr 2021
I got this idea I would write you a poem,
One you could read sitting safely at home,
Or keep with you out and about while you roam.

A poem about all of the memories I held sacred,
Laughing, singing, kissing, and cuddling in bed,
One to remind you our time wasn't wasted.

So I laced up my heart and I shrugged on my soul,
I popped open my noggin and I went for a stroll,
Right down Memory Lane and left at the Rabbit Hole.

I kept on goin' 'til I hit a velvet rope with posts of brass,
But I musta gotten too close to the bulletproof glass,
Cause a big grumpy guard threw me out on my...

I realized, still rolling, it's all one massive museum,
Motionless memories mummified so I can keep 'em,
Lined up and locked away, as if someone would steal 'em.

Arduously ordered, organized for instant access,
A mental palace fit to make even Sherlock jealous,
That Dewey Decimal dude don't got nothin' on this.

The slide shows replay every minute on the minute,
Time-compressed and Tetrised-in so each moment fits,
Bio-digitally encoded on neurode and inked onto skin.

Tear-rusty gears grind waterlogged cogs in reverse,
This melancholy machine made to reflect you in verse,
Is a planetarium perpetually projecting my universe.

I made it home before I began, but forgot to start,
Which makes me a little sad, but paradoxically, it's the best part,
Because nothing I could say would rival the poem in my heart.

© 04/20/21 Jason R. Michie All Rights Reserved
Lauren Connolly Apr 2021
To experience something through another's eyes.               
So different, yet the same,         
like McCartney and Lennon,               
like jam and jelly.                       
Different characters featured in paintings,                              
the cast in an artist's tv show.                                        
Some sitcoms, some dramas,
and others a genre of their own.                           
There’s Madonna’s and their babies,           
looking innocent as the bible.     
Why is it that baby Jesus         
in Renaissance paintings             
always gives me nightmares?                                          

The self portraits take their place
among the respected walls of color.
Their eyes draw you in,
burning holes in your skin.
They seem to appear wise.
Looking old as the moon,
but with significantly less bumps and crevices.

The modern pieces stick out,
like a lone spoon in the knife drawer.
They appear more youthful,
wrinkle-free and vibrantly alive.
“A child could have made this”,
I hear someone say.
What a beautiful thought to have.
Star BG Jan 2021
I peered into the many corridors of my heart and found a museum of memories waiting to be examined. Some I craved, as they carried me into landscapes of smiles and sweet breezes. Others were framed in emotions with dark shades that made me inspect briefly before moving on.
Ticket to my museum was a simple breath and the time to drift in chamber walls. And as I did moving spiraling energies time dissolved into my naked self.
inspired by Ashley K
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