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Mark Wanless Aug 2016
Existing patterns are eternal
        Inviolate laws of reality!
A common childhood logic
        Dispelled in life's maturity.

But wisdom comes not
        Bound amongst the years,
And often delays appearing
        Imprisoned by unshed tears.

Painful and repeated errors
        Foul the spirit's song,
Where amidst life's travels
        Shall truth's light dawn?

Infinite the human saga,
        Unknown the full disparity,
A thousand diverse reflections
        Impact the visions clarity.

To willfully sponsor change
        Arrives peculiar to each,
Freely we then learn
        What change may teach.
LeV3e Aug 2016
Feel like I'm back to square one
Having a hard time with the lesson
Wrapped up in on myself like
Leaves lick the wind like
Trees ring within, despite
Drought, despite rain
It's like nothing ever really changes
Yet, things will never be the same....
Denel Kessler May 2016
patterns pressed
in old vinyl
needle-scratched
pop and crackle
background noise
just genetic ambiance
old as the blues
smoky aftertaste
blessing     curse
lost fortune
lured fate
lessons earned
the hard way

long playing
at 33 1/3 rpm
I'm humming
no resistance
my will altered
I submit
to inevitable vacillation
accept ambiguity
as sweet song
lyrics unknown
an uneven melody
I can't deny
or disown
Noelle M Eithun May 2016
You've put me in your doll house.
Plastic furniture
cardboard walls
Surround me. Smother me.

There are other dolls here, too.
waiting.
like me.
To be picked.

I see your hand come towards me
Finally. You pick me.

Your rough fingers curl around my waist
lifting me to what seems like an endless sky

My hair bouncing in the wind
my eyes looking at you
always looking at you.

We do what we always do.
Sit out by the water
you making jokes, me singing songs.
You caress my cheek
You kiss me.

You never kiss me..
Maybe this means something.
Maybe I wont have to go back

I see him stand
oh no
he folds up the blanket we've been laying on
please don't make me go back
I feel his rough fingers curl around my waist
let me stay

I couldn't look at him
the whole way back.
What did I do?
Was I a bad kisser?
Did he regret picking me this time?

He places me back into the doll house.
I look into his eyes, pleading, begging
for him to give me answers.

Instead
He curls his rough fingers around the waist
of the doll next to me.
Lifts her up, and kisses her cheek.

He's never done that with me.

I watch as they both disappear into the distance.

Every time I see him leave with a different doll,
I can feel my skin harden
my skin becoming shinier

He's transforming me into something I'm not
Plastic.

Maybe thats what he wants. Plastic dolls.
Dolls waiting for his attention.
Dolls at his disposal.

I don't want that.
I want to be free.

But, I want him to love me.

All I can do now, is wait.
Wait for him to pick me again.
To play with me again.
That one guy you want so badly but you know he's playing you. He even does it right infront of you. Flirting with other people. But you cant help but hope he will eventually choose you. Want you.
Got Guanxi May 2016
Synchronitities

It's 11.11 again,
AM through to PM,
Just to see you again,
In all your simplicities.

11.11 again,
Now tell me what's the relevance,
When I see you there,
Lying in sentimentality,

You got the 411,
Telling me just about anything,
That you can breath,
Steals your rationality.

11.11 again,
The sentence that won't ever end;
Caught up in a comma coma,
Blinded by the clarity,

11.11 again,
I seen it on the TV screen,
What does it mean to you & me,
Simple sequenced synchornities
X
Lunar Luvnotes Apr 2016
To any hulk of an exec chef,  or any sous with little **** syndrome, if you think for a minute you're keeping your fingers after waving them in my face, your mistaken. Go ***** to someone else you say, point taken. I will dessimate you when you forsake me, just as my father did and many boyfriends. I pity your unborn baby, who will inherit your anger and yell like you, and if she's a girl, she will learn to put up with rage like yours. Your very pregnant wife has to shuck oysters just to keep her level eye on you. How smart. You flirt with everything. But even she can't save you from yourself, when you're hopped up on only God knows. Disrespecting the women from your wife's country, your child's lineage. I don't care how many drops run in your own blood, thats not a charge card to say racist **** on top of being an *******. I will always pray that you find your way, make your wife feel safe, para siempre, instead of coming onto women everytime she's not watching. Get right with God, walk straight. I cannot work in a hostile kitchen, I don't do this **** for these tips. When I don't even break a hundred a night, I'm calling it quits, and even when I did, I do not need to be extending my anxiety into a physical reality of shaking hands or jumbled words caught up in my throat. You see, when you raise your voice to me, my brain doesn't think, this man is my boss who can't hit me, my body is too busy bracing, for what muscle memory recalls, following similar stimulis before. If you talk to me like I am an idiot like my father did, if you raise your voice to me like he and all following abusers did, I just might cut you slow with my words, for I am indelibly OVER. THIS. ****. I quit Umberto after three years for his, so now I have a low tolerance. Insisting I can't do MY job, when it's not MY bad, if you're gonna take away my ability to defend myself, in a place I came to empower me, you better hope I feel merciful when you tell me to ***** to someone else when I say I don't appreciate the way you are speaking to us. I don't feel merciful, cuz I can't do this **** anymore. Getting in my face, saying I need to do my ******* job right if I want to take issue, cussing out a woman when I have done or said nothing wrong. I have always owned mistakes, if I said I did perfect this shift, you better back up off of it and stop talking to me like I'm some lying ******* idiot. Consider this my notice.
"Runner!" A tribute to food runners, cuz thats how chefs call us like dogs. The trick is finding where the best tips is, so that if they call you with a bell instead you have a pavlov situation but instead of pooling drool we're stacking bread.. at my second job I'm an expo so I get to do the yelling telling the kitchen what's happening, so if I don't yell loud enough I get yelled at. That's actually a good outlet for me I'm not gonna lie. If I was coked out I might also be too zealous.  Not really. My other job I'd never quit has nice chefs and I eat  and take home organic Italian for free. God is so good to me.

I'm not really turning this in or showing it to the sous it just felt good to write. The sous that inspired my luvnote to all coked out sous worked for  Umberto too, who is not to be put in a similar category cuz at least he's sober during the day and exercises his conscience most time after explosion of cursing in Italian. I don't do fine dining pressure for **** tips. I don't do sports bar classless for pooled house rations. And high pressure contention should never even ******* be mentioned in a ******* pan Asian sports bar. Period.

Yes I do realize PTSD doesn't mix well with kitchens and it'd appear I'm in the wrong industry, but there's money here, and hospitality comes naturally, yelling men only became challenging after my ex attached that to things so much worse than my dad. And id already known what it is to have that kind of money. I wasn't gonna give up on myself just cuz getting through a shift got harder. I just have to quit jobs everytime someone berates me, i can't take this anymore. Looking forward to doing hair mostly for my money instead tho.
Julie Grenness Apr 2016
Imagery of our childhood,
Way back when, are patterns good?
Did we get the pieces to fit?
Is there closure, to get 'over it'?
We're only humans, can make mistakes,
As forming lives, our oldies shaped--
Environment versus heredity,
What is their true legacy?
Is there no closure on way back when
Are puzzles really what childhood meant?
Feedback welcome. Only a  thought.
Maggie Emmett Feb 2016
Lost in my chiaroscuro world
I cannot be followed
No-one knows my secret language
No-one knows my passwords
or my frames of reference
Everything said, is coded.

In desperate times
speech becomes pure sound
rhythmic and completely foreign
People can make out words
but they have no context

George, Jean, Martin
Arthur, Margaret
Names like rays on a compass
They were my world
of visible magnetic forces
I could no more abandon them
than rearrange the continents.

But you can learn
when the old geography
is too painfully familiar
not to abandon it
But simply invent
a country of your own.

A landscape beyond maps,
compasses and sextant
Beyond a dictionary
of common usage
and invented diction.

You can search
but the unseen
patterns of dreaming
are as easy to find.

Isolated, distant
language fractures
and returns to you
words are breaking the barrier reef
an exile in a shadow land.

The damage grows inside
sensed but unseen
seeping into crevices like moss
and lichen gripping
spreading and creeping
a spiked vine
flaring down to the tongue.


© M.L.Emmett
original unpublished poem 07/02/99 & revised 16/02/2012
PaperclipPoems Jan 2016
You think you know me
Because you know of patterns
You know the way of people
And you've been told the way the world turns..

You expect my next move
As if we are playing a game of chess
And you anticipate your next win
Upon my unmoved guess..

I tell you now,
that you know nothing of my mind
I move with the waves of my heart
My chosen next move is mine.
KL Taguiam Dec 2015
Our bodies sway to the music,
twirling,
sliding,
hopping,
on the slick wooden floor.

Our hands clasped together,
in this melody,
our feet draws intricate patterns,
as beautiful as the galaxies
in the expanse
of the cosmos,
on the slick wooden floor.

Our hearts beat faster,
and faster,
blood rushing in
our veins,
our breath mists
as we feel our energies
ebb away.

Our bodies exposed
to each other,
caressing,
holding,
each fingertips,
embedded on our
heated skin.

Our bodies touching,
our hips swaying
to the music
as we dance on the
slick wooden floor.

Our sweat drops,
our clothes crumpling,
as we dance along
on the slick wooden floor.

Our senses tingles,
becoming sensitive,
to each other;
each touch,
each whispers,
each exhalation,
everything within us,
are enjoined.

We move
in sync
with the tempo
of the music,
on the
slick wooden floor.

The exhilaration
of this dance,
will forever
be remembered.
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