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katryna Jan 8
Pagtatagpuin muli tayo ng tadhana,
Kung kelan,

                                                 hindi natin alam,
Kung saan,

                                                 hindi natin sigurado,
Isa lang ang dasal ko,
Sana handa tayo.
somewhere down the road
exist 5h
my name is liv i’m severely depressed, as you could imagine my life isn’t that impress(ive), i don’t know who i am, and no one seems to give a ****. it’s hard for me to understand, just what it is life demands, i can’t seem to get ahead, because i spend my life stuck in my own head.
i don’t know anymore man
Cece 8h

and then a blank space.
It's stressful,
but I write anyways
because I like the feeling
of falling
into a poem,
letting it wrap me up
and take me
to stars, or
to dreams, or
to love, or just
I love sitting
in the dark
with just moonlight
and the bright, white
light of the screen
to keep me company
as I pour
my feelings out
to people
I don't even know,
because somehow,
it's easier showing
my demons to
strangers, as
I don't really care
what they think of me
after they read
my heart;
they can just
drop it where they are
and leave,
not feeling particularly
obligated to stay.
as the night came wailing
in with absenteeism

the shadows of the drink
and the typewriter
were patiently waiting
for the shadow of my
presence to lay down
the next line on the
blank sheet of paper

but I was preoccupied with gamboling
at the resentment of the lethal routine,
murdering the sunlight hours of toil,
dizzy with the habitual gesture of
horrific and dreadful human behavior
and everything I looked at
drove me stark raving mad.

I’m a man of leisure…
leisurely avoiding man
in my citadel of seclusion and
the TV never was too good to me
either but the bathtub always was,
soaking in the eucalyptus
and my own filth
while the psychedelic doom
metal of Mars Red Sky
softly generated my psyche
and I struggle with the troubles
of concentrating and focusing
on one thing at a time
so currently I’m shuffling
between 3 interchangeable books:

The Stranger
The Studies in Pessimism
The Fear of Dreaming

now you know
the sources of my inspiration
and the secret
to my success

the secret is
is that I have
no success

so what shall I write about tonight?

it’s probably best
not to know
until I get there

but my bet is leaning towards
alcoholism, drudgery,
misanthropy and

and maybe the painful
disbelief of emptiness
that impales my heart
like the tusks of a boar.

the peaceful night arrived
and detonated all over

as I pour the bottle into the glass

as the fingers took a swan dive
into the little black keys

the last bit of my counteractive
disruption scrapes and dissevers
away slowly and easily
like tender meat.

o’ Chimera, o’ Chimera
don’t you ever let me rise
in the broad daylight again
Austeja 10h
Night, 3:04 am.
Sitting all alone
Whiskey, cigarette
And poetry of Charles Bukowski

One sip and I'm fine for that moment
The only thing I'm missing is a person Who can keep me going

Closed my eyes
And you appeared by my side
So vulnerable but yet so strong

You looked at me
And baby it woke me up inside
My broken mind wanted to be looked by you with pride

SGrewal 11h
Everytime we bond
it is so seamless.
Feels as if we are
   walking on water
   laying on clouds
   gliding over reality
   defying laws of gravity
carving out our dreams
for all of the nights
that we fall dreamless.

- S.Grewal
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2016
one thousand poem children

one thousand poems has mine soul commissioned,
a thousand more neath stone vault doors do attend,
patiently waiting revisions, rescission, catch and release permission,
waiting room patients, looking to buy a more favorable diagnosistician

this prolificacy,
nether curse or blessing,
this profligacy,
poem children fathered by single mom mothered,
borne nightly in dreams borne
from the northern, the southern,
the brains twilighted hemispheres,
who coordinate, drawing deep,
consulting a bartender's manual
a creation guide of mixology,
'how to intoxicate the brain'

cheap gin, multi-generational scotch,
visionary vermouth, the reddened cassis of life,
memories in the white grapes of possibilities,
futures unrealized, colorful takes and retakes,
a directors bespoke make-believe tales,
impossibilities, divine and mundane,
all into one admixture into the venous cavities poured,
nerves to blood to consciousness,
courtesy of the ganglia

the brain stem transmits them
fully formed to my
good morning sunshine
cracked and dried lips for re-emission

nigh head upon the pillow,
the hair trigger,
my rapid eye heartbeats, each a demanding sweetheart,
some performed to a discordant metronome,
in a controlled rage, my mental waste,

the residuals,
purified with language as the
orchestrator, debate moderator

dreams, once recoded, once accorded,
the disordering tempestuous,  
neurons cease-to-fire,
now just words, just words, just **** excretions

did I admit to a thousand?

more like tens of ten,
one, two per eventide,
have washed  ashore, for some thirty years recorded

my brain pixilated,
its big shot game controller,
demanding purchase of more;
more storage space, more games,
not admitting in advance,
that it filters blends, conflates and purges

by combining
psalms and ditties, infantile rhymes and
new vocabularies of  human aging idiocies,
though newly acquired, immediately forgot,
so always room enough for
one more episode

I study the brain, I study sleep,
study living and dying occurring at
their point of intermediation,

*this more knowledge gives no relief,
it becomes this poem becoming,
testifying that I prosecute myself
based on the evidence,
and if insufficient,
dream up nascent visionaries
from places that come unlocked,
tales from the vault vivisected,
the proper verdict

sixty six years
of accumulation,
and still know so little of
proper space utilization,
writing poems proper

but nightly come the dreams,
nightly comes the trial,
comes the judgements,
comes a man-made customized
whitewall tired judgement,
and to you
submitted for
judicial review

strange that each one of you
becomes, adopts, adapts my visage,
my words in you, reflected,
a jury of my peerage peers,
which is why my appeals are
always returned in the file labelled

until the next nights dream
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