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Tony Tweedy Oct 16
Over half a hundred years
and still I journey on.
At times I'm left to wonder
Where all the years have gone.

Memories that hold the proof
that this life was really mine.
Reflecting as I sometimes do
was it fate or predestined line?

Did I make real choices
that took me down this path?
Or did some cosmic scheme
shape every tear and laugh?

Is all I am and all I've been
of unique and individual shape?
Or was I made to be like this
taking part in manufactured jape?

If some hand does guide it
and I be but actor in some play,
What point in this life I have,
for it to be played out this way?

Of course there is no answer
that I can ever be sure to know.
So I just blindly journey on
to wherever this line might go.

Random course or predefined
my day to day follows every bend.
And over half a hundred years,
I am so much nearer to its end.
Do you suppose reflecting on your own mortality is something we all come to do?
Is it the drawer of the lines way of preparing us?
Then again.... it could be just me.... might be why I don't get invited to parties anymore.
Louise May 26
There was once a haunted tree,
not feared by many, in fact,
only by that of a young spinster.
But of five and twenty,
liked by many, however,
only a few were ever called her lover.

Until she met a man that felt like an army,
like hundreds of men marching,
whose loyalty was sworn for her beauty.
Until one man felt like a war waging,
yet like a calm ocean breeze blowing
and like marching silently into the dark sea.

Until there came the lover whose laughter
felt like an ache from a life long gone,
whose smiles felt like gunshots.
Until there was he who felt like home,
yet as distant as the tides are to the moon
and as untouchable as a silky thunderbolt.

There was a tree the spinster holds dear,
so close to her ever yearning heart.
This tree, she likens to that of her lover.
whose branches threatens to fall on her,
bears fruits that if they choose to plummet,
someone is to get hurt and it would be her.

And then there was a legend that this tree,
that was once a fruit of another host
that was fabled to be haunted.
But before the tales of horrors and shrieks,
it was abundant, it was the guide to the lost,
until it was axed, hunted as needed.

All of this tree's fruits turned to be of toxins,
opposing the townspeople's songs of praises.
All its branches grew webs upon cleaving,
challenging the tales of awes and delight.
All of which except for one, a golden fruit,
the root's promise and hope of the fallen.

What the preachers say could be of truth,
their words she avoided could be gospel.
What the non-believers say could be a tale,
their rumors could save her from demise.
What if the tree is just as rotten as the root,
what if it is indeed the produce from hell?
A take on "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree" and an exploration of a fear.
Alex McQuate Jan 7
Sitting in my bedroom,
That's become more of a waystation than a home,
For home to me is wherever you will be,
Zach Bryan crackles out the words I know I will think of,
When I am 20 years older,
And our son has left behind our home.

A traveler on his own journey,
Embarking to his own destination,
In time making his own mistakes,
But in them learning his own lessons,
And from that his own wisdom will be gained.

He will visit,
I know,
Although his first couple of visits will be too few and far between,
It will make you teary,
But knowing that it needs to happen all the same.

Those days to come seem so far away now,
Yet so close all the same,
But I know that we will eventually come to love every minute of it,
And wish we could live through it all again.
Zach Bryan- Old Man
Alex McQuate Jan 6
What will that day be like,
When the ink finally runs dry?
When the gas runs out of that gas station lighter,
When those remote batteries finally die?

Will the muse dry up,
Or will passion finally run out,
Fizzling like a sparkler at its base?

When will it go,
Will it be on a bus one day,
A startling realization,
Or something that can be seen far off?

If that's the case,
Will it come after some magnum opus,
Planned out in excruciating detail?
Or will it go out in a rapid fire of words,
A race against time to put letters on the page,
A desperate act of the unprepared?
Man of the Hour- Eddie Vedder
-elixir- Dec 2021
Empty roads and hearts of stone,
show the leaves left unturned.
The blank canvas yearning for colours
left waiting endlessly on the easel.
The tides that once were high in spirit,
now lay flat on the shores of the land.
Get familiar with knowing silence, it is the permanent outcome for us all.
tree Sep 2021
after years of pondering in musty libraries and public bathrooms and on my bedroom floor i think i finally understand why the face staring back at me in the mirror is so unfamiliar

i am not my dark eyes, i am not my crooked nose, i am not my thin lips, i am not my rosy cheeks

no, i am the hairstyle that my mother taught me how to do before middle school started so that i could take care of myself
i am the love poems that run through my head all day because language is so wonderful and you are so wonderful and sometimes i can't help but experience certain compositions as many times as possible
i am the friendship bracelet that i wear on my wrist that matches with my best friend who would never wear a bracelet in a million years but did it for me
i am the whirlpool of love that exists behind my eyes that shy glances and awkward eye contact put there

i see myself in my fingers mindlessly tapping out rhythms from my favorite songs, not in my tears, but
i see myself in everything i mourn for

i see myself in the money i saved from my grandmother's funeral three years ago because i am too attached to part from it, not in my smile, but
i see myself in my inability to keep a straight face when someone laughs at my jokes

the years of pondering in musty libraries and public bathrooms and on my bedroom floor was worth it because i see myself in those too, more doodles in the margins of the storybook of my life

in the end, i became who i am because of you
humans are but mosaics of the people around them ;;; we are such little seeds if not watered by loved ones
Elizabethanne Jul 2021
The first place you call yourself-
a monster
where you admit 
that you- are a liar
Home is
where you learn becoming human 
Tethered inside stitched up skin 
you have enough emotions to- 
spill out 
But home is-
wanting for many things and getting none of them 
Half-feral and doing everything to not bite the hands that feed
You fold and fold and fold
until you are smaller- 
until you are not even really there at all 

- Home is where you go to disappear
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