Art 2d

Every time I close my eyes
I see a face,
clear and perfect. Yet

ever changing
like a memory
fading and morphing.

I don't know this face,
who they are or
where they're from.

Why they're in my head.

And at night, those
images morph themselves into dreams,
and I see her again;

her lost blurry eyes
in search of something
they can't find.

And then,
in a brief moment of clarity
they meet mine

and I somehow feel
found again, like a piece
of my soul has been given back.

Every time I try my hardest to hold on,
desperate to stay there with her,
scared of waking up lost.

Sometimes I think
she's just another lost
lonely soul

in search of
an old friend
who she's known forever.

Sometimes I think
she's out there
wandering the world

and that maybe
with some patience and luck
I'll meet her one day.

In thoughts and in dreams. Someone I don't know.

You don't come around anymore,
but I still remember making memories
that never had a place existing anyways—

the say heaven, hell, and purgatory
don't count as long- distance
still I punch in your number,
listening.
To the buzz on the other end,
muting the television,
turn down the lights,
and put candles in the room;

I keep your existence alive by fabrication,
sewing selective memories in the lobes of my brain,
but they manifest
& my dreams--
are the seams of my sanity
being pulled out.

You're always there with a glass of lemonade.
Yet, you never knew what an inside voice was,
as you scream about how wonderful the afterlife is.

Your proposal a tempting blade,
the encouraging way
you promise
I'll see you-
meeting the artery in my neck,
or a tendon in my wrist.
You know-
I've done it more than once-
mistake my sickness, for your ghost.
I swear,
I can hear your voice,
all the time now.

I haven't felt this sick in a long time,
can't even recall the last time sleep came to
me in a quiet hush, with a wash of calmness,
asleep with the sky resembling
a blanket of
stars casted
out into the atmosphere.

A constant migraine hammered into my skull,
everyday I burst out randomly and cry
so hard until my knees quake,
my sadness does not end,
it folds me, unfolds me;
creases me, & turns me into a paper airplane-
I float.


There's no tin can tied to string,
I can't set out lawnchairs,
and await
for the Thursday,
you were supposed
to live to see-
never comes,
there's an emptiness in shuffled feet,
and hatred for that surgical green color.

Or when people utter "home"
I think of your paralysis
and the way your word's
fought for meaning, in that slurred tone:

"I'm going home"
I've never been religious
nor do I judge those who are,
but I've been spiritual my whole life-
the spirit knows when it dies.

my skin shudders to think how they carted you off;
to discover the parts of your body
you had not known were betraying you,
your lung's gave up
and soon the breaths in your chest,
had no place left in this world.

Like anyone else;
trying to justify why time rots hope, as it loosens our grip on reality.

Awaiting your chatter as
I shave my legs while,
you do your make up
in the faintly lit bathroom;
I hated that guava pink lipstick
you wore like it was your job.
I loved that mauve colored one
that made cherubs beg for you to
hold them in your maternal arms,
always having open arms for all outcasted,
it was part of your charm.

They say you always know when you're dying:
does that make an illness,
the equivalent to the
heartbreak of your body knowing
it has no regard to live any longer,
and the crisis with mortality,
that if we fend off fears and try to be stronger,
then an unbeknownst curiosity for what happens.

You know, we all know.
We are all going to die someday.

But-
does your mind go
when you die too?
or do memories remain
as something complacent
that even death cannot
strip the soul of?

Saint Titus Sep 8

Dizzying fall
The ending claims all
Hitting rock bottom when there's nothing solid left
Fending off the end with each passing breath
Lungs on the grind, buying me time
Onward, headfirst
Through layers of earth
Til my soul is bending
Ears ringing with a thousand rending
Tales of farewell etching out
This cavity of self doubt

What the truth is I can't say
And most likely never will

The noise, it fades
Damned sprites screaming out my name
Eventually all lose themselves in the torrent
Of endlessness
Of abyss and persistance
Of nonexistence

No longer resist

Thoughts respondent of a scream
Repressing turbulent dreams
Still crawling along my back
Feelings crouched out of sight
Negativity, prone to attack

Deceased
Or not
The truth
Is that
I still
Have friends
Or not
I guess

In life it's nearly always just a matter of time
Ricocheting through the valley of fatal decline
Wishing after thoughtless grandeur, wishing for more wishes
Ephemeral, it all
Falling to the ending

Dreaming
Robert Sep 3

Being reborn after death
It's a really beautiful concept
Poetic, great for stories
But would it matter
If there are no memories
It's the same thing as just being born
So why does it seems so beautiful
I'm sure reincarnation isn't real
But still
So great for stories

Harry Roberts Aug 24

Fly with the wind.

The moon hung high
And she sings songs
Sung for millennia.

We fail to hear her somber notes.

We repeat and resurrect
Past woes and lost loves,
Lose our minds in chaotic rythm.

Ashes scatter in the wind.

We lose ourselves
Only to repeat
The same actions.

A little poem I wrote. Have a great day/night
Madame Vai Aug 18

Come to me my love,

On a sandbar overlooking a weightless ocean

Where the grains cover our toes as they depress the sodden ground

Come to me my love,

In a deep dark forest with vegetation thick

Obscuring the sacred path

Where your hand guides me along an animalistic route, savage like we once were

Come to me my love,

Atop a skyscraper in a great city of lovers

Where steam flows from the vents and you hold me watching the sun spread across the buildings

Come to me my love,

Aboard a ship placed upon an ocean blue

Where the past floats to a new future, and you kiss me at the bow

Come to me my love,

In a dirty Dachau of human existence, clawing to survive

and bread the most valuable commodity

Where our bread molds because neither of us is willing to eat until the other is nourished

Come to me my love,

To the Hindu wheel of all the pasts before us

Where our only struggle was to find each other and the only life is a future

Come to me my love,

To a moon soaked room, windows opened after a rain

Where man holds the key to unlock a sweaty night of groping, grabbing, salty licks

Come to me my love,

Your head laying on my pillow

a golden cataract spilling like the waters of everlasting life

Where our blue eyes meet and all the pasts’ spring forth to our future

All the places we will go become clear

All the kisses we will share are repeated

The breeze bumps our skin and with the softest lips you say

“I love you”

This poem was in collaboration with a writer by the name of N. Korroe
Melissa Aug 13

I'm dragging
all I know how to write is sadness,
and I want to let you know that isn't all I've got
I want so hard to prove that what you see isn't all you get
that the mess that I am has a sheen underneath.
Your voice breathes life into me,
I want to take you with me to the end of my journey,
but to claim to own a spirit as wild and free as yours
would be to clip a rose, to give it thorns.
When my heart is on fire and I follow the smoke signals
it only ever serves to lead me back to you.
And we're both stepping stones,
but I hope that I can run with you as long as we've got time,
I want to fight beside you as long as there's a war to be won,
to pen your story for the world,
to grasp in these clumsy fingers the will o' wisp that guides me,
time and time again back to your eyes.
The echoes of the universe draw me close to you,
I'm hopeless, and I've ever been.
I feel the distance as cuts in my heart
Your touch magnetizes my soul
how I ever went without you, I'll never know.
So curse me with all you've got,
strike me down for generations,
so I'll be by your side through time,
and I can live to give you everything.
Bit by bit, lifetime by lifetime,
I will always find you, again and again
and we will dance,
and I will learn to write joy, year after year
now that I'm flying.

I thought my heart was broken.
It truly breaks now,
to think that I may only live
this life
once.
I would rather live this life,
and this life only,
over and over,
for eternity.
I say that,
not knowing what
the future brings,
yet knowing that the past
brought you into my life.
That is all I need to know.
This life will one day end,
my Love for you never will.

Written in 2017
By Bethany G. Blicq.

Live my life through photographs,  
see foreign faces of people as my eyes dilate while,
my brain has taken the picture no matter how many centuries.
Is that the meaning of an old soul? 

My paintings have improved,
mixing the colors has become easier,
irises are a video camera
while, the nerves can rewind the sequence of events
and how the portrait or picture had developed.

Who the people were
and what their lives meant.
I don't live a tragic life,
I'm not trapped in some cryptic looking tower,
Only trapped, by my own personal unhappiness.  

These pictures are a way for me to live vicariously through someone else,
Imagining myself there. 

These pictures are taken to capture a momentous
or joyful time in my life,

television and movies are like that in a way. 
They remind us of the miserable world,
but we have decided to allow our worth
to weigh our subconscience like gold, 
These pictures are memories that trigger another event,
in a vicious cycle. 

I promise,
You don't get pictures taken of the countless empty bottles,
the pills you've choked down,
the tube that's shoved down your throat
when they 'save' your life.

(That left me wondering why I had to stay alive and it's all about contributing-
keeping up with the rent you're due on existing.)


 The happier times are easy to forget,
we didn't run out of film.
Aren't those kinds of things in pictures we see?
The media tells you to cut the corners of your mouth so,
you can smile.. 

 
My mother died some time ago a year and some odd months,
my mind had accidentally snapped a picture of her,
still framed; her statue like chest, no veins flowing, and the urge to wait for her chest to rise again. 

I think,
waiting leaves lesions on the brain,
because, most see waiting as pain without any kind of gain. 
That's where trauma comes from-
waiting,
time changing, embedded in the bellies of women and dripping out of men's mouths.

Cycle of life.

Back and back; back again.
Still trying to see it?
What is it?
God?


Life, after life, and live..
again, over and over -endless.
I stay here?
Lord?


Why and I still here?
..so tired, mind/cracked...
punishment
God?


How many of these people do you need me to hurt before you let me go home to peace?

Lord...after
all these years
I am going
crazy.

Cannot figure it out right? You'll keep coming back forever until you stop being what you think is your own nature...your nature is God's will and desire. Desire to see his creation stop killing and hurting others. There is no punishment save ever-lasting life...the return, the endless return and confusion....when does this stop?
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