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Zywa Jan 12
Reluctance wants to

be alone, unobserved not --

doing what you want.
Poem "Over de weerwil" ("About reluctance", 1970, Gerrit Krol)

Collection "Willegos"
Zywa Jun 2023
I think about it

all day, so actually --

I'm practising hard!
Reluctance (for example to exercises on the piano)

Novel "Kind tussen vier vrouwen" ("Child between four women", 1972, Simon Vestdijk, written in 1933), § 4, page 166

Collection "Inmost"
ht May 2018
There's popcorn on the ceiling,
a million bajillion clusters that I've spent days trying to count.
In the 1950's these ceilings exploded into popularity.
And until 1977, homeowners blasted asbestos covered popcorn toward the sky, letting mesothelioma fibers fall back to their floor like it was harmless dust.
I take a deep breath, letting the air settle deep in my chest before letting it back out.
My ceiling is probably not made of asbestos.
It's probably styrofoam or some other cheap, paper-based product.
I take another deep breath.
The EPA banned the use of asbestos in these ceilings.
Apparently, inhaled in large quantities, asbestos causes lung disease, lung scarring, and lung cancer.
Another deep, deep breath.
I continue counting the probably not cancer causing popcorn.
I wonder if I would be able to feel the particles swimming in my lungs like fiber glass–thin, delicate, sharp.
I wonder if it would **** me.
I wonder if my family would file a claim like you see on those old commercials screaming,
"If you or a loved one developed mesothelioma you, yes you, could be entitled to compensation."
Or, something like that.
The air tastes funny.
My ceiling is most likely not made of asbestos.
But, I probably wouldn't care if it was.
I went down a weird internet spiral and now I know a lot about different kinds of ceilings | h.t.
Travis Kroeker Jun 2020
The Gloaming

The flames licked my feet,
I smiled.
The tickle was fleeting, the burn for awhile;
the memory lasts longest,
still here to this day,
long after the scars have faded away.
In the gloaming thereafter
I’ve traveled alone,
avoiding the fire and ash that it's sown.
Though I once played with flames,
though once I was hurt,
still the nip of the night bears no pretense of comfort.
Ackerrman Aug 2019
I still look for you in every room I enter.

I have found myself
Perpetually disappointed.
But only once
Did I find you,
To which I found, myself, reluctant
To talk.

You are still in every room I enter.

The kitchen counter,
The comfy sofa,
My still ruffled and unwashed bed cover.
Like a hammer
Struck to the forefront of my mind,

You are the thing I look for but never hope to find.
A year and I still look at every face I pass and scope every room I enter.
Em Mar 2019
To ask
the most simple query
that has lingered
in my thoughts
That transmogrified
into a hold of fear
that never lets you go.

Burning a hole
from inside your head
and mutates your tears
into harrowing acid
Dripping from your eyes.

I shall keep this query to myself
As the answer I most fear
is the one chosen true.
am OOPSET,,,
i m  r e al l y  a n x io u s   ab o ut   sumn
wa  n nn a    v er  i fy   s om e t hin g  but ehghghgh
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
the Silence became
like an old lesson learned

a broken heart intones
a voiceless song
resonating a refrain of Silent echoes
in a voice that never heard a word
yet spoke so clearly ... lingering
in realms of subtle ambiance

soundless remnants
stacked neatly as
building blocks;  
another brick in a wall,
already too tall to see beyond—
growing like a bunker
without a sense of safe harbor

as the Silence became
time and space,
a stillness beset the melancholy air
as if a world without song
foreboding an unpredictable storm
beget vestiges of broken windfall,
reticent leftovers hushed after a gale

s i l e n t l y

an acorn fallen  — became a mighty Oak

a wind-broke twig — became a weeping willow

a neglected child — became mother nature's son

the Silence became
        a blind prophet —
in its voice held forth
smatterings of truth
and undertones of an unrequited
fool’s hope

the Silence became
a strong, abrupt rush of wind
uttering voiceless exhalations of breath;
a hovering dawn mist
    befallen after a summer storm—
surrounding all in all
bedewed in a feigned peace

... the unabated sounds of silence

Jesse Stillwater ... July 20th, 2018
Thank you or reading —
FRITZ Jul 2018
contusion clouds burst confusions under the sound.

underground, through the air, and softer the sea.

     a pond a barrier to you and to me

          song as sweet and stiffened at the

                                                         fireflies and jello eyes watching shyly

                              your fingers are blue and ivory they burn in the light

                 song as sweet as the purple dew in the crook of your fingers

                    you are told as strong as sand

                                    you are rock

                    you are clinging to rock atoms

                                      be honest

                     you are shrapnel arriving early and departing late.
focusing on the notions of "Reluctance."
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