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Hands  formed into a fist
her jaw, set..

She's gonna slug me

     "You opened up a thirst in me, Paul.
      Are you going to see it through..

           or just stand there?"

Her war-torn, Mesopotamian spirit
Bringing fire to those beautiful, Baltic eyes;
A direct descendant of all things, Telmun
She is waiting on a Pearl
Waiting,  for the Pearl

     Archipelago of Virginity
       --Beautiful girl is the Pearl

After gazing at her stunning beauty
I turn back, and resume the task
of digging with a small trowel
into the  dark, loamy soil

She slaps me on the shoulder,
tears  streaming from those  dark
sky-filled eyes..
              "..I  thirst"

Ladles   are made for love;
In abundance, they bring drink
to those who sojourn,
  those,  who wait

   And it  is  I
who have  allowed  myself
to become distracted,
  as of late--

Holding out  for beauty
When all along,  Beauty

Has been holding out  for me

It is a dance we do in silence,
far below this morning sun
You in your life, me in mine,
we have begun

Here we stand, and without speaking
draw the water from the Well
And stare beyond the plains
to where the mountains lie so still

But it's a long way that I have come
Across the sand, to find this peace
among your people in the sun

Where the families work the land
as they have always done

   Oh, it's so far, the other way
   my country's gone

Across my home, has grown the shadow
of a cruel and senseless hand
Though in some strong hearts
the love and truth remain

And it has taken me this distance
and a woman's smile to learn
That my heart remains among them

and to them I must return

There is a need
and a thirst..

a waiting-for
so very worth  waiting for
preston Mar 2022

I wrote that to you..

from the waiting room of my eye doctor
but I didn't know it sent. I was grinding on my jeep Sunday
and got a piece of metal in my eye the size of a farm tractor,

    but all is well after this second visit  👀

A couple of reasons for the multiple accounts..
Originally started as my way of satiring the many people
on the site that use multiple accounts to put likes and
comments on their own work in order to make it trend..
or even make the 'daily'..
or to stroke themselves  with compliments
so horrendously..  uh, dishonestly.
But me being the battle-hardened, ******* nonconform
that I am, the first time I commented on my own piece,
my own account made fun of myself
to such a degree..
   it ended up in a fistfight--
But it was me..  just ******* up
the whole trolling process.
I always tell the ones that I care
about  who all is 'me'.
I also phase popular ones of mine  out  
      and replace them with new ones  
          if that one is getting too noticed on the site.

That way I don't garner too many followers, which I believe
quenches one's freedom that is lost within the  obligatory
'give and take' mindset that is a cancer  on this
and so many other online writing sites.

Vogel started talking to you when I was no longer
scared of how quickly you got in with me.
I talk like crazy when someone like you gets in to the inner-core
of me so easily..  just by being the way that you are.
The babbling provides a canopy of structure..  Love's structure.
Strange, I know..  but I don't like being scared.
Its a boundary-thing..
and there is so little about ones like you
that even remotely slows down
the process of getting in..

and   I'm-a..  uh..
"I'm a loner, Dottie.. a rebel.."
~Peewee Herman

yeah.. that.

The accounts keep me safe from the
general public  by bringing
pieces of me out, relationally onto the screen  as a way of
providing for myself, the warm cover of love's structure--

   me..  with me.
All so very strange sounding, I'm sure.

I really enjoy watching you, kid.
I'm so sorry for bombing you with all those wordy messages
when we met. Your unique heart, mind, and spirit
are everything perfect in my eyes..  yes..  even with all of your
current broken,  fragmented pieces.
You were recently maybe under some form of a psyche-hold,
which is probably where the psyche eval came from.
Some in the mental health field care deeply..  many are just
going through the motions-- originally thinking it was
for them, and then finding out what the true cost
of love really is,  before slinking back into a foot-shuffling
process..   even as psychologists,  
and often  even medical psychiatrists (prescribers)--

    Who love to find a name for things so they can 'expertly'
    enter into relationship with what now has a name,
    rather than the deeply-hurting person.

Everybody wants the ****, beautiful-voiced girl who stands
a very good chance of making her mark so well in this world.
I would trade access to the 'best' part of it all with you,  
just to have the chance to be with you,  for even 5 minutes  
on that **** and tear-soaked, psyche room floor.

That is where I want to be.

My multiple "friends" keep me free..
unencumbered..  deeply-loved..
  .. ready.  
Broken-down, and pitch-black within the darkness of all its
despair. That is where it is that I would trade all things for,
    in order to be..
with you..  deep in to the very   r e a l   of  it  all..
if you ever fell down that temporarily far.

Everything I do is for that moment.  
My "friends" give me strength.  They believe in me
because I so deeply believe in my loved self.

       Hence, the ability to go anywhere
       you may one day have to go.

       Sorry, kid.. but you asked.

  Mm.  Babe..

"Can you feel the resistance..
  Can you feel the thunder"

Carl Fynn Jun 2020
Chained to good morals
a people lost on the journey to freedom

Foresight enslaved to greed
who reaches first- a prevalent goal
Radical Leadership
a matter of course

Foresight enslaved to greed
evidence in the body parts traded for power

A country crippled by peace
a people enslaved by oppression

Manipulative dependence
just plant, taxes will fertilize

Wake up to the voices of the clever
We sit by our luggage before a dead sea
deceived by the same people we gave seat

A generation paying for the sins of our fathers
shackled to the failures of our forefathers

We thumb print
signing our destinies over to fake prophets

Radical leadership
a matter of course

However long the night, the sun always rises.
Avery Glows Feb 2020
Death is not a cursed, bleak end.
No less holier than Life
which does give us birth
against our wills.
Should this be called mercy?
Lovingly, it devours immense
those illusory grandeurs
as conjured by Life.
It doesn’t coerce into being
existence unsolicited,
granting— endowing –
as if in good will
a sanctity so close to nought.
What in a life compels thee
to sink miserly into a banality so wretched;
to lose thyself in an aimless sail.
When death does come—
Embrace thee undoing with open arms.
A willful end weighs as much,
as an otherwise nihilist birth.
Truth be told.

“No life is more sacrosanct than its very own death.”
jonas Jan 2020
My body doesn't feel like mine.
I feel skin on muscle
Muscles that move on bone
But I am not truly present.

My body doesn't feel like mine.
I feel hands on skin
Skin that quakes beneath wicked touch
But I am not truly present.

My body isn't mine
Without the tightness in my chest
A tightness that I deeply crave
But I don't know what's real.

This body isn't mine.
I feel a brushing of elbows
Elbows of strangers awakening the memories
But I /don't/ know what's real.

This voice isn't mine.
I speak stories of others
Other things I hope can allude
But none read between the lines.
Written in October of 2019
“death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”

a puzzling, troubling line in a personal message,
instantly isolated for further review,
needy indeedy for a second medical opinion,
for it’s a description of two,
an actual place and a state of being

a place where death seems more commonplace,
not from agedness or honor,
but from a madness drunk from a special cocktail of
heat, guns and pseudo-rock stars, with beer chasers

imbibed by those who imagine themselves INRL  
in a movie genre of specialized urban cowboys,
subset horror flick,
self-appointed angels

part of a world view
so pervasive that it infiltrates the mental water supply
and modifies the pure children early on

demeaning existence, with a sense, a sendup,
life is unreal, cheap, so taking it-is ok,
justice delivered, for we angels,
are subset,
angels of death

in a country where
seven out of ten believe in angels,
and one in four confident that
the sun revolves around the Earth

look to blame
polluted water
the ever-overheated atmosphere,
bringing typhoon and storm,

I do not know

how be sun and water,
the essences, the originations of all life
today come to the planet days still
clear and warm,
yet can not infiltrate our personal mystery,
respire, re-spark the notion of the spirit,

the simple sanctity of life peculiarly human
call me by my other name
mystified momma
afteryourimbaud Mar 2018
I want to open a business
but I will never trade
every words of sanctity
for it.

Teach me,
on how to open a shop
without a table
without a sign
without a premise
is it all done just
to break the promise?

I want to be like them
but I can't sell my words
on a tee, on a tele
becoming part of
the rotten machinery
is a sign of chaos
and profligacy.

even if I have to wait
at the end of the line
, I will do that.
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