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The other day I caught you staring,
I don’t think you realized because,
When my eyes met yours we broke into uncontrollable laughter.

The incredible feeling of being in the presence of pure love,
Intertwined instinctively

Remember to never grow a day older,
But always grow a day wiser.

And know our love is a pre-written plot from the very beginning
A script sent straight from stars

           —letters to my sun ☀️
Pagan Paul Apr 23
Wouldst thou not gaze again 'pon this humble fool?
For 'tis his script that doth countenance histories,
hence future repeats be 'pon his wither and whim,
thou shouldst see twice his story woven sisterlies.

Wouldst thou not read more of this humble fool?
Mayhap his words doth soothe thy enquiry,
his want and wander leadeth to a contentment,
thou shouldst not ignore content of ye Fool's Diary.

Wouldst thou not focus true 'pon this humble fool?
Perchance his poems doth resonate sweetness unbound,
pray do a'linger and a'loiter 'pon his fancy delicacies,
thou shouldst taketh thy fill of love and wisdom found.

© Pagan Paul (22/04/19)
Follow up to poems Fool's Diary and Fools Diary (Addendum)
posted on Mar 6th and 8th 2019
Pagan Paul Mar 6
At the table of eternal sorrow
sits a fool with a crooked smile,
faking interest in a world obscene
and feigning the mood of yesterwhile.
Couched over bent with quill extended,
he writes his heart with a bitter beat,
floating in the mire of a memory stained,
poised with nib to command the sheet.
Capering words form across the weave
with capricious intent and shadow play,
smoke and mirrors intersect and disperse
whilst his mind carries the story away.

© Pagan Paul (04/03/19)
Tim Garemore Mar 4
I'm so ready to feel spring again
I want tears on my face the day of
To wake up and spring out
Just dress in a shortsleeve shorts skin - and underwear
Then sprint out into a yard, either one
Then feel spring and feel young(er) and feel something
I've known you can't go to a golden past
I've just never learned, I don't think
from a set of writings when I was particularly yearning for spring
Chicken Feb 28
Those who
cannot accept my beard,
I’ll bin em.
It’s time for truth.

Those who
Know me saw straight through
I’ll listen to em
No more arguing in the booth.
This is kind of a script thing. Based on observation. A power struggle.

I witnessed many a man being harangued about ****** hair. Such a crime.

So, I wrote about this by putting myself in their shoes. I’ll do the other side one day, cause they say there are three sides to every 'story', yours, theirs, and the truth :D.

It is based on a man who's love interest is a domineering user type who saw kindness as weakness. Man does not see this yet. His closest confidants have all seen it, and mentioned it, creating temporary conflict between the friends.

Woman now hates his new ****** hair, his beard, and wants him to get rid of it and he does not understand why, his beard is cool, besides, if she loves me, the beard would not matter, right?

Man realizes, it must not be love, loeve, love... and makes it up with his long time crew who knew all along.

Receiving less attention, woman naturally falls away to another 'project' in which she may try to achieve more grip.

Note: this is not a judgement about every dislike of a beard, there are various potentials.. this is an observation of a single instance.
A disaster, written in
old English script,
flourished with dreams
and colorful ink
when all that's needed
was pencil and paper to think,

"all that was wished for
was a lover, or maybe
just another drink."

Drowning in words,
senseless and pale pink
on a glass table of dust
and faculties on the brink
of breaking to shards
pieces - this disaster of a being
is me, needing more than sleep -

Vanilla lingering, scenting the bed,
fairy lights enchant dreary nights
dancing and still the dreamer sleepless,
restless - dream catcher by the door
guarding, keeping wily dreams in
little does the little dreamer know
resentment and nightmares are what
he is keeping, and demons
in the shadows, born of his mind
loud secretly living in his abode.

A demon who remembers
how white wings once felt,
how heavenly light caressed once,
how angelic song sounded,
in silent rebellion of
what this demon is now -
a war waged against himself
for a chance to find light,
and fly feathers once again.

A disaster,
A dreamer,
A demon,
all in one,
all from
one life -
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018

I have no need nor want
for a scripted

Feeling a lil better now...
Thank you so much 216 followers!
Lyn **
Pagan Paul Aug 2018
Its 2 am and I am so wired.
Why can't I just be normally tired?
As others enjoy some restful sleep,
I am in a place far more deep.....

And the abyss calls so inviting,
          a leap into the unknown and beyond.
With clarity I jump out and fly,
          an excuse for reality to quietly abscond.

Psychedelic nausea as the dimensions twist,
forcing me to a place where I do not exist,
a land in which I may be killed or kissed,
but certain my presence would not be missed.

The feelers take a hold of me,
     whispering secrets of antiquity,
revealing images of aeons gone,
     in spoken word, rhyme and song.
I have the histories of many worlds
     all in my mind strung up like pearls.
A line of lanterns alight once more,
     open and willing for me to explore.
And my pale blue eyes no longer see
     the images created by any reality.

It is secret knowledge of ancient times,
I receive in the script of cryptic rhymes.

© Pagan Paul (09/08/18)
Gabriel burnS Jul 2018
love is evolution window shopping for eyes
shopping for genes
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