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Billie Marie Jul 15
How do I begin to pick up a pen?
How does a thought take me to Neverwhere?
They never can ever tell us the reality
of the realest questions
and, for some, it’s just fine.
The rest need more.
Something? Not a thing.
Someone? Quite plausibly.

Won’t let go the tap tapping
or drumming or the pokey poke.
It’s there. But, you keep your head in the game.
Cuz, ya know, what else is there around here?
Spiritual desert with no substantive food.
Like biting into a juicy hamburger
and tasting sawdust only.
Only if those ones
could just keep their blinders
in proper position,
proper place to look and stay
and march along on
in single file lives
to mark one existence onto the next.
Who though?
All for who?
Or, what?
God needs no marching ants such as these?

They who can’t see
will surely deny the real world
you know is here
and call you a blind fool. Ha!
Jokes on jokes on yokes
of jellied stroke marks.
Get off my back and let me live
how I see. Not through your grimy,
filthy, streaked and yellowed seeing.
But with clear and pure eyes
you hadn’t touched yet.

What happens to those ones?
Where have they gone?
Looking, looking close and away
and all eyes sense
is dust mountains and cave dwellers
and absence of light.
Where are the true ones
filled with the light of the rising Sun?
Come home!
The place with the voice pointing out cracks
is singing a song so longing and sure
and cannot look away.
Not with COVID and all of this world
awakening to see what they -
the blind ones -
have done while the rest have been sleep.
Blinders melt in sunlight
and aren’t needed
by the light of the moon.
Here one finds the way by heart.
Here one sees for real
where we truly are. And then?
Ah! And then,
what else can one be except
T R Wingfield Dec 2016
I thought of myself
As a phoenix
Set aflame

I'm just*
Ashes and Dust

Look at the mess that I've made.
I have a tendency to self-analyze. And, as often is the case, I am my own harshest critic. Often I tear myself down; sometimes I strip myself bare. I retrace my failures and the consequences of my own poor decisions. This habit is similar to prodding a canker sore with your tongue. It's painful, and does nothing to heal the would, yet it is almost impossible to refrain from doing. The nagging pain of an open sore is contrasted to the acute pain of direct contact;  but there is relief from the constant irritation in the brief intensity of addressing these sores directly. (Though counter-intuitive) It is, somehow, soothing. Perhaps by proving it could be worse. Perhaps it's just licking a wound.
Francie Lynch Mar 2016
Today, we sketch ourselves.
Draw a circle for the head.
Two dots for eyes,
One for nose.
Draw the mouth.
Truer than the mirror.
No narcis-stick needed.
No Leonardo or Sigmund.
A self-introspective selfie.

— The End —