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Meagan Jan 2013
~The sensation of experiencing everything
   Everything is never nothing; worthy of remembering
~ Beauty surrounding your senses, inhale with every breath
   You're invincible, the outline image of mystery
~ Looking over with increased anticipation
   All words are shuffled with variation
~ Confident in your surroundings, anywhere and everywhere
   Thrilling vibes, never realize a judgmental stare
~ Only recognize the unrecognizable, every detail
   Every aspect of life, all in different realities
~ Immortal visions, images sufficient for a lifetime
   Liberating memories, sensational at its very prime
~ Gleaming within the mind, I feel the feels you feel
   With intertwined consciousness, we debate on what's real
~ Implausible explanations, never impossible excuses
   To acquire this forever, would inflict internal bruises
~ This level of fun, fundamental producer of freedom
   For, this prosperous feeling rids you of being numb
  ~Meagan Williams
   1.15.13
The endless ideas my mind interprets the word "Fun" to mean.
The touch of
your soft fingertips on my back
delights me.
How can one resist the touch of one's significant other? It simply can't be done!
I've been kicking round here
for nearly twenty years
I'm a singer no one's heard of
I play for smoke and beers
I'm an overnight sensation
I'll make you smile or bring tears
I've been kicking round here
For nearly twenty years

Right now I'm playing at a place
On cinder blocks and wood
It's not the worst stage that I've played
In fact, it is quite good
The crowd is small, the beer is cold
But, it's the best bar in the hood
I'm playing for my beer and smokes
On cinder blocks and wood

The music is my heartbeat
The people are my muse
I play because I love to
****, man...I've paid my dues
I'm an overnight sensation
Playing what you want to hear
I've been playing for the people
For near on twenty years

The crowd looks up, some clap a bit
Most live above the bar
At least if they don't like the show
They don't have to go too far
It's just me up here, alone and bare
Taking tips in an old jar
I play mainly for my beer and smokes
For the folks above the bar

I've never made the big time play
I hit the road but not for long
I write my stuff, but cover most
Because in truth, my life's a song
I sing old stuff more than glammed up tunes
To sell out, to me is wrong
If I'm not here, I won't be far
I hit the road, but not for long

The music is my heartbeat
The people are my muse
I play because I love to
****, man...I've paid my dues
I'm an overnight sensation
Playing what you want to hear
I've been playing for the people
For near on twenty years

I know I am a dinosaur
I sing songs that drip with age
Most bars I play once hosted folks
Who sang these tunes upon their stage
But, now, it's me and empty chairs
Beer and smokes make up my wage
I know I am a dinosaur
Singing songs that drip with age

I sing County Western
Not 'bout beer, and girls in shorts
I sing about the country
Of heartache, not of sports
I show you what's beneath the crust
Without makeup, and with warts
I sing Country Western
Not 'bout beer, and girls in shorts

The music is my heartbeat
The people are my muse
I play because I love to
****, man...I've paid my dues
I'm an overnight sensation
Playing what you want to hear
I've been playing for the people
For near on twenty years
ottaross Jul 2014
so too the shifting powdered sands
from pulverized mountain ranges
that sift with a
whisper
through my fingers

and the planet turning
grasses creeping in
then going away again
baked out by the aging
swelling sun

but the sands still drift in lazy dunes
grains freed from their hour-glass
still shifting under foot
and warm through my fingers

and sift with a tsk
and a breathy sizzle
and melt away afterwards

as the dry touch of your
lips upon mine
on a sun-baked afternoon.
Number one of a trio of allegorical images I'm trying out.
Dark Jewel May 2014
Whats with the attitude?
Why do you subtract so?
It doesnt make sense.
No sense at all.

Due to the past,
I feel nothing.
I am not sensitive,
Only specifically.

Get used to it.
I dont love like I did.
Beyond blue eyes.
A pallid mask is hid.
I really hate it when a person, parent or friend becomes an *******.
Chelsea S May 2014
With my fingertips,
I want to send the pulsing electricity
you give me
down and over
your sweet skin.
I want to be as deep
and permanent as the tattoos
I trace.
Marlon James Apr 2014
I'm afraid.
I'm a daylight dreamer.
Everything scares me.
Everything is so ******* intense.

I wish i was more like a stone.
I'm always alert

The silence is claustrophobic
I see everything with four eyes
The ones in my face and the ones in my chest
I'm sensitive

But i got to pretend i'm not.
People think i'm the exponent of manly.
Classify me as "cold".
But i cry, alone

I melt the ice
into tears and trade them for my fears.
Just because i'm big
It doesn't mean i'm strong
Marlon James, Porto, portugal                                            29-04-2014
The warmth of the mug
pulses through my hands
as I lift it to let another sip
of that aromatic golden liquid
touch my dry lips.
I love tea. Sometimes I have 3 to 5 cups a day. It helps heal me, so I love feeling cleansed and healthy after drinking it.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
I trace my finger around. With red lipstick on I wear the skin of the pets I had, looking like a marigold shot through the head, my bare skin is barbed in the back. Such trouble and quiet with the wrap-around, the cross-walk, and floral shop as I browse. The white elephant in the upstairs bedroom, is making it hard for every one of us to sleep. With this Africa becomes a disease, that I unwrap from a cotton white sheet. When I breathe life is going good, under the spells of wicked and word. I like to call out in the night, so with no response I can plead for the courage to think; all the suburban philistines try to help me, but I can't tell a joke because I cannot read. Every thing amounts to being fat. Or liquidated in the most pathetic singles party for Karl Lagerfeld.

Numb fingers slur the words as I type telephone numbers that end in threes. I see a notice to be called upon, but it's hard to remember what day it is when your job only pays you in financial advice, "Don't do as I do, but please just do what I say." And I can smell that. The approach that a hunter brews in his midnight solemn cup of tea. Where a voice chimes in while a mouse runs out, dragging the corners of my eyes in a lagging meme, it doesn't do well to even be yourself sometimes, once while traveling I couldn't see. Come that morning I had left my hotel pass inside my favorite pants, black denim toting paint from a ******* shot, a picture that explains my disease.

The fifty inch fan hums an anonymous tune that when I turn quickly towards it becomes this feral baboon. And is it hardly based on fact or is it the illusions and the myths that Christopher Robins struck inside of me. With his griseous hands made of soot and of gouache, that worshipped animals that wear clothes outside. And even sometimes there are z's that transform into other creatures that hum real fast and talk out loud in nursery rhymes, a Whatsit and a Woozel are totally, too much for me. I turn the fan off and lay back down, and fight the world off with hands from another guy, much braver than I who doesn't even have tattoos but he's the top wordsmith from Buckingham. What a beautiful treat and such a magnificent surprise that the elephant lays down to die. Of course that's when my mouth dries up with smoke and my voice turns into the vanilla flavoring that everyone hates, and then too I felt like laying down to die. But I'm not 97 like I had thought I'm quite sure that I'm still alive. The white moon shines into my bedroom window at night and I pretend that I direct for the sky.
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