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CautiousRain Sep 14
It's all too much to handle;
the tangible and intangible
taunt and mock me
and the vibrations of the room shine through
this lowly, softened flesh of mine
as if to punish my existence.
trying to clear out my draft folder some
The sky spills out
In rose gold as the
Insects begin their song
And the lightning bugs
Start their laser show.

Emerald tree frogs hum
Along with the locusts,
And tranquility seeps
Like chlorophyll
Into my bones.

Darkness covers the landscape,
Slow and steady.
Rose replaced by lavender,
And again by indigo. A loon
Cries a lonely tune to the sky.

The stars wink and
I inhale deeply.
Summer nights smell like
Moss and creek water,
A reminder of heaven at home.
Adrienne Jun 30
i breathe
bubbles rise
Underwater is
Silent can't hear
little kids scream and splash
my hair flows around my head
in rolling auburn ways
no goggles,
chlorine stings my open eyes
I could stay Forever
in this vivid blue expanse
peaceful, blurry, silent
my lungs burn
and i'm reminded
of my human need for oxygen
feet push with a crack
off pristine off-white concrete
shimmering with Sunlight patterns
I gasp
breath fills my lungs
peace, still lingering
is ruptured by a Kid
with a Water Gun
pitch black god8 Apr 2018
5 Sensory Deprivation Relevations  (Happy Birthday Will Shakespeare)

I     the smell of sad

odor colorless like *****, similar familiar sidewinder effects,
musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted,
saddling saddlng, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives,
pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays
and even everyone’s good literature (even Will’s)
good wishes good intentions and mood prayers
to the nearest lay god
on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends,

don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer,
your doppelgänger ******, your mirror’s inside hiding out place,
I, who has your sadness smell into my skin cells crept
waft woof and warp wet weft-woven
into the sad receptacles hidden in my
head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face

there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable
at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable,
so closer than close, so close that the internist
cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first
because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all

this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots;
to eradicate you must dig down deep,
six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment,
uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root
great god gone,
but the saddest truth
stench odor yet present

II    the taste of joy

the joy of cooking is not a gene in my litany possess,
but the buttery taste of joy I know, I know,
it’s a real princess rarity,
the hard costs of finding and keeping it,
I’ve paid endlessly and willingly pay on

the taste of joy is like presents under the tree,
shock surprises delights lives/life, customized, infectious
(except for socks, no matter how joyously exceptional),
joy to those whose buds never blossomed for its taste
readable on some one else’s, anyone’s ****** expression

I think of it as the taste of fast traveling cumulus whites
upon my eyelashes blinking as they are speeding you by, but happy
for ten more behind before the evening stars takes over

the taste of joy is physical, there can be no denying,
concentrations can be found in the lips and the fingertips,
which you think of as a tandem, someone else’s on mine

but it ain’t necessarily so; the taste of joy, shared I, having submitted to others kisses carried on the wind that
found their mark and were well received,
poems from the heart
that arrive well,
as their intended is sleeping, and
as intended, as waking gifts

the taste of joy in droplet tears
when you are notified that words
you joined in holy matrimony made you cry,
because the reader did, wept for two,
the weeping of contentment released,
free at last from container confinement;
this particular taste of joy is in the  
recovery and recognition that these
are not for you,
just joy peculiar these tasted tears for whomsoever sheds them

III   the hearing of truthful

truth am told is oft served cold and hard up for the hearing,
best avoided tween noon and midnight and any time a
bathroom mirror is in the vicinity; though religious men lie
too easily; bathroom mirrors cannot; a character flaw for sure,
but the truth to be trusted is this: no one is truly contented, always there are the richer, the more famous, the employed and
someone above who has more, more burdens of a different sort,
better quality losses and pains unseen not dreamed of

truth tastes terrible and is awful sometimes noisy painful;
it hides well in the stink of sad exposed to the atmosphere when exposed it turns red humans blue

truth may set you free, free to be what are you are or truthfully
an admission of what greatness you have to release the trick is
use the correct scale, do not let the wrong sized ruler rule you,
the truth, if you hear, hear it unfiltered w/o the bias implanted
by not your people; hear your poet voice growl like a blues singer and be truthfully satisfied like no thing no person only you could hear it as you intended it be spoken

IV   touches of fantasy fantastic
secret confess: touch my fav cause when its juiced with
mental visions of what might be, it Saturday satisfies and let me weep happy smile silly and is mine all mind; yes another’s tip
has sorcerer powers of revelation
but alone by myself I yet
and flow; my hands are right sized, my arms reach around myself for so designed, and the pleasure is mine to give;
mine to take,
neither better or worse if self-administered,
touch myself anywhere anytime and fantasy over dreams wins,
rise up, touch is a language and I speak six or a hundred;
listen to the sounds of touching and be touched human

V  insights for the sightless

at last we close the deprived
with an elegant elevation
sight overrated when imagination exists,
cannot be restrained
this the revelation
you have proffered and preferred all this time

have pity on me
I crystallize the unseen with the replacements
of my conjuring
the other senses lend a hand
telling me look up look up, be life save life
let your madness blossom in the spring airs,
the coolness of a first fingered ungloved snow
a mathematical function from the other four derived,
sightless an impossibility for with one alone defeat the
sensory deprivation and give tongues to words


read my face
incapable of,
but how now silent bow my head to Will
for teaching the way of words
traced upon
a fool or a king's tongue,
two too human,
so that poet may ken
his senses keener,
all for the better,
for the betterment of all
and now you understand how came this poem to be writ
in the pitch black
Lyndsey May 20
Poetry is blood.
It's passion,
it's a hammering pulse,
it's pink flesh searing
with delightful pain.

Poetry is scent.
Its her arousal causing his senses to tingle,
It’s anticipation thick enough to touch.
It's pulling his hands free of his control
with urges he cannot deny.

Poetry is sweat.
It’s the sheen on two bodies intertwined,
it's a trickle from his forehead
falling between her *******
gliding it's way down.

Poetry is noise.
It’s the crescendo made into his mouth
It's the sharpened cries of desire
When she hears his moan
against the skin of her neck.

Poetry is tears.
It's the cry in the night that is primal,
it's ecstasy bubbling up
from below a still surface.
It's emotion that takes over
as she comes down
leaking from the corners
of her still shut eyes.

Poetry is pain.
It's the sense of loss she feels
when he withdraws
It's the shock
of a too sensitive caress.

Poetry is taste.
It's the sweetness of shared lips
in a crashing kiss
It's the salted burn
of happy tears
he kisses from her face.

Poetry is a small death.
It's reaching the top and falling together.
It's a pause,
broken by an unspoken promise.
It's not knowing if this was the end
or a new beginning you achingly need.
It's the instant that ticks by
in between breathy sighs,
and the moan of a dawning moment.
This was a combined writing effort
Your cologne is on my shelf
So at least I don’t have to miss your smell
Seanathon Apr 3
When the water boils
The pasta spine breaks
And the sizzling bake refuses to stop
I lose myself in the aroma around
Cooking like this
I am
Soundly simmering within the not
And at the same time
In the time which stops
Cooking a sensory swim
Azurel Mar 22
Fingernails clack on
Piano keys, yellow teeth
Sour milk on marble...
CautiousRain Mar 17
These turbulent smashes of a hammer
smacking down and cracking
through my hollowed ears
destroy my ability to breathe,
and continue to torment me as I walk;
I hear everything,
the sound of ever-impending weeping, wheezing,
or perhaps the sound of scrapes skidding
down my legs,
but nearly everything makes a sound
and it forever engulfs me;
I can't be in these spaces anymore,
even imaginary sounds puncture through.
oh this is old (January)
and also sensory overload is bad biscuits
You do have a smell.
I remember you asking,
though I was too drunk give you a serious answer.
Deep and sophisticated,
not so sharp that it doesn't make me feel sort of warm.
The slightest hint of grace in it,
inviting me in when you put your arms around me.
Your presence lingers with me.
It makes me feel soft even when I'm alone.
I am starting to see myself as I would want you to.
You do have a smell.
You smell like the color violet,
and it is healing me.
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