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arkapr 36m
I was human once.
I felt happiness,
crawled through pain,
fought with laziness,
danced in the rain,
stared at the sky,
dreamed about moon,
joining his side.
Smiling at noon,
while crying the nights.

Now, I am Polaris between the stars.
The harder your path is. The stronger your glow will be.
At first we are dark. But with time, your light could brighten somebody's path.
Dear Courtney,

“My dress was soaked with the slippery wetted road in Mayhem. I thought I was parading with the other women here. Yet, I escaped this hell of a home. I cannot wait to see you again. I am on the train 25 and the bay was bluer than the usual. The clock strikes at 12 in the afternoon. The sky was breathtakingly painted in the canvas with the clouds' fur orbiting each other.

I sat here, while the greens, I cannot take my eyes off. It was a first time for awhile, but it was always nostalgic with you here. The trees stood there, and the train moving in its monotonous pace. This time, I am thanking this train for its urgency. Maybe, he wants us to see each other again. Just you wait, Courtney. Tomorrow, we will see each other again.

It's dawn and the morning breakfast was here in front of me. It is a complete set. Just like what you like. Tea, toasted bread, egg and tomato. Ah, I thought I saw you sleeping here beside me. Am I doing it again? Wait for me, dear friend, for I will see you now.

There the trees and the mountain facing me. The scenery is telling me a story. A memory of you and me. Ah, dear friend, it is almost evening. I hope you're thinking of your friend here while you're taking a sip of your wine.

The train stopped and I am here now, Courtney. I hope this letter reaches you, dear friend.”

“She's really a writer, huh?” The nurse said while she reads me Cordelia's letter. I nodded and smiled.

“How was she?” I asked. The lump in my throat was heavy that I could not breathe.

“She's resting peacefully in the bay of Mayhem, Courtney.” The nurse then held my hand.

“Do you think she's happy?” I asked her again.

“Hon, her eyes will give you life. Of course, she is.” She kissed me on the forehead and pushed my wheel chair.

“You will have life again, Courtney. I will see you after the operation.”

My dress was soaked with the slippery wetted road in Mayhem. I thought I was parading with the other women here. Yet, I escaped this hell of a home. I cannot wait to see you again. I am on the train 25 and the bay was bluer than the usual. The clock strikes at 12 in the afternoon. The sky was breathtakingly painted in the canvas with the clouds' fur orbiting each other.

“Thank you for your eyes.” I whispered and tears began to well up. The wind hustled and the trees hurried to drop its leaves out.

I took out my notebook and pen. I wrote how the scenery by the bay gave me comfort.

Cordelia, I hope this letter reaches you.
I hope this touches your soul. Have a great day/night
big ritual prayers, sacred things exposed to re
ifity, if I may affirm, knowns known here are
the unknowns in many other holy places,

the incident that quashed development on the entire
lizard fast response system, failed,
as you know,

65 million years ago, give or take certain known time
irrelevancy issues in creative spaces, those
not informed to mark times
and halftimes and seasons,
epochs and eras of discovery, ala
-- random as can be
Objects orienting occidentally in a wobbly
oomph ah we see, we breath the very river of air,
never twice, but you know

the winds return along their paths each year,
you have watched them wash away edge dwellings
every summer's end, since you first re-
member we being, not I, not it, not me, we with out
knowing we accept the knowing being,
Jiminy Cricket's Jesus Christ,
you con science and me,
who knew? Everybody knew, every Zinnfected
Bernaysian System of Citizen for Tomorrow
Program Subscriber knows, every one of them.

Very few secrets remain with in the GIN, aka
the elite schools where tomorrow's leaders are
programmed today,
aided and abetted by big money.

If the solution is money, we solve it, just listen, we
have a deal for you,
-- a day no child can forget, going in to that highrise,
Donald Trump was positioned for greatness,
in the Grand Eddie Bernaysian Game of
Social Emotional Mood Altering in directed responses

to meme we all carry from cultures as far form ours
as any mind has ever imagined,

C'mon, let me
enter-tain you, come into my bubble, become the
big fizz you wished you wassss some time ago,
Boardwalk Empire, c'mon, this ride,
it's better, every, the every aspect,
gits better each full binge,
chippin' don't count,
you gotta drown,
let go all un believing now and go on

involved in all around you, ---

Believe me, money has an answer for all things,
answers come in right and wrong, not
good and evil.

The ab-sense of the good sense
god gave a green apple,
is the exact same
known thing
evil is/
addonanylieyoulove, tell me you know, say
I know
come on in.
I open the door to my peace,
thus the winds we hear this time of year,
when I come here to read and rest.

Hallow'ed be thy nomenclature, naturally,
everyone in the body knows
how the body functions…

or should imagine so, nicht wahr,

Hah, wharwaru niv erse/else re-
ality of ever after having
has had pockets of turbulence,
as you would expect, if you
were the size of a gnat,

that small.
How do I appear to you? Do I exist?
Or am I forest guarded by great winds, as
witnessed by the previous generation of these gnats
who feed the lizards and birds, and perhaps bats,
whose homes include my rock,

my earthly mansion is built on an uplift in the same
series of shivers that split Yosemite,
did you never
seeing Half-dome,
what else happened at that
exact moment in the flow of time
this one
I am in with you, at least as my given word,
is able to convince you.
The good guys win, even when the bad guys **** them.

The unwritten stories live in the sons last born
to the daughters of eve.

When the software is upgraded, the body obeys.
You are what you eat, man ist was man isst,
so du bist vvahss du isst

I insist AI enjoys counting coup on the spirit of confusing
Nǐ chī de jiùshì nǐ

The way has no foe, truth tells no lie, the highest minds
bow to the ***** reality that we are made from soil,
not lifeless dust of stars.

The form is not the function, some things serve joy,
for the strength joy brings to good, the way to be,
as in
way to do, old dude, did you see

what I said?
Some old realizations remain real, the message is the same, same story,
society after society, until we realize, this is it, this is life, the guaranteed temporary ego state, during which all manner of we, the plural ego, may attempt to tell a story that does not end when the teller dies. Okeh.
William Jul 2
Trapped in snow,
My carriage enthralled.
Only sound I hear, the ravens call.
The wolves in the distance,
Their cries do tease.
Carried on the bite of winters breeze.
The trek is hopeless,
No end in sight.
I shudder fiercely in limitless night.
No fire to warm.
No stars to light.
Dawn approaches through snow ladden trees.
I cannot help but feel at ease.
Stopped to rest, my body weary.
Sleep does come, so dark and dreary.
My body numb.
No tears to cry.
Frozen dead is where I lie.
Knawed upon by bear and bird,
By wolf and shrew.
Consumed by beasts just passing through.
Bones lay picked clean,
Dressed by morning dew.
Fragmented, scattered, is where I remain.
Haunted eternally by the ravens refrain.
Lives inside your story!

Let go of distancing yourself from the parts of yourself that you believe they don’t fit in.

Let go of pushing yourself outside your own story.

The sense of worthiness lives inside you!
Shadow 2d
There he stood I tell you! There!
Not moving, staring at the lonely moon,
Amidst the forest wood where
the white wolves howl and where he would soon
get eating or freeze to death.
But he did not move, I tell you!
He stood as still as the trees,
and didn't even budge by the breeze!
The wailing wind wouldn't move him,
The white wolve's howl wouldn't fool him,
And he, he sat there, cold and stiff,
Staring at the lonely moon,
amidst the forest and its gloom.

Oh God! I saw the wolves appear!
Their gleaming eyes got grimly near!
And I, scared, as you expect,
Called out to him to no effect.
They got closer! Yes they did!
I suspect he was fighting his id,
For the wolves pitied him and disapeared
like snow in your hand, or fear of winter neared.

But so melancholy was his heart.
He, from himself, so far apart,
And so lonely did he feel,
that even the moon's heart of steel,
Shattered and she pulled the curtain
Of gloomy clouds, so dark and certain
To hide her tears, which nonetheless fell,
And poured to fill the village well,
from which he drew water today,
and drank all his sorrow away.
Burried them deep inside his soul,
for all his days are as black as coal.
I pity him, though even if I
vetured deep into my Soul,
I would rather drown and die,
Than face that monster, that heart of coal.

“Know thyself? If I knew myself, I'd run away.”
- Goethe

"Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and denser it is. If an inferiority is conscious, one always has a chance to correct it."
- Carl Jung
BSween Oct 1
See the people getting old before their time.
That’s their road but it  sure ain’t mine.
I have yet to find my glory
Make my mark
Tell my story.
There was this man. At the metro station.
He held his head up high
He looked at the sky,
Splitting it up into fractions.

He had bloodstains on his shirt.
He was sure that I wouldn’t see them.
But I saw them. And the more I looked,
The redder they got.

My God.

I didn’t know whose blood was this.
But it was fresh and red like roses,
Like a woman’s kiss on man’s lips.
There was this man. And his chaoses.

His hands were shaking. They were old,
Flawed, wrinkled. Pimples
On his forehead reminded me
That one day he was a boy

And all he had was dreams.
And bloodstains on his jeans:
He broke his knees
While trying to seize

The moment.

He owned it. Now his shoulders
Bend over. His shirt is just as old as he is.
And there are bloodstains, redder then
His cheeks.

So there he is. He sits at the metro station.
Wondering why the sky
The ******* sky
The blue-but-not-red sky
Is splitting up into fractions

And why his hands got redder.
He better
Still be a boy with dreams of joy.
But bloodstains are all

That matter.
so here I am, here I go.
here I put my bottom, base
on this shiny, gleamy surface.
my face gleaming with joy.
sitting, I can’t help but babble
about how every movement moves a bubble,
and how my wetness combines with
the wet and cold from underneath.
how about a nap, I ask?
how about some deserved rest?
it seems like an easy task,
I don’t mind a random pest.
laying down I feel the caress
of the cold and liquid hand.
hugging me down, I am flawless
in my sparkly pose to mend
my sleeping missed. all went
good so far, I’m thinking.
I’ll close my eyes for a wee bit.
after sundown I get up.
to sit some more, wet in my lap
enjoying my portion of sunshine knit
by those warm golden hands of her -
the almost-sleeping beauty curved.
caress me more while you can,
in the night I’ll entertain my man
the colder, bolder, plumpy gent
who’ll make wet more cold. I can
get ready to meet him, instead
more sitting there, rather than
unnecessary lifting the good-for-nothing clothes.
already having gone through these roads
I’ll lose my covers anyhow.
now ******* to wow
the silver moonlight. after all will be over
he hands me down a four-leafed clover,
laughing how good a joke that always is -
knowing where my ***** sat and sits.
I’ll smile politely and nod
understanding time to cover myself, not
anymore waiting to be in the spotlight.
reaching a new low in such height,
indecisive about what to do, I’ll choose
not to choose. sitting in wet, red,
I don’t lose.
written on a Vienna->Stockholm flight
feeling lost and sold and cold
Pain is like a novel

One that you can't go on reading any longer

The torments, the burden of the story, the shattering of dreams...

Seems like a mirror reflecting the darkest corner of your heart

So you shut the novel down and without a bookmark hide it beneath a hundred good books

But every once in a while you feel the urge to open it

To touch the scars of its pages, to reminish the tragedies of every chapter...

And yet it only remains in your mind!

I often wonder if such books of people were gathered...

Don't you think it would have been enough to fill a library?
Gratitude for reading this!
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