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Kewayne Wadley Mar 2019
Truth be told
We walk pass each other without a single word.
Stubborn to the presence of each other.
Yet we look with secrecy, afraid to be noticed.
Terrified of becoming strangers.
Unknowingly judged by thought itself.
The grief of lips unspoken. The sudden appearance of a familiar feeling.
Afraid to speak, the sudden urge of hey.
Today but one of a million.
Disguised as a single moment
We but two people lost in the same moment.
Yet nothing is familiar.
The distance between us grows.
Truth be told
I miss you and can never tell you
While today is but one of a million more
That I moved my mouth
But nothing came out
Normally, it's easier to open up to strangers
Omni Winters Oct 2018
What is it like to think with your brain?

What is it like to think with such a mind like yours?

I want to look into your soul, to see who you really are.

I want to explore the depths of your beautiful and complex mind.

How does it feel to have such intelligence?

Is everything about logic and rationalizing ideas?

I wonder how you feel.

I want to know your emotions.

I want to know your heart:

Who do you love?
What do you love?
   What are your interests?
  What are your passions?

I want to know everything.

How is it that I have such an amazing person presently in my life,
and I don't know anything about them?

You're such a mystery.

A lock that won't budge.

Why is that lock so stubborn?

© 2018 Omni Winters
October 1st, 2018
Cobalt Feb 2018
I will write
Until my fingers bleed
And the angels beg me to stop
Shay Paul Jan 2018
Here I sit,
watching the reflection of my past grandeur mock me from within it's folded paper pages.
The ink letters dance a mirage of bittersweet enjoyment in the face of my frustration.
The drawings of flowers twist and curl over the lines in the book,
clutching onto every word,
every syllable of woe written amongst the leaves.
Faces fall from petal soft whispers,
and within their atramentous eyes
I find myself lost.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
There are the two choices. Wicked, wheel-men curving towards that which I wear in the evening when I paint on my black suit. The pitter-patter of organic matter, the Metropolis ground fresh. You tell me raspberry, I tell you I am not impressed. And then from the inimical lips, those bards from distance, sand spots and hordes of watering holes I place fresh Republicans on- and they were stealing the magazines.

Jury on.

Four devils they figure some, four devils. A anthelmintic potion to square away the worms. The pink worm, who takes long-distance telephone calls on your roommates only moments before the red worm, his head shriveled and his limbs crying from ******, she the blue curly worm; she is what we've been looking out and everything about this evening has slipped in the pattern we expected. Red light in fact,

They used the concatenations of frog legs(this was the big deal since My Mother loved the chelura of some tropical varieties of frogs and funny-legged), banjax the first one before the weather catches the summary being the news. Going as far as the the ecstasy of officials leaving the scene. The species catching its last names of life- genus and family alike racing towards safety.

And so I build in the fly zone. I haggle for President, and make sacred the realms of figures; denaturalized are the entanglements of humans, even whatever the mephitic and bellicose shadows shend and fordo their greatest powers.

I lull  and lust, my pugnacious frazil, just like my recalcitrant logomachy that I ****** and slide angrily and profusely with m and everything I try to do. Just so long as you can see me usufruct and lobby forthright the message.

Mine. Hate. Anxiety.
'Dip' represents the 'dip' from "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?"

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