for I have seen,
     my word is death.
my word in my mind
     creates my life,
and in my life is death,
    so my word is death.

there's so much of it,
so many versions of this

a word written, spoken,
and it is death.
       over and over,
       it is death.

many deaths,
      one death,
      over and over
      by one word.

but what word is it?
      what word that creates life,
      and therefore death?

because this one death,
this death I die,
      over and over,
      by this word,
it is killing me.

it smothers my life,
      my love my heart.

now if only it was
     this word,
a word of love,
      would that it would create
      only love,
      but hate would follow
      in it's stead.

and so it is with all
     these words,
      joy and sorrow,
      hope and fear
      charity and greed.

and so thus it is
       that my word is life
       and it was death
       because in both
       all things are
       over, and over.

and my word was death.

written on 1/7/2017 enhanced by Glass Animals WYRD from the album ZABA.
This is my wyrd, woven from the threads I have provided by my past thoughts and actions; I myself have designed the unfolding pattern of my life." from Urban Dictionary
Tatiana 1d

Waves crash like cars on the shore.
The surf sliding swiftly on soft sand,
Slowing greatly but never stopping.
Then rapidly receding again.

The crashing, thrashing sounds of waves
Used to echo in ears so hollow
Shaped like empty conch shells.
Hear the hushed, rushing sound of a blood-like ocean.

The creatures that live beneath
Water of confused hues, blue and green.
Tolerate visitors of all shapes and sizes
Who swim in their home, to a degree.

The ocean's meaning is deeper than the depths of me,
With a destiny predetermined by the moon.
I can not alter the nature of the ocean.
Just like the nature of the ocean should not alter me.

I'm not as afraid of the ocean as I used to be.

Popping in and popping out again with a quickly written poem about my relationship with the ocean.
jigyasa 1d

she wore her pain
around her neck
adorned as the most beautiful set of pearls
and i envied her

ode to our friendship
she unclasped her struggles
on my shaking hands

this string of majestic mourn
collected from mysterious depths of the ocean
how could i have been so foolish

for now i know why its called a choker

All of these joys, snacks and sights
Carefree meets, or sudden, thick fights
The brisk feeling of freedom to speak
A treasure to those even not so meek
Bless you those who meet my eyes
Only a few more glances, a couple more tries
Gentle waves may yet shape the cliffs
Understanding would be the best of gifts
I welcome what you several have done
With this band come the rays of sun
I take it as a sign, somewhat bizarre
You make me long to learn guitar
To hit the five-chord with such power
It lights candles and topples a tower

Excuse my constant, wandering mind
My thoughts are forever engraved, entwined
I’m not sure if I’ll ever want to see
What I dreamt last night, chasing me  
At times I’m locked inside this dome
I mean, I barely finished this poem
But you’re quite sharp, true and clever
Pick your poison, now or never

Said a man once from a motored caravan,

You are a fool.

Said I,

Perhaps. But in this, life is to me but one side of the coin; the other is death, and both are formed of experience, the one of this world, the other of the next. I am here without all that is necessary for a sure survival not by choice; but finding myself here I will not go back into those lands behind me, where men and women live in desperation, in servitude, in blindness. Not until I have passed through will I meet them again, and then only of necessity. And if I fail in my crossing, what of it? My bones will bleach here in the naked sun and the naked earth; the wind will scour them, and the sands will cover them, until at last they become one with the soil of the desert. My soul will be the same as it ever was, universal, eternal, one and separate from all things that are, existence. And my mind will be let go, in the doing of something great, and in the realization of it's place in the oneness of existence. That is enough. That is all.

even here there is
perhaps a cutting edge

The section of prose in this haibun is, as you might expect, both from its subject and from the haiku beneath it, a fictional account. Therefore the nature of this haibun must perforce be relegated to the category of "a desk work"; a piece of writing which has little or no basis in actual reality. However, in the time in which this imagining came to me, it seemed then that it would constitute a disservice to my Self, if I did not follow it through, and set it down in some coherent form and meaning. So if it is not based in actual reality, still perhaps it may have at least some connecting anchor to it, some form of reality, of understanding, which transcends the bounds of thought. Thus, the haiku. So ends the length of my justifications.

I don't think I'll ever love you but if you want the rain I'll be a thunderstorm
& if you prefer the warmer weather I'll burn so you can see the light of day
I'm not saying you'll ever be the one but I'm so used to all of these thoughts making me crazy
and with you I swear I never think at all
maybe I stopped believing in soulmates a while ago
but if there's such thing as bodies meant to dance and lips meant to touch
I think that's you and I

the world is a dryer.

if there is a washing machine section within our universe, I am unaware of it.

I don't work that rotation. I work the dry shift.

tumble low heat, fluff, repeat.


in almost every dryer known to mankind, some contraption serves as the lint trap. collect all of the lint and excess laundry fluff as it goes through the dry cycle.

in this world, in this universe; if the human race consists of the articles of clothing in the dryer, I am the lint trap.

it sounds almost cutesy when phrased like that. dryer lint is fluffy and soft and the combination of all the different fibers of the various clothing.

I'm the trap, though. the filter.

I must absorb and filter the excess fiber from every article of clothing. if the entire human race is in this dry cycle; I absorb and filter their raveling ends.

it's fucking exhausting.

here's a better analogy. have you ever had your stomach pumped?

they handle this differently now, but when the doctors, nurses, and staff working in the ER would get a patient who swallowed an entire bottle of Valium with a vodka chaser; or a new mother's young son swallowing her bottle of sertaline, they would get to work. one hand activated charcoal, the other hand with a large suction tube.

activated charcoal is what neutralizes the bottle of Valium or the bottle of Zoloft. the charcoal can absorb damn near anything. it pulls out stains and poisons, neutralizing and absorbing.

this is where the tube comes in. the charcoal is harmless on its own, but the ER staff is in a hurry to console (get rid of) the screaming mother; to move the seventeen year old girl with the valium vodka chaser to the psychiatric unit, and continue their night.

insert the long tube to suction the charcoal out of the stomachs of the two children. this is often haphazardly shoved down the back of the throat, down the esophagus, reaching the stomach. flip the switch, undo what peristalsis cannot. it's not pleasant. gagging, rough, foul, I've been told.

the body is working in reverse order. vomiting may be easier. the suction tube is fighting the natural flow of the body. the esophagus is attempting to push everything down down down, and the tube is fighting back.

I am the activated charcoal found in every ER across the globe. I absorb the poisons that human beings put into​ their bodies.

I can pass someone on the street, and my activated charcoal soul absorbs the negativity, the poison, the hatred, the emotional chaos from that individual.

I often wonder if the person feels lighter, noting the absence of the venom that once crippled them. I never ask. I just keep my gaze down and ignore the tempest ensnared within my activated charcoal lint trap.

there are others like me. activated charcoal hearts, lint trap souls.

an ode to activated charcoal hearts and lint trap souls.

February​ 8th 2017
Lioness 5d

Do I say more?
Or do I say less?
I wonder what will make you happier?
I wonder what will make me happier?

A good one, if I got any sleep last night that wasn't interrupted
by your elbow in my back
it felt eerily like a knife I thought, but how unfortunate for me,
when you woke up to find
I'm laying on the floor, finally finding my rest, however poor,
so you complain of love lost
and knowing your fondess for storming out doors, still I wait
with the words on my tongue
my body reverberating the tense energy swirling around us,
because if you do what I think
than what else could be said to mend to cracks in our image?

not much I gathered from the look in your eyes
a look I didn't have long to memorize
you were here, and then not
faster then I could summarize

you weren't even going to say goodbye

there on the waters edge
a shells beginning


there on the waters edge
a shells beginning

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