A lonely boy looked up to the sky
With teary eyes about to cry
While standing still at one place
Tears started streaming down his face

He slowly started to fall apart
His body was trembling and it broke my heart
His hands were trapped in a golden chain
I just wanted to erase his pain

I kissed his face and kissed his hair
I kissed his clothes he liked to wear
His cheeks, his chest, his hands and lips
And even his fingers and fingertips

He closed his eyes and started to smile
And stretched out his arms after a while
Even at this dark and hopeless day
I was able to wash his pain away
Ontop a boat fishing with dad,
Afloat stale water, a lily pad-
My line caught, in water lilies,
Dad laughing, states, they’re my Achilles-
I reel again and cast away,
Hook in air, converges far astray,
My mind, no longer an array-
As an oil painting by Monet
White space,
Blank,
Nothingness.

Then a splash,
Another one,
Again and again.

Until it's done,
You don’t anything,
But splashes.

In the end,
You see a BIG idea forming,
So big it SWALLOWS you up,
and everything goes back to white.
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I'm swallowing my emotions
Going down to my stomach
Just to make me even sick;
No escape, let me say
This outgoing nightmare
Doesn't describe the way I am
Doesn't dictate what I feel.
Fear.

I wish it could vanish
Like paint poured in water,
From the tip of my paintbrush,
Ink blue as the Black Sea.
How I wish I could cry
Rivers flowing on my cheeks
Pellucid on white skin;
Body crushed by heavy waves.
Afraid.
Another poem for rough times.
Blue
It flickered lazily in the back of my mind.
At the thought of letting go,
My mind became a pebble skipping across frigid waters.
Blue
It murmured in my ear, a breath tickling.
At the thought of falling,
Memories of heat and flames rose to meet
Blue
New poem, exploring some thoughts I've been having of late. Especially skipping a stone across a lake and how the mind will skip over difficult subjects.
Amanda 3d
The ocean is a powerful, all-knowing being.
She causes the wind to whip my hair over my shoulders,
while the salt stings my eyes, making it hard to see clearly.
She leads me along the damp sand and entraps me there.
This endless, all-knowing being whispers in a low gravelly hum,
to let the cold bitter waves soak my feet.
I bravely oblige and turn my body towards the water,
stopping to feel each wave gain new control over me.
I'm getting what I deserve.
Spring-fresh portent
Drowning broods
Eight droplets
Valued over an ocean

Sky, painting humour
Bristles shed resemble
Trembling shade
Mirrors facing one another

A lot of rain
Just as well
We don’t control the waters
     surrounding our borders
Or the ones inside us when
They break
​             and spill forth
​​                                  in regret

But at least we have Kodaline.

The thirsty fall
The swelling fret
They can mean worlds
MOTH 4d
Have you ever heard the saying, If you play with fire, you're bound to get burned?

Well, to me, I think it's just as bad as touching the hot water. The difference is that, if you do not have control over the water, you can't really tell the difference of whether it's cold or hot until you touch it.

Now don't get me wrong, you could probably feel that tiny whiff of heat or cool air, but it's not as easy as looking at a fire and thinking it'll be hot.

So, why am I telling you this...

Well, water is the same color, whether hot or cold.

Cold water does not hurt you as quickly as hot water, yet it still hurts.

People are like hot water.

Life is like cold water.

And you...your soul...conscious, if you don't believe in those, that's lukewarm.

Cold water can feel really good when thirsty,
And hot water feels good when bathing,

But lukewarm water...it's simply lukewarm.

Not bad, but not good.
Rope
There's no point in splitting hairs
No point in pointing a finger
It's done
The pages are all torn
Trashed and scattered
And dragged through the gutter
Like yesterdays garbage
And all that rope
I supposedly gave
A phantom
There never was a rope,
A leash, nor a chain
Those things are not for sale
At the well
No there never was a rope
Except perhaps
For  the one attached
To the water bucket
From which
We still
Quietly sip
Through
The miles
Of sea
And storm
And time
As long as we stay
This way
This well
Will never dry up

2016-2017 for the attempt to make unconditional, the conditional.
From my collection Bits And Pieces/Slamming on the Hollywood Freeway 2017 amazonbooks
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