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Running as fast as I can to a familiar place.
Stucco walled buildings surround me.
I keep to the street, I know this street.
Three feet down there is a ***** next to a dandelion I refuse to make a wish upon.
Street light after street light, 5 minutes turns to 3 and my footsteps are silent and unmovable.
And in this moment exhausted, exhilarated, and exposed, I stand.

There are many moments like this.
Strident silence is my mistress now and in our affair, there is solace.

Running as fast as I can to an unfamiliar place.
Barren dessert hills surround me.
Shrubs, pebbles, boulders and dirt.
I expel disinterest onto these foreign trails and watch as it soaks the ground with apathy.
Dull greens turn to offset browns, crippling reds and insensate charred black.
And in this moment, isolated, destitute and infinitely free, I stand.

She will always be here, there, tomorrow and now.
Comforting me with her deafening screams, I found acceptance for what I can not control.

So I run to her.
My creativity is haltered,
i'm stuck on a continuous train
I could stop if my brain would kick in and find a exit or a object to throw in front of it
but its stuck moving,thoughts over thoughts thrown away down they go, down the drain.
I don't even think twice I know its not good enough for them I ask why, why isn't it good enough for them?
i'm running low on fuel, im drained and my creativity is on the floor stomped all over by people I don't know,
I scream for them to stop,
The train came to a halt
  I got off it was the final stop no more room for me I was empty and useless and no good for society.
but when I got off others did too. They pleaded that I bring back what I once had i cannot i stopped the train for some kind of acceptance I was on my knees for people who didn't know me
and yes I was begging for them to show affection
They are strangers, not friends not family but there criticism seemed more important to me. its what the people want
not me.
Were forever stuck on the train of
Rahul 2d
The dawn is blank
like the paper on my desk,
nauseous from the night before,
frozen like the ink in my hand.
Blank sheets all over the floor,
poetry is my mad lover,
blankness is betrayal,
a war lost,
unsung heroics of failure,
bittersweet kiss of defeat by my rhymes.
I pile up the blankness of the paper,
words echo through the gaps between them,
I look close, there's still poetry.

On a page, third from the top,
there's an ocean of yellow paint,
Van Gogh swims merrily on the surface
with both his lips glued.
after a dozen pages, on a paper not so yellow,
a doctor walks the street
with a suitcase full of gifts,
and a dog called death.

I wrote of a woman who
was burned by every man she loved,
wrote about each piece of her heart
thrown in the depth of space,
next to the moon and far apart.

I wrote of Plath on a coffee-stained paper,
of how intensely she held
the lips of death under the gas oven,
of how the smudged ink of Ariel cried
on the table,
screaming and roaring for her.

On some papers, blank and inked,
I wrote myself,
blankness isn't defeat.
blankness is the longest chapter of my life,
it's a legend.

I sent my senses
out across the galaxy...
From the farthest corners
to highest peaks
to deepest caverns
I sent my defences
in the other direction
knocking walls
between thoughts, feelings, reveries
rummaging through memories

The squads returned empty
having wreaked havoc
inside and out

In the meantime
inspiration called, and left
to find me absent.

Writers life, inspiration
And there she sat in silence
embedded with folds of loneliness
amidst terrible despair
and ear shattering silence
in a hope that somebody would come
who could possibly
untwine those folds
replacing the cold with his warmth
I thought
you were the sunlight
slicing my dark
when all you did was
sketching everything black
I have
always been
like the riverbank sand,
waiting for your waves
to drown me completely
We seem to be sitting still
but we're moving in our fantasies
giving ourselves the warmth
we all have been trying
to sense in this cold world

Each end had a beginning

And Every beginning will end.
It starts with a soft hand shake and mostly end with swollen eyes.
moon Nov 28
the best words are those written in tears.
mine are written in reopened wounds and the scars on my heart.
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