My writing is not like the others',
The pin-pricked prowess of principal in
another author's cite is indifferent to mine:
The spice in soliciting that salivating bite,
the singe that would make Tobasco sauce cry-
My words have no such gripe.
Instead, I write
A mellow slumber that is my words,
Carefully thought of, written, or typed.
9/18/17

It explains itself... I suppose this is what you have to look forward to.
I've stated it right away,
At the top of the page and my lungs,
a simple guideline:
"not about love"

Obviously,
that desperate rule got broken.
And so it seems only logical that
Once it became "about love",
all words left me
after such a blatant act of betrayal.

Can't blame them, I would've left myself if I could.
The only time I write anything about love, bye. I've only loved two people in my life and I know this second attachment will stay with me forever as well, like mold at the corner of your bedroom's ceiling. You keep painting it over, spraying with chemicals but the damn thing is always coming back. Also that's me explaining my hiatus, hopefully now I'll be able to write more since these warm feelings turned into somewhat harmless mold.
When the pain magnifies,
Unhealthy habits can grow,
Adding fuel to the misery.

Instead, I become lost,
But I lose myself by involvement,
Getting active by being energetic.

Exercising the mind and body,
Whether I am reading a book,
Or working out my muscles.

Numbing myself through activity,
You can say being busy is a bad habit,
But it’s better that the demons of drugs.
Saint Audrey Nov 2017
Investment
Proper planning less demanding
Blowing out like a candle
Burnt through and drowning
In my own wax

Stay classy world, its going to be a long one

Stay active always until it starts to bite
At the space behind your eyes
As you lie to yourself that you still have health left
If integrity isn't what you're interested in

In the end its fun enough to bloat
Forgetting your true status because
Despite your best intentions you choose to forget
The drugs only get you so far
And you speed up the natural ending

So many enemies to create for the fuck of it
So many amazing new creations to unlock like
A mason, stare into the stone and wonder why
It comes up looking like you put
So little heart into the thing you've just bled dry for

Like, why do we lie about the things we have and have not
Like dropping yet another line lower is something
To be proud of
And picking up something else someone else cant
Is tantamount to an accomplishment

I was never good at improv
And life isn't that funny anyway
To make a joke out of it is intrinsic to staying alive
But finding time to praise the idols of false self made
Mannequins

Too many humans lost themselves and punk rock is dead
So time to end it
if an faggot is an bundle
of
sticks
lior sucks
what molly
calls dick
read my
views
talk
to
who

sell your books
you clone like freaks
catching me sewn unique
bend you over
an
other


of
my
mountain peaks

think you know who

i
am

just because you say we
you got me confused for
the bastard and whores
me myself nor
i
do we
adore

take your money throw it in the stream
molly klaudic did was my dream

take her and me put us in the book
watch me stick her in her dirty hole
while you pay me to look

you have nothing better to do than fear
and think about me

you will plant nothing
but an furnace
of
trees

i
am
never alone
me myself nor
i

did
my
Heavenly Father clone

Stake an other sniff of reality
you could never get an grasp
on
the
depths


of
we

if
an
faggot
is an
bundle

of
what lior sniffs
baby bark
?
















...
..
.
suck on that
...
..
.
the night falls
behind the curtain of the black sky
with a silver coloured bulb called moon
floating weightlessly in the background,
together with the billions of stars
shimmering like the glow-worms.

the clouds fly here and there
with the joy of becoming grey again
leaving behind the dry memories
of summer and sunny days
hoping to become raindrops again
and fall on the soft leaves of earth.

©Dhiman
I don't have paint or brush,
Or mallet to shape a rock;
I don't weld or chisel,
Or mold clay into crocks.
I don't wear an apron
To create art-food forms.
I can't meander on a stage
To emote the audience.
I can't focus a camera lens,
I don't have what it demands.
I don't use any tools
To do what artists can;
Except for
Words, just words,
These flow without end
To color ice and snow,
To carve mountain tops
Down to pebbles in a stream,
Shading dales, glens, woods and mead.
Equipped, I am, with all I need
To create an art that you can feel
As well as any gallery piece,
To arouse emotions in the reader,
To bring to life as a carver
Wields his knives like an author.
from the other side of the street
our soulless eyes meet,
we send waves of cravings
for our broken hearts to hold
but we don't step forward
you stayed back, i don't move either
we walk along the side of the road,
we smile at each other,
and watch ourselves
getting vanished into the distant,
this is what has become of us:
silent and afraid, forever...

©Dhiman
We have become ghosts to each other, unknown and afraid...
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