#ww
In another life,
She looks at me with dark eyes full of desire,
Nervously laugh with her tinted lips and straight teeth,
Her freckles move up and down her face as she talks.
She talks-
and talks,
And I stand-
and listen.
She asks me,
Tells me why her eyes travel,
Her heart is full of hope and hesitation,
I can see it trough her eyes.
In another life,
We’re not chained to bells and crosses in uniforms-
I don’t **** the slow-burning fire her heart seems to burn in.
The potion makes me brave,
The poison fills my veins,
My beating soul isn’t filled with prejudice-
my head makes up the difference between uncertainty and adventure.
In another life,
My foot changes paths-
takes a leap of faith,
I kiss her.
Right here and then.
In another life,
That’s how it happens.
All because,
Youth is the beauty of hoping-
and dreaming-
of a greater picture,
But not doing a thing about it.
And so and so,
All I ever was-
I ever will be,
Was unchanged-
Unfazed-
Untouched,
Unloved.
Dec 17, 2025
Dec 17, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
Dear ####,
How long has it been? To be honest, since we stopped seeing and talking to each other I have been miserable. You'd be upset with me, I've started stress smoking because of us, or because of what we were. I was thinking to myself the other night and I was brutally honest with myself. I still love you, and I'm sorry for it. I'm sorry because I never wanted to put you in this position, I never meant to fall in love with you, but I'm sorry the most that you couldn't bring yourself to say the same, that you were falling in love with me.
I'm sorry.
Now I am left to grieve, like you have died but its worse, your just down the street, just out of reach. You have decided that I was no longer part of your storyline because loving me scared you. Left with all of the memories, all the emotions. All the times we touched, you make me feel like I've never even laid my fingers on you. As if it never mattered to you. Like I was holding the shadow of your hands, snuggling with the idea of you. I cant go anywhere without memories of you, you in my bed, on the couch, playing cards at the table with my Nana, your hand in mine, your lips meeting my shoulder, even just at the grocery store. You claimed me as yours with Marker "####'s Kay", but it was as if your love was like the ink, bright and beautiful in the moment, but not strong enough to last forever, not permanent.
But its okay, one of these days I will release the ideas that if I just wait long enough, you will realize that it doesn't matter if we are the same gender.
Its okay because I will heal.
Just so you know, I don't regret a single moment of us.
I miss you.
Love,
Your Kay
Aug 3, 2022
Aug 3, 2022 at 4:42 AM UTC
<>
“Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much?
Have you reckon’d the earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by Walt Whitman
§§§
*A night of reckoning, calculations repeated-checked, sums divided,
did I use too many, or not enough, words to be understood, verbiage eloquent,
did daytime reveal my poetic meanings, or double-occlude it’s essence?
I have reckon’d Manhattan Isle, circumnavigated its riverbed boundaries, a younger me, by kayak rounded it, from the Spuyten Duyvil Creek to the Battery, 14,500 acres give or take, a lifeatime to complete a dead reckoning, an unfinished full configuring.
but haven’t reckon’d that Earth and I will be entwined/entombed in each other’s arms, until such time, one of us or both, will be reduced to cosmic dust, our pride, our poems, will be equally unimportant and irrelevant, I reckon.
in retrospective rear view perspective, come to understand that we spend every moment of our lives, reckoning, determine the odds of which fork we will take, laugh out loud, for each moment, a poem is titled, the resultant, a poem - who needs a muse, you’ve got choices!
So, yes, Walt, the questing answers you’ve requested:
Aye, yes, yup, but no to pride, for pride and poetry in one sentence is
a death sentence at multiple levels, pride, poetry, ego, suicide,...sins,
so better no proud for it is the entree, the invitation to fall-fail...*
§§§§§
12:03AM Frieday
May 15th
my deadline missed,
but what is three minutes,
but empty pride...
Manhattan Island
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 8:51 AM UTC
<>
“Stop this day and night with me
and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun,
(there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things
at second or third hand,
nor look through the eyes of the dead,
nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either,
nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides
and filter them from your self.”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN
§§§
*These admonitions are the ten conditionals
commandments of straight talk,
boy,
you’ve spent a life lessening and lesson-learning
and all laid before you for taking, gaining,
but for what? for naught?
Start this day, having spent my night with you,
possessing less than what is my now
completed,
this,
my unfinished commencement,
provisioned, a simultaneous beginning and finishing,
emptying a void of
fulfilling questioning.
What does this life desire of me,
that it granted and then removed,
the knowledge of perfection?
leaving me striving, writhing,
shivering unceasingly,
in my saddened, bursting, hacking
and hackneyed chest.
I walk the same cobblestone streets,
observing the descendants of your ancestral tugs
portaging, paying homage to East River tides,
carrying those goods,
the origins of all poems,
from where? to where?
unknown,
but always past our conjoined eyes.
And yet do I look, with our merged eyes,
filtered by a century’s discoloration,
forgive me Walt, for now recalling sights
that you first observed,
that I witness first hand,
100 and fifty years later,
sharing a stolen wisdom with you.
Todays new millionth sunrise bids me stand,
observe the river traffic from my kitchen window,
accept that my takings are debts,
a few, even paid back,
yet, most still owed,
for the origins of all my poems,
are oddly and oddity old,
unoriginal, second, third handed
as I look through the eyes of the dead,
and yours too,
this my unoriginal,
original sin....
(pretending I am a poet)
§§§§§
6:24AM
Manhattan Island,
By the East River
Thu. May 14, 2020
May 14, 2020
May 14, 2020 at 8:33 AM UTC
Recently I'vve changed my name to Eridan Ampora
He's from HomeStuck
I'll be wwriting poems about Blood Colors and the Hemospectrum from here on out
After I'm done Ill be back to wwriting normal poems
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC