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 Oct 2013 wandabitch
J R
I long to catch a fleeting bliss
A surging river in my veins
Flood my body with your tears
To wash away the emptiness
Take my breath from parted lips
Comforting impermanence
Summon me to clay and dirt
Swallow me in sweet embrace
I want to write in hyroglrifics to conceal my words from myself, cryptic messages not i, not no one, can unravel.
Instead thoughts lay beside my heart on my sleeve
This same sleeve that got ripped open a long time ago, and ever since i have become an involuntary show and tell
Yes I've tried fixing it but the staples, awkward and painful, hold place until next time
There is always a next time
I took the shirt to the physician and she told me it was broken beyond repair
And the best that I could hope for is these makeshift staples, strewn along where the label used to reside inside the cuff. It used keep my secrets in. And not let anything out.
See, then I had the choice. I could unbutton the cuff and occasionally I would, but devoid of choice makes one warier than the average warrior.
Back when the shirt first ripped, in that crucial bit just tucked away under the cuff, I used to pester the doc about the possibility of a transfer. She fed me all the words that I longed to hear, but now I realise she had the choice. Her words were nothing more than a bandage laden with cotton wool. Just temporary. But they cushioned me at the time.
Hey, at least she gives me staples on prescription.
One spoke: "Come, let us gaily go
With laughter, love and lust,
Since in a century or so
We'll all be boneyard dust.
When unborn shadows hold the screen,
(Our betters, I'll allow)
'Twill be as if we'd never been,
A hundred years from now.

When we have played life's lively game
Right royally we'll rot,
And not a soul will care a ****
The why or how we fought;
To grub for gold or grab for fame
Or raise a holy row,
It will be all the ****** same
A hundred years from now."

Said I: "Look! I have built a tower
Upon you lonely hill,
Designed to be a daughter's dower,
Yet when my heart is still,
The stone I set with ***** hand
And salty sweat of brow,
A record of my strength will sand
A hundred years from now.

"There's nothing lost and nothing vain
In all this world so wide;
The ocean hoards each drop of rain
To swell its sweeping tide;
The desert seeks each grain of sand
It's empire to endow,
And we a bright brave world have planned
A hundred years from now.

And all we are and all we do
Will bring that world to be;
Our strain and pain let us not rue,
Though other eyes shall see;
For other hearts will bravely beat
And lips will sing of how
We strove to make life sane and sweet
A hundred years from now.
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly.  You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open
Love, we must part now: do not let it be
Calamitious and bitter. In the past
There has been too much moonlight and self-pity:
Let us have done with it: for now at last
Never has sun more boldly paced the sky,
Never were hearts more eager to be free,
To kick down worlds, lash forests; you and I
No longer hold them; we are husks, that see
The grain going forward to a different use.

There is regret. Always, there is regret.
But it is better that our lives unloose,
As two tall ships, wind-mastered, wet with light,
Break from an estuary with their courses set,
And waving part, and waving drop from sight.
Light spreads darkly downwards from the high
Clusters of lights over empty chairs
That face each other, coloured differently.
Through open doors, the dining-room declares
A larger loneliness of knives and glass
And silence laid like carpet. A porter reads
An unsold evening paper. Hours pass,
And all the salesmen have gone back to Leeds,
Leaving full ashtrays in the Conference Room.

In shoeless corridors, the lights burn. How
Isolated, like a fort, it is -
The headed paper, made for writing home
(If home existed) letters of exile: Now
Night comes on. Waves fold behind villages.
 Oct 2013 wandabitch
R
he deserves
 Oct 2013 wandabitch
R
as she wishes him
the best because
after all,
thats what he deserves.

his sweet blue eyes and
boyish smile make her
euphoric.

his laugh is deep just
like her roots are for
him.

he seeped into her
soul and he can't
fight his way
out.

and why should he?
its a nice place to be.
after all,
thats what he deserves

he deserves to be on
her mind all day and
in her heart all night
and in her soul
forever.
he deserves happiness, one that i cant give to him but its one hes already found. and i love him for that(:
Let me be your Muse.
I will be your inspiration.
I will ****** you into creativity.
I will give you everything.
And give you nothing.
I will lure you to your doom.
Lust after your insanity.
Revel in your demise.
Come pet.
Relinquish your soul.
I will reside in your mind.
Whisper with your tongue.
Breathe with your lungs.
And you will die brilliant.
Let me be your Muse.
 Oct 2013 wandabitch
p
distant
 Oct 2013 wandabitch
p
i have began to know what it is
i want
but
now
i
am
impatient

longing
for that
one
thing
and it seems to be so distant from me

i can glance
at it
and
admire
it
dream of it
but it is still so distant from me
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