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Standing here in this celestial space
A small stage in the cosmic arena
Looking up at the vast canvas above
Wondering, what I may stumble upon
Is there a replica of this planet anywhere?
Or, am I lucky to inhabit this isolated planet?
Where we have only each other to rely on
And the only place which harbors life
And let go of our delusion of supremacy
For, we maybe all alone in this universe
Maybe, we do not understand it yet?
 Sep 2014 Tiffanie Noel Doro
axr
In the corner of the street
a man plays an old guitar
Nobody notices him
He continues to gaze at the stars
The city's noise
Is capable of drowning his voice.
He plays without hesitation
Never asking for attention.
He can't afford anything new
The kindest,
give him a dollar or two.
His lifestyle is frugal.
They say he owned a fancy hotel.
His strings are worn out
but the sound is clear
His only love is his beer.
In the corner of the street,
a man plays an old guitar
The same one
who never sang about his broken heart.
Reflecting a story through a poem
Maybe
The falter of her step
Will trigger a
Mini tsunami.
But
There still is
The sound of gravel hitting stone
And
Brick upon brick;
Reconstruction
means
Beautiful noise, too.

She'll cause the world to
Stop and stare
Either way.
He created a night for him
with the dark metaphors
his poetry tossed on to the air;
from its ember buried under ashes
oozed little by little,
two drops of scared light.

Alone, in the cocoon of the memory
of her words, he distilled and drained
the magic potion of poetic expression.

In it was ingested, the intensity
of sudden lightening
that burns down everything
in to ashes

like the tides that occur high and low
what if ,at will, single source secretes
both poison and nectar?

with your eyes mutely speaking of desire
you are deft in signalling both---
the ascent of love, that creates in me
the instant capillary rise of passion
and
love's descend, as if the monsoon has dissipated
and just a sprinkling announcing rejection!

who are you, reveal your true face
poetic trance at the moment of my inspiration
or dark poetry, gushing out on it's own
from a secret spring, deeply hidden?
Like an albatross around my neck it sits in the room.
Devoid of warmth, lacking a purpose.
It defeats me every time I enter.
The clean white sheets greet me with a mocking crispness.
Clean, virginal, untouched, unused sheets.
My energy and resolve are depleting,
what I nearly was is fleeting.
Time to concede these empty sheets are never to be filled.
Time to retreat, concede defeat and take the cradle apart.
© JLB
20/09/2014
15:53 BST
 Sep 2014 Tiffanie Noel Doro
ryn

Fix
me•
Mend
me•Stitch
me•Overhaul
me•Amend me•
Alter me•Modify me
•Enhance me•Patch me•
Adjust me•Heal me•Correct
me•Reform me•Shift me•Renew
me•Remedy me•Rebuild me•Aid
me•Assist me•Change me•Rectify
me•Troubleshoot me•Revive me•
Assemble me•Calibrate me•
Service me•Love me•
Repair me
In dire need of servicing and maintenance... Spare parts are in short supply...
One day there was a bright glowing canvas, a pure sparkling white
It was beautiful, but not complete
Then someone came along and drew lines on it to form flowers and mountains and streams, it was more beautiful and it made the natural white look more distinct
Then one day someone else added color and the canvas radiated and became more and more complete, it seemed whole and functional
Suddenly, one day someone came along and slew the canvas, destroying its color till it showed black, and an ugly black
The canvas seems so drab so empty without its color, so lifeless
People refused to help the canvas, refused to anything about the canvas slayer refused to listen to the canvas’ plea
Instead the canvas slayer’s free to roam free to hurt and damage other canvas
Who will restore the canvas?
Who will bring justice?
Why is the canvas slayer free to roam while the canvas feels imprisoned, crushed, victimized?
Why is the canvas treated like a criminal?
When will the canvas feel free, joyful and peaceful?

THIS POEM IS DEDICATED TO VICTIM'S OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE AND OTHER FORMS OF ABUSE.
I went through domestic abuse in the past and that is why I had wrote the above poem.
i hear it beating
like that thunder in the dark
its a pulse beyond blankets
and hot tea on cold nights
i hear it filling
every crevice of the world
its stalking, close, breath
every neck can feel upon it
i can fall for it
my rabbit mind sneaks into the trap,
its an eagle heart remaining free.
that's what this downfall has in store
When things are kept simple
Lot many are confounded
Maybe, simple is not so easy
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