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I see you at the edge of my bed smiling. You’re right here and so close you could lay down next to me. I can feel your lips. I can hear you whisper “I love you”. I can come home now…….

         If I drink enough.
An obsessive tendency that inspired this.
read me poetry under the stars,
i'll speak from my heart to you the words of love:
the rawest form of poetry.
illuminated by purity and the tranquil silence of the night,
besieged by faded whispers of nocturnal creatures and
the sweet lullabies of autumn leaves,
it'll just be you and me and the stars, darling,
midnight lovers on a journey to nowhere but here.
Oh darling, don’t cry,
this is merely love’s way of getting revenge.
come home to me, darling.

i left breadcrumbs for you along the river, along the trail, but the forest decided to keep you a while longer. all to itself. how selfish.

you’ve always been so sweet.

so irresistible.

honey drips from your lips and coats your face like a candied apple. it’s not halloween yet but the children yearn for a taste of preserved innocence.

you’ve never been a sweet tooth, you say. perhaps you’ve grown sick of yourself. your sugar tongue melts away into bitter lies and sour endings.

the caramel from your tears form rivers in the crevices of your wrinkles. quick, the pool in your collarbones is overfilling, drowning yourself in what you’ve once hated.

now, you’re just the same:
deadly sweet like the rest of them.
i find myself drowning in murky waters,
an oil spill of equations and metaphors,
quandaries and paradigms.
the sun is a constant overcast even on the most blinding days,
faces are grim even with the brightest smiles.
messily scrawled words read chaos on pristine canvases,
incessant scribbles drill canals into my brain.

one tentative tap away,
always one tentative tap away from reality,
but never quite there,
and so i fall deeper.

thin heels clicking against glossy tiles,
heavy footsteps shuffling into classrooms,
distant chatter stalking my shadows,
actuate stings of dread luring me in.

thread-like strings are attached to my limbs,
a marionette with a feeble attempt of procuring freedom,
i am a victim to disorder.

inundated with scattered pages,
furious streaks of neon hues form riots across my desk.
before me stands a mirror of my very own thoughts,
and my mind takes everything in
only to be left with nothing specific in the end.

i work with a jumbled puzzle set,
consisting of no essential moment
to print itself onto my memory.
yet there remains a fascicle of nerves
waiting to be heard,
but it becomes like me—submerged in murky water.

living in chaos is living
where moments are constantly out of focus
and the abundance of simply everything is too overwhelming.

but to wake in the earliest hours of the day
when the sun is still yearning to lie upon a mattress of stars
and neighborhood lights are flickering onto rusty street signs and empty tar roads,
is a blessed refuge from the tumultuous scenes
that plague me daily.

silence slices through the fog of my cognition like a bayonet,
and i blink away my sleep-addled state to take a dip in the tangerine skies.

nascent rays gleam over rooftops,
trees become silhouettes on an oil painting,
and golden clouds blush from the soft caress of the sun.

for some reason,
the experience felt foreign,
like a mirage of all of the images i was never able to grasp.

dawn is a portal to another realm,
a shelter to shield myself from the murky waters,
only there’s still no escape—
i’m just no longer drowning.
i find that i can breathe.

(chaos is loud but silence is louder;
i wouldn’t mind listening to silence for a day,
because i’ve already been listening to chaos for years.)

I am afraid to own a Body—
I am afraid to own a Soul—
Profound—precarious Property—
Possession, not optional—

Double Estate—entailed at pleasure
Upon an unsuspecting Heir—
Duke in a moment of Deathlessness
And God, for a Frontier.
I’m buried in a cocoon of stories
From poetry,
To biographies,
To dystopia,
And romance
So many stories
Of so many people
Or just figments of the author’s
Sitting atop wooden bookshelves
Waiting for the right person,
To pick them up
And get lost in their story
For everyone has a story to tell,
Some are overly exaggerated,
And other’s are rarely heard
The important thing is
That we share our stories
Through word of mouth,
The internet,
Or in a notebook
To be found by future historians
Tell your story
Believe me, you won’t regret it
Courtesy Flush

     Well it happens all the time
And I’m sure it’s happens to all
And I’m not ashamed to admit
I cringe from what rises from the stall

Your day is going well but you
Must go inside to take a ****
Your a good person and really
No one deserves a torcher such as this

So please I have but one request
If you must go number two
In a public restroom, you know
It’s just the right thing to do

Remember the last time you walked
In and you thought something had died
And the smell was so overwhelming
That you broke down and cried

There’s nothing worse than walking in and
That smell hitting your nostrils in a rush
It’s really the least you can do is give
The person walking in a curtesy flush

Written By:Charles Kean
Copyright © 07/29/2022
All rights reserved
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