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 Jan 12 Brumous
Acora
until it becomes wretched
and primal.
reposting
 Jan 1 Brumous
Aseel
I don’t want to be a princess.
I prefer to be a wall
or a shoulder
that some one can lean on
I don’t want to be spoiled
I want to
fight
Get dirt on my clothes
Clean them
search more
fail more
know more
see everything
Try everything
I want to share the road
With some one
Running not carried
I want to look behind
And see MY footprints.
I want to be free
You never did
I never tried
And together
we relized
surely realized
that we were never meant
to be seen by
lovers naked eyes
No

If you could
please leave a photograph of your face on your way out

Just so I can cherish before my eyes grow dim

I painted half of my face blue and the other red
Now I have to lay in the bed I've made

Don't you love me
Won't you love me
before my eyes grow dim
The whispers in my ears
roll out the resurrection of the mourning

My heart or head ?
Which one bled the most ?

The thoughts turning red
The heart to water
I can barely twist the truth
I'm so wrung !
1000 poems
Good place to be
1000 and that's
all to see

Best wishes
to all ,

Goodbye . . .
 Nov 2023 Brumous
Nat Lipstadt
Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath


Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013
your effusive and lengthy comments are each a poem in their own right.  

Tinkered with June 22, 2013
With a push from Bala,
A serial peeper, thank God!
 Nov 2023 Brumous
hullzy
i would give you
all the stars,
all the planets,
just to see that smile
again.
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