"But this friction is wearing me out,"
Ankit J Chheda 

I can’t seem to shut the noises in my head,
Replaying all the words said,
I’ve been trying hard to avoid it all
From the moment the fight began to the end,
But this friction is wearing me out,
It’s making me sad and crippled,
I feel like I am dying inside,
There is no safe place to be,
All these egos clashing,
All these talks of unfulfilled expectations,
Everyone wanting the other to be as per their definition,
The putting on of fake mask in front of you,
To hide what I want to say in fear of another riot,
Inside I fight myself to be what you expect,
Outside I act like what of me I feel other’s expect,
I’m a loser in the race of what people decide is best,
Of what people think is fun and what they think everyone should have.
I fear I’m not like metal, which bends to the smith’s will,
But I’m like glass, hard enough to sustain the weather,
But ready to break when the blow strikes.

"Straining against friction burns,"
Paul M Chafer 

We have our dreams,
My perfect stranger,
Though we never really met,
Perhaps; never shall meet.
Still, we amble along together,
Navigating the lamentable brook,
Unfulfilled promises, foaming,
Swirling around our bare feet,
The cold of reality numbing our toes,
Skipping over rocks of broken ideals,
Once cherished, but not here, no,
They are fractious and discarded.
Trickles of tormented sighs, tease,
While avoiding guiding ropes of life,
Which would snag our thoughts,
Straining against friction burns,
As they attempt to bind us tightly,
Holding us prisoner, when in truth,
We are capable of incarcerating ourselves.
Although, our minds are free, yes,
Living beneath the same impassive moon,
Bathing within its stolen light,
Stealing our own, moments of peace,
As in sleep, we slip away unnoticed,
To hold each other, so loving,
Above the clouds, sharing caresses,
Smooching around, and round,
Oblivious of telltale tears on our cheeks.
A shooting star arcs across the sky,
‘Shall we wish?’ You ask,
‘Nah,’ I reply; wishing is for fools,
Be content; acceptance is the key,
My perfect stranger,
We have our dreams.

© Paul M Chafer 2014

A, 3 am poem, for those with lives entrenched in reality, capable of escapism and loving from afar.
"The passion and friction"
Evan G 

The yarn ball of fate

Unraveled the string

That first connected our hearts.

The passion and friction

Filled our fibers with charge,

Closing the gap of infatuation.

Intimacy and commitment

Wove us further into unity

Aligning our purpose.

Two matching woven socks

The product…but

Then it was too late.

We noticed the soles

Were missing and they

Were cold.

We tried to break but

The friction had been too great

Day in and day out

For years as we were woven.

The static was too great

And our souls remained cold.

"The passion and friction"
Evan G 

The yarn ball of fate

Unraveled the string

That first connected our hearts.

The passion and friction

Filled our fibers with charge,

Closing the gap of infatuation.

Intimacy and commitment

Wove us further into unity

Aligning our purpose.

Two matching woven socks

The product…but

Then it was too late.

We noticed the soles

Were missing and they

Were cold.

We tried to break but

The friction had been too great

Day in and day out

For years as we were woven.

The static was too great

And our souls remained cold.

"heeze frigid determination with a rough friction"
samasati 

whenever I feel the tremble start to ooze its way
from my compact mind to the tips of my fingers,
I immediately anticipate the fate
that I have always been able to foresee
whenever that familiar first jolt of an anxiety attack sails its way,
like a vessel in a storm
throughout my entire body

heart pounds an intolerable caution
lungs wheeze frigid determination with a rough friction
that lightly scrapes my core with a ticklish flutter
shoulders lift up into a hunch; absolutely automatic
the top tray of teeth lock clenched into the bottom tray’s hold
a fleet of air hisses in and out of two nostrils like a monk’s meditation
capacious eyes flicker from
the lid to the lash to the iris to the pupil to see everything

everyone is staring
everything is too intimidating to look at for longer than two seconds
then, the tunnel
the clearest, acute vision waters into a soft edged frame,
into a pixel mud of a picture, into a black peripheral,
black corners rounding in – a narrow and petty circle
I use it and follow it to wherever my
deepened impulse decides to take me

silently contemplating,
silently speculating,
silently examining
the fears I let my feeble self
get swallowed up in.

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