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Valsa George Jul 27
on a sea strand,
have you watched empty shells
mercilessly tossed from sea to shore
and from shore to sea?
often I shrink and reduce to such a shell,
with jagged and broken edges
colorless and empty

among many a debris cast on the shore,
i lie half buried under the sand
waiting for some mighty wave
to wash me away
all the way to the sea

how tedious is my voyage
shuttling from him to her
and from her to him
unable to openly confess
who weighs more
on the balance of preference

through how many alleys and by ways
I have wandered, questioning my identity!
am I a puffer fish, being toxic
the fisher men have discarded?
a jarring note in a discordant symphony?
I wonder....! I often ask myself!

destined to grow
in mercurial climes,
planted in arid shallow soil
with the tap root trimmed,
branches pruned,
growth denied,
I, a stunted bonsai!

still I dream to be a towering tree,
that in profusion gives fruits and shade!
a midget aspiring to be a Goliath
a hollow reed,
longing at once to be the singer and the song!
When a divorce occurs, the threat of losing the home and losing the purpose of life confronts a child, especially in the younger age. Children of divorced parents experience a real trauma and they begin to doubt about their own identity!
Sofia Von Oct 2013
Strangers are my best friends
Even feelings are for even people... Know anyone who matches that description?
I'd like to cuddle away the problems
Fuck someone while crying
I don't think so
I want to be felt and loved. And craved like fluent chocolate gushing
Down the corners of my mouth
Lapped up by your tongue
I wish

Scratched letters over a blank canvas
Make for messages of clarity.
Nails on a chalk board every time you etch, but its the promise of the next word that makes it tolerable.
These pick-up-stick letters are angry and depressed but fit together like bread on butter. creamy song lyrics you scribble but there’s no tune.
An obstacle foreseen and ignored.
The rhythm of voice catches, flame to Syncopation, and feebly you grow with your words to become the song

Sung now, in churches
Do they realize from whence their hymns originated? Deep down, long ago, in the valley of hidden emotional pangs
Your envy was too rich for your body
Yet big enough for this... congregational ritual.
Heart tears are beautiful for creation
To existence
They're treacherous

I smile and admire my work
Blow a smoke ring over the wet words not quite solidified on the page
Better with a flaw
I don't smoke
Im a social stress smoker
Self diagnosed
Self medicated
So you see I'm an aspiring artist
Although most of my works are shit, I don't really give up.
Its just this part of me I can’t always explain
That happens
Their my impulse of choice
A painting, a drawing, a poem, a song, dance, all music (save country).
Even little quick thoughts or plans I have are peaceful to record.
It's times like this night where I should really be fast in my REM cycle, dreaming of crazy scenarios to fuck up and uncover a truth upon my waking.
But I'm on my notes
Typing away the babble of nonsense thats streaming on demand
I'll exit with a line
Or so, I'm not sure
Breathe in the plant, puff out love hits and over expose the motion picture. Each passing present memory is precious to the cycle I don't really want to define.
But I'm in love with its inhabitants I can't get over them
And each day is another episode
But... Is this a sitcom, or a documentary?
These words, are time filled

Cold feet shouldn't be a thing.
Joe Fernandez Jan 2017
Things in-between sometimes lost,
Things not recognized at great cost...

Things that compel,
Things that make us swell,
Things at times we fail to tell...

Things we know,
Things that flow,
things we do not show…

Things we wish we could control,
An unrealized future an aspiring goal...

Sometimes very real things are things Unseen,
Without tangibility on any physical scale or scene...

Nonetheless they still Impress,
Realities beyond what we all may possess...

However without these " Invisible things" would we really exist?
Kid yourself not, please try not To insist…

Sahil Sharma Aug 17
Book of life brings various mysterious chapters,one such spells my visit to village..
It was so awe aspiring, but no man's clock can be rewinded to bring that timeless age...

I shouted in wilderness like the way toy means to infant's rejoice...
my words couldn't jump over the peaks, bouncing back my voice...

I was panting and cramps got better of me,pushing me to rest on flat limestone...
But enjoying every bit of that pilgrimage and witnessing melodious chirping tone...

I resumed my journey upwards but soon grey clouds triggered the quenching rain...
Closing my eyes,i opened my arm,kids with cherry cheeks called me tenuous insane...

It seemed as if almighty took me to the heaven, being surrounded by the flowery and green hills...
In the east breeze those school kids were skidding down the slope with their paper windmills..

An aged shepherd was looking for some shelter,not for himself but for his lamb and sheep..
Such care, such love,that's why the wool machine searched the banyan where her master could sleep...

Some urbans haven't travelled to such pictures just because of it's tech- remoteness..
Wish i had my own hut in the vicinity of woods giving utmost peace,but I'm hapless...

Darkness is floating through narrow lane yet eye catches only citylight..
But wish i could dream again in countryside under shiny moonlight..
Sharon Talbot Jul 22
Doctor Larch peers out the window,
Pulling aside brocaded curtains to hide
The grief that he will not show,
The rending emptiness he feels inside.

As his son Homer rides past the sunset,
Not knowing where he goes
But aspiring to see the wide world,
The ocean at Mount Desert,
Seeing wonder in the expanse
And worlds inside a circle of glass.

He has taken with him his heart,
A dark picture of frailty.
He finds unexpected work in an orchard,
Leisurely harvesting round, garnet jewels.
The nomads, dark and wary,
Ask him to read about death and stars.

There are rules for the workers.
And Homer finds that they apply
To no one, neither nomads or
Curious young men.
He sees in the errant father
The reflection of his own,
The man who made him good.
“You are my work of art”
He wrote.

Like an artist with his painting,
Who resists giving it away,
So Doctor Larch holds on to him
Hoping his adolescence ends
And he returns.
Finding peace at the last.

The lack of rules bring about a sea change,
Allowing forbidden love and pain.
He ventures out once more into the vacuum
Of conscience set free,
He devises his own rules about the womb
And how to help those in agony
But eventually…

With all the rules now open,
There is nothing left for him to do.
So he boards the migrant truck
Just as the pilot returns, broken.
He watches the struggle with a wheelchair
Sees his lover watch him with her yellow hair
Knows her future, years of sacrifice.
And he admits at last
That he has a purpose,

The train to St. Cloud huffs slowly away,
With Homer standing in the wet snow.
There is the old asylum,
The orphanage and home on the hill,
Almost black, with the sunset behind,
Homer begins the long climb.
He approaches slowly.

But then, a burst of laughter
And children from the door
Flock around him, dancing, shrieking,
Some holding him like an errant dog,
Who must be told to stay.
“Will you stay?” they ask.
“I think so,” he smiles in irony.
He is home at the last.
I wrote this while watching "The Cider House Rules", one of my favorite films. Homer realizes that his life on his own is not that much different than it was at St. Cloud, yet it's much emptier.
Revol Emina Sep 3
Umbra were my acquaintance.
Rehabilitating was never been on my plan.
Daftness was there to give me a chance,
Iciness was the best attitude that I’ve done.

Elysian was ready to hug me, yet;
Lucifer got one of my feet.
Acting that I never been felt any sick,
Catching my breath, I’m waiting for someone to save me by their trick.

Aching heart has been pushing and calling me,
Beckon me to end everything in order to be free.
Aspiring to turn myself as a beautiful literary piece in deep blue sea,
Notifying that I’ll never see how badly was reality.

In the end I’m all alone,
Listening when will I ever fall and be thrown.
Lachrymose face is my perfect pattern,
And no one seems to bother how they left my heart broken.
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