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James Conson Aug 2018
I look in the mirror
And see someone broken
Unmotivated and stuck in the
Past with dreams of what could have been

I see eyes burning with tears
A chest coursing cold from heart to shoulders
An ache so deep
It is like a black hole

I met her in my first class of my first year
My professor seemed like an ***
So I turned to the girl next to me
and told her he seemed like one

Her deep blue eyes looked at me
Her pale skin shifted as she turned slightly
Her lips came to a small smirk
And I fell in love

She was more intelligent than I
Always was, and here was a boy
Who thought himself a man
How wrong she would prove him

She told me she agreed, and that perhaps
I should be careful who I told my opinion to
For she was not a student in the class
but his teaching assistant

I was stunned but always clever
So I played it off well
We didn’t speak
For another week

But when we next did it was perfect
Never a moment dull, or lost
Never and idea or motive that was dropped
We were as long friends were

She invited me to join her for lunch
She always made the first move
But I didn’t know I the fish
And she the shark

She was twenty two and I was not
She was hot and I was not
I was lost and she was not
I was uncertain and she was not

She told me
Over that stained table
She had been focused
On her studies In high school

And in college
Too focused for a relationship
But now just a month into her masters
She realized what she missed

I ask myself in the mirror
If I was lucky
Or if someone else had
Taken that seat

And made the joke I did
Or perhaps not a joke at all
If they would have been
Her fish

So looked at me
And asked
If I was willing to give
Everything I had to her

Her blue eyes which marked her
like no girl I had ever seen
Gave me a look so sharp, so hungry
I was helpless and in love

So I was hers
The *** was incredible
Different from anything I had felt before
As we explored one another

And found what we loved
She was always so hungry
A nymphomaniac my friend called her
And I laughed it off as luck

But it drained the color from the edges
Time would slip as if
The *** was fueled by it
And once again I laughed

For what man can complain of ***?
With a beautiful, wanting woman?
None
I was just being cowardly, unmanly

And so months passed
Wilful ignorance and burned bridges
There was her
And there was I

That was all that mattered.

I look back to what comes next
And scream in anger
Shake in spite, for it was I
Who ruined and saved myself

Clarissa
Oh Clarissa
The blonde girl who I met
One random fall day

Partnered for my history class
We met at the end of the class
And walked outside, discussing
What comes next

And as we figured out
A detail
Of a project
I don’t remember

A cataclysmic coincidence
That shakes me to my core
There was my girl
And that is when she and Clarissa met

I had never seen her eyes
Sharped like a blade on stone
For anyone else
But they were there, and they stared at us

Again I was back at the lunch table
I know it not the same I had met her at
But yet I remember it as such
And once again, there was a shark and fish

I leave, for not even a minute
To refill a drink I should have left empty
And return
To a proposal in whispers

So she and Clarissa lead me back
To the apartment
And the whole way
Are arm in arm giggling

Then there is a blur
I’m there in the room naked
She is on the couch and Clarissa
With sun-touched locks covering her *******

She told me she had no interest in women
And her clothed body
And eager eyes
Told me this wasn’t what I thought

She wanted to watch
Me make love
To a woman I had just met
And didn’t love

For her fun, for her interest
And I did
I would be lying if I didn’t say
I enjoyed it

But in the back of my mind
Blinded by arousal
As I had *** with Clarissa
I wondered if I had what it took

To sell my soul to this woman.

There was Clarissa
Again two days later
In history
Where she asked when she could come over again?

Again?
I slammed my fist on the table
But I didn’t
And told her whenever she pleased

What man wouldn’t jump at this chance
I wasn’t a man
Or brave if I didn’t take
these opportunities

But my heart was bound to her
And some portion of her
Got off on Clarissa and I
And what made her happy, I did

So there I was again
In the blur, my time gone and going
Sometimes I was with her
And others I was with Clarissa

Was this love?
It sure had become it
For me
Just a boy pretending to be a man

And then came winter break
Back home
Far away from her
Displaced

I spent hours realizing
My life had become here
The home I stayed in
Had grown up in, was no longer home

Home was her
Her smell
Her hair
Her laugh from the bedroom

And then came spring
And I was back in her arms
And all was good
For many weeks

Then came back
The girl with sun-touched hair
But being away for so long
I wasn’t ready to share my love

Then went
The girl with sun-touched hair
Her time in my life so brief
And intimate, yet meaningless

She asked me what was wrong
I had done it before
What had
Changed

And so I told her
With a voice that I hadn’t used
One that slept in my mind
Always quiet

I could fulfill her needs
All her desires I could solve
We didn’t need Clarissa
Just her and I

And she called me a child.

I wasn’t a man
I was being selfish
How could I deny more ***
How could someone ever not want more ***

I was eighteen, she twenty three
She was a woman
And despite what I had shown her
I was still a boy

Weeks passed
Like a slow burn
Sometimes the spark was back
Other times we were strangers

And then came the end of spring
And the end of her
As she told me she was moving north
To finish her masters elsewhere

She kissed me one last time
Her lips were always so soft
And fit so well with mine
But I was no longer a piece of the puzzle

And then her door shut
And I walked outside
It was hotter now
As sweat poured down my back

Running
I ran
As I always had
Until I fell

And in that mirror I watch myself
Forehead pressed against the asphalt
Asking what I did wrong
How did I ruin perfection

Though it faded to summer
The world was darker
A colder place
One without purpose

But the time I had lost came back to me
And I cried
For the first time in many years did I actually cry
As a man should cry

Eventually color came back to the edges.

As spent time with my dogs
The younger, always making me laugh
And the older
Reminding me of how short life is

As I spent time with my growing sister
Who is intelligent, beautiful, and funny
I never gave her the respect
And care I should have

As I spent time with my parents
My father, who taught me honor
My other father who taught me to be kind
And my mother, who raised me with more love than a **** up like me could ever ask for

I still look in the mirror
And see those broken eyes
But know that with time
And with love, they will heal

And to Lena
Who loved me as fiercely
As I loved her
Thank you

For shattering me
You made me realize
The mirror can be fixed
So I can see what made me
Samantha Wesley Jan 2016
Caught in the Act
I leave him at my locker
My brand-new babe of a boyfriend
Clarissa walks toward him
She smiles at Charlie

I told him it would only take a second
To fill up my water bottle
I didn’t know she would show up looking for me
And find my current bae instead

I see her put her hand on his arm
His muscular arm, which should only belong upon my shoulder
Instead, it is running its hand through his hair
Anxious about Clarissa

She leans toward him in her lowcut tanktop
I sprint across the hall
With one arm reeling backward
A loud smack! fills the air

I see her put her hand on his arm
His muscular arm, which should only belong upon my shoulder
Instead, it is running its hand through his hair
Anxious about Clarissa

She leans toward him in her lowcut tanktop
I hurriedly make my way across the hall
And raise a fist, satisfied by the
Crunch! that follows

I see her put her hand on his arm
His muscular arm, which should only belong upon my shoulder
Instead, it is running its hand through his hair
Anxious about Clarissa

She leans toward him in her lowcut tanktop
I pace toward them both, and ask
What in the world is going on, then plant a kiss on my babe, smirking because Clarissa has been
Caught in the Act

Three different approaches, two violent and one vengeful
Personally, I’ve never been a fan of vengeance
lol obviously not a poem but also not about me
Oh my, you are one of a kind.

And if you would not mind, I would like to write and write
right next to you, while you read Clarissa Dalloway's story.

I would like to say that I am more of a Richard,
but I really am more of a Sally, minus the homosexual-ness.
Vivacity could be a substitute for my first, middle, and
last name on most occasions.

Yet, I exceedingly relate to Clarissa's adulation for Peter,
"it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket
knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions
of things had utterly vanished – how strange it was! –
a few sayings like this about cabbages,"
barring the pocket knight in exchange for a knit hat or two
that you would wear inside if it was a social norm.

Now as I would write right, my stream of conscious would pour out
like the musings of those about to attend Clarissa's party,
but most will never see my internal conflicts and revelations
because one of those revelations makes me mirror George Eliot.
I blanket most of my verses with a sheet of caution
because even when one's heart is on their sleeve,
that sleeve is a sheet in its own secularity.

As George said, or Mary for those who knew she really was,
"I like not only to be loved, but also to be told that I am loved.
I am not sure that you are of the same mind," and every so often
that is why my heart is evident out on my sleeve, and yet
the sleeve is steadfast.

So that is why I propose, if you would not mind,
to let me write and write right next to you,
while you read Clarissa Dalloway's story.

Because, "oh my," that two-word saying that I remember,
as if they are the analogous cabbages of you and I,
you are one of a kind, but so am I;
our minds are more the same than not.

The reality is, if I hosted a party,
I would not invite George, Clarissa, or any others;
I would invite only you, your eyes, your smile, your grumpiness, and your
knit hat, or hats, which I had let you wear inside if you would like,
and we would both read many stories
and write our own story right next to each other.
WRR-
Victor Marques Dec 2009
Que grande a geração, a de Camões,
Saia de Belém, num pranto oral...
Dizia adeus a grandes multidões!
Olhava o horizonte pequeno Portugal

Traçado o rumo do futuro,
Passado o mar forte e indeciso,
Pegava no leme, firme e duro,
Sem dor, frio ou bramido.

As ninfas, rodeavam o leme,
O Sol, queimava a proa do navio,
O capitão nada teme
Naquele mar, escuro e bravio...

Victor Marques e Atavio Nelson


Chegamos a outros pontos,
Do globo esférico, sem saber!
Que hoje são contos,
Que ainda temos de ler.

Desde Ourique, Calado e Cala trava
Com turbantes brancos reluzentes
Os portugueses lutaram com palavra
Com alegria mostravam seus dentes.

Correram os desertos, tão estéreis
Na defesa de um Santo Universal
Pela cruz combateram infiéis
Dentro e fora de Portugal.

Oh.Isabel que suaves eram tuas flores!
Que rosas encarnadas pueris
Que as músicas sejam cantadas para seus amores
Prendes-te por milagre o teu Diniz.

OH Coimbra.que tiranas do fadário
Oh Sé velha, cheia de segredos
Que encantos lá havia do Hilário
Ainda hoje escritos nos penedos...

Santa Clara, no alto...que te vê clarissa
Jovem, esbelta coimbrã!
Foste, cedo freira e noviça.
Salva-me deste fado, minha irmã!


Olá Marquez, és do Pombal
Traidor, usurpador, ladrão.
NO ódio foste genial.
E TUDO, tudo metia no gibão.
Malandro, enganas-te o teu Rei
Iludiste-o, meu falso...e mandas-te
O Távora, inocente para o cadafalso

Maldito sejas!
Isso não foi Portugal...mas foi
No norte, que uma mulher
Forte, com seios apertados
E espada no dentes bem cerrados
Em serpente e com sua gente
Em zip filas genial
Firme.destinada
Deu a vida mas
Acabou com o Cabral

Sim ali, no monte
Naquele lugar Maria da Fonte

Só com gente destemida, como eu !
Tal como o Lusitano no Gerez
Esta pátria com um plebeu
Concebeu o Tavares com um grande
PORTUGUÊS


Victor Marques
Recollective thoughts of oblivion detailed to detailed satisfaction
Hadn't asked why from before-ance, t'was more an extremity of non understanding then
Asking the questions to fixate as an individual has its time frame
Sky is blue and white it appears
the full Moon was out yesterday
The light was not so shady
the clouds a darkened mist
The stars a faking glistening bliss
It was all about the aces
the places
and not the faces...
to be continued

© 2018 Clarissa van Vreden
Jason Adriel Aug 2019
I awoke
In a pool of nostalgia
Of a memory so far
Yet so clear

Of a memory from seven years ago
Such a tender kiss
On the cheek

Of two lovers

Not yet thirteen.
Yeah, idk
You phase me
I've phased me
It was a phase I was in
Where you've known me
But when I see you
All that I can see,
Are those judge mental eyes.

© Clarissa C. van Vreden
Jason Adriel Jun 2019
you lied, I said, you lied to me
I have dressed myself to look pretty
who do you think it's for?
why, for me, of course, he said
his eyes searched elsewhere for beauty
Franz, my one and only Franz,
am I the one and only Clarissa for you? I asked
you waited
tick
tock
tick
tock
yes, yes you are! you said
the golden sun ripped through the blinds
you let out a sigh, a very sad one
and we spent the rest of the day
staring at each other
not knowing what to say
not knowing where to start
forgetting how to kiss and make up
must we, in this wave of falseness, lay?
a poem of infidelity.
Like the bee that stings to death
Like the poison that it began from
Like the spider, the God to web
Catching supper

© Clarissa C. van Vreden
Anais Vionet Apr 2023
slang..
updogged = when you chip in to keep a conversation trend going
fit = gorgeous
buje = unexplainable glamor
football minute = a minute, that with time-outs, lasts a half an hour.
crute = cute but cringy
women's-rights = a really funny joke

In the subscribed course of science - and eventually medicine - night hours seem multiplied by the rough enforcement of study, but this tale is not about that, fair reader.

It’s about a reception, last Friday night. It hardly matters what it was for, there are so many. This one was first class - so please, have some decorum ladies. Our cast is Lisa, Leong, Sunny and I (4 roommates). We stay clumped together, on nights out, like conjoined quadruplets because there’s safety in numbers.

There were about sixty people there, mostly students. Lisa and I had gotten invitations, Leong and Sunny are our plus-ones. After making the rounds, doing our meeting and greeting due diligence, we’d captured one corner of a long table and began enjoying some actual drink-drinks. We’re usually studying, trying to prove ourselves like rats in a maze, so we go a little crazy when they let us out and about.

Is it me, or are free drinks just better than other flavors? There was a long line of ‘Tom Collins-ses,’ on the bar which one could freely walk up and take. I think they’re made with lemon juice, sprite, gin and the tears of fallen angels.

These were quite good, each featuring both a lemon slice AND a cherry. Like I said, first class. We were taking turns getting them, two of us going up, each returning with 2 drinks. That way we didn’t look like 4 hookers hanging on the bar like horses at a trough (decorum).

Socials, receptions, fundraisers - whatever - can be social minefields. Even in how you greet people. Do you shake hands? I’d heard that shakes were out due to COVID, but if so, they’re back now. Some people were even huggers - your professor initiates a hug and you just want to avoid head-butting him. Monday morning though, you better hand in that paper, girlie.

At one point (I was mothering my third Collins), Sunny said, “Meeting people is awkward,”
“Being out in the world is awkward,” I updogged.
“Not for Lisa,” Leong said, and everyone sniggered.
“Why not ME?” Lisa said, looking up from her phone.
“Because you’re fit,” Sunny said, “everywhere you go, it’s like ‘Goodfellas,’” she mimics various, waving people, “Hi Lisa, or Hey Lisa," and “Yo Lisa!” with the point & nod.
We all chuckled again, but Lisa said, “It’s not true.”

Alas, it is true. I’ve come to rely on Lisa’s buje. Places seem livelier, less daunting and more welcoming when she’s there. She draws all the attention - I might as well be her beaded handbag and I’m fine with that. In unfamiliar situations, she’s a shield, handling the initial introductions and handing people off to me, like a track-and-field sprinter passing the baton. Without Lisa, in new situations I’m quiet. Quiet doesn’t mean shy - that’s a false assumption, I’m a natural watcher.

I’m skipping the mingling and speechifying - the boring stuff. Apparently, it’s all about us, we need to make a plan and do more, about everything. Interestingly, of the 8 organizers (the adults) five had literary first names. There was a Jude, a Tess, an Ophelia, a Clarissa and a Cordelia. Granted, they’re all fictional characters, but why name a kid after a protagonist who came to a tragic end - to seem well read?

As Leong and Sunny returned with our fifth round, Sunny pronounced “Tom Collins for President!” and we all raised our glasses. Just then Leong’s phone whooped with a text. It took her football minute to fish the contraption out of her itty-bitty disco-clutch, and then she fumbled it to the floor like an oiled baby.

It was a crute moment that, at first, struck us like women's-rights - but it had a sobering effect too. We agreed, in the silence of exchanged glances, that perhaps we were having too much fun, and we soon made our usual quiet and dignified exit.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Contraption “a device or gadget.”
I had a sense of clarity
It is moving past the stagnant things because I understand now that those things are not of importance
They are kind of like this darkness that you should rather look through and out of because expansion of this is more of what you don't need.
It's just there to shout. It's nagging and wants to sleep. It's upset because it gets too depth in wrong times in its own; In its own existence.
When that happens, your body has no life because you are stuck in your mind- but when you still seek creativity within your mind with this you can call it hell or its complete opposite.
You are either sad and in pain or find beauty in this pain and that could define beauty in darkness and maybe that is why black and white is so signifying together.

© Clarissa van Vreden
I’ve come to understand now that of course as someone is sleeping, the other needs to give respect and not wake that individual of course- It’s always been like that for in terms of that knowledge though maybe we are all simply put born as individuals where our brains do not mesh in any way shape or form other than talk about ourselves and unto ourselves to make points come across

That we are all individually intrinsic and that sleeping all together as a global spheric mannerism is just the way so that so that that can just be some way of understanding that humans are a certain way

It’s like we do this just in case the real out there aliens are alive for them to see what humanity is like that it’s its own planet meant for humanity. Other than it proves no point at all, when the lights go down low and the music begins to blare and the fireworks are in the air on a schedule that changes every, single, year

This is our Atmosphere

© 2018 Clarissa van Vreden
atmosphere
Judgement calls for the infiltration of none of it at all
The sad barrier that so many want to write about
to touch, to make reasoning of-
sad speech when feeling good,
thought of love for being hurt
in that touch of a moment for a waking call
of pens on poetry walls.

© 2017 Clarissa van Vreden
As the sun rose down again,

the flight of being up,

made question

For when had flown,

running about to go,

further and then back up again

Sitting, resting, laying, testing dreaming of a scape canoe

waters still, risen unto

making way to where

feet hold, escaping the lovely day

© 2018 Clarissa van Vreden
the melody’s of love’s music is consuming
the words in lyrics all too knowing
here comes another love song
here comes another love song
something you feel like crying
you end up sighing
what’s left in your heart
that you thought you were done with crying
but you see it’s quite simple
tears an echo of pasts love is mellow
back to your own now for the sound of that details of the cello
the beauty signified more strummed but can you take it
can you hum
can you feel that it’s ease?
Back to the beginning now
hard without no thoughts sought out
but remember those happy days?
Sometimes in memories you remember it was only you still you not hays
then you fell in love with those interests you so strummed
you fell in love with that special someone that made the bass drum
and when it was all done
too consuming
love, the music, was too consuming

© Clarissa C. van Vreden
Joe Thompson Apr 2022
There once was a girl named Clarissa May Drake,
Who was very afraid to make a mistake.
So she only did things she knew how to do,
And she never tried anything wonderfully new.
Then when she grew old Clarissa May Drake
Said what do you know?
I made  a mistake.

Joe Thompson 2021
Ryan O'Leary Jul 2018
You could have been
an abortion you know,

or one of Martin's
ejaculations in a sock!

But you made it to three at
least and to Fo-il-na-muck.

Now you're with Daddy
allured by his charm,

Who decided to drown you
and keep you from harm.

As together you lie
side by side in a box,

Audley Cove will resound
to faint screams on the rocks.
Violets are grey
Berries are blue
Nettles are green
Cherries are red
Berries are purple

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Stems are yellowish
Seeds are green

Violets are grey
Blood is blood

Your blood is red
Mine might be blue,
or yellow, or orange, or pink

© Clarissa van Vreden
Like nothing I write matters anymore?
Go back to writing in books?
Wasn’t there a purpose for writing in the stanza?
Wasn’t there a purpose for coloring to begin at?

Wasn’t there a purpose to help humanity with the non-begs of entirity though proof-work of somethings?

Wasn’t there a non-place though an at-place at purposing with words?
Word and or non-endeavor though word for placing action at for placing?
Wasn’t there a means for some type of entell where others can read and where others can see a pass-by of art?

Why anything at all I question myself as I realize not my body yet but realize there may not be a purpose to anything at all when so much has been done and not a thank you Clarissa for having written/action-ed/placed/…

It’s like what good is anything of doings when feasts are barely feasts and become rather a laugh-at
For it’s that majority prefer to, laugh-at rather than laugh-with.

It’s that there hadn’t been no pleasure in minds though rather seeking pleasure for that as

I can’t recall a place socially anymore online where there was appreciation for statuses re-mongst books or school-type shares with acknowledgement. Besides many of those people are dead not already but somewhere amongst the lines.

It’s never like I say internal but saying like over and over again can by very funny. I don’t want to think about how many have gone about speaking of the word like with everything in between as though it’s humanity though I have written there and that is the truth: Like… Somehow seems to fly by very as easy.

Back to belief in how it may be more to the structure of not writing anywhere is no longer a means for I have done that already and I can’t not not help it.

My body is where I is.

© Clarissa van Vreden
Four winds,
four fires,
five flyers,
might migher,
rised higher,
faught tired.

Brought fire,
four liars,
rise flyer,
migh fighter.

Four signs,
water above,
four mighers,
buy, rider.

Five sighers,
tide nicer,
right lighter fire, fire.

Four tiers,
Earth fire.

© Clarissa van Vreden
Why do I seek darkness?
It's because I can see what shines the brightest
Miles away and I can admire your ways
In darkness relies truth,
In darkness relies knowledge.
Like a star you may be different when nearest but I can see you shining from far away and that matters.
Your smile can shine different here than imagination can because I feel it true,
because even when we're gone we can still feel it.
That's why,
I love darkness

© Clarissa C. van Vreden
In words of wording
in times of no time to wording
to inner wordings
to not misleading but leading
with what is more powerful
and human

Lies the knowledge of the deepest self
not in the partials but the overall
in the leading of the overall
where darkness can become home
where soul can be found to know

In subconscious array in sleep of away
remains the space that is so much to hold
to gather here in dissaray
to finding what you as one might like
a pleasing of some type of hell range

Fear whatever you must like to
know whatever you so despise to
find nothing in you
other than that space,
you can name home

© 2018 Clarissa van Vreden
Ether licking sentipede raising a bar in solitude,
flaming pink aftermath of candle wax,
say raise frequency to the mosquitos and its dandelions,
and the spiders no longer shake
Where the roots of Miss. Dandellion ached the pit of rottening veign.
She never wept like the rain that first dropped on the candle,
but her strength residual in licking sentipede.
Bathing in the bites of mosquitos at a constant,
keeping her ******, alive.

© Clarissa van Vreden
Look at the dark shadows...
They are crawling here...
Where light shed in super freezing lie.
In cracked shatter of demise!
Hell finds light in broken pieces brought from something nice.
Light, light, light how you marry the poor;
Pieces of tomorrow...
Dark bell shadow, how you came from yesterdays tomorrow.
Hey! Pure darkness,
find here the whisper of your sorrow.
Breath of pure morrow.
Fused like day in today, brought upon the sound of light!
Ever change in wonder?
No! Spoke solid in dark and depth,
die!

© 2018 Clarissa van Vreden
You had the way
you had your day
The night turned young
and the birds yeah,
they sung.

Today is different
you're in my psyche,
so far and gone.

Back to this what?
Back to that
My heart is a hummingbird
and you took that back.

See ya tomorrow!

© Clarissa van Vreden
She wore footsteps in her horizon
The fly flew exactly where it was aching to be a bee
The Aunt eater, was nibbling on her toast
The rat was born with its tale first,
Breathing on oxygen

The light has bugs burnt
The rainbow was the only thing left over, to be amazing

© Clarissa van Vreden
As we get higher
we rise deeper in soil
A guardian mirror
like God protecting its mirage
Does one not feel fine through his own reflection?
Although, you look too hard, you get then
not the way you look at the moon
but the way you get too close,
you're afloat in a place you no longer belong
As we dig deeper
we find remain
finally as we fall under
we close our eyes
and there isn't any longer that mirror
from above as so deep under,
there's infinity

© Clarissa van Vreden
In title of detrimental view in sight of seeing in passing in time
it is not here but rather not there the viewing of ones perspective,
in complete and utter ruin of not truing the reality of the reality,
of evil lives' viewing
Never helpful,
never right,
never faithful,
always not right
Passing in time the non newness of creative reasoning
never a need for a fight
for many unlike yourself use what's there to make newness a creative flight
So let it be a part of what's in sight, truly as it is there for you a part of view a part of view
The boring days will have arose in this understanding as to why
when it is people like yourselves who can see this as sense
the undoing will never be pleasing,
never feel faithful
to your true knowledge of you
the diamond in the right
light, be light

© 2018 Clarissa van Vreden
Isn't so to say who you are.
It's about glittering eyes for dilated pupils.
It's about control.
It's about the movement of a butterfly's' wings.
Expression will always be there and if you think not it is there glim.
It can't hide but it can be in shadow...
resting.

© 2017 Clarissa van Vreden
Suppose you’d jump a beat to track it down?
Suppose.
Suppose you’re at that stance, just a bit too long before it’s too late.
The surprise is so hidden that you’ve lost your placement.
What’s a stance to a pausing fleet?

© 2017 Clarissa van Vreden
it has a lot of faults,
your story,
has a lot of unsaid
your story
has a lot of knowledge

Your story is epic,
but yet so strange as of right now: Bland

The thought of it explanation,
gets you eery instead of laughable because of
what?

You felt you couldn't explain it better?

Your story,

mine.

PS: Do tell because that is why you feel this way

© Clarissa C. van Vreden
A quick poem about explaining a story true to your heart

— The End —