"connective" poems
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The Instigation:
Edmund Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”
I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“
<•>
*both of you shush!
there is no “better” in poetry
mine yours theirs, alive or not,
just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail
tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse
good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come
they get it
how we get there unimportant
get there
GET THERE
get there
that is the poetic
mission critical
no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace*
the common place
*where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,
a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive
call my poems,
blessedly common!
that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better*
for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered
8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is not a poem. This is about a poem.
Poems require words. This poem does not require words.
This poem requires memories' muscles.
This poem requires what is called colloquially love.
Learn that what we share here is not poetry.
Your poetic senses that produce the words that mark you present
are but surgical tools to extract, release the whole and the parts of you that help shape that single sense borning in your chest that defines you at any particular moment.
Quæ est mater Laureat.
She is the Mother Laureate.
She is the boundary you must learn to cross to be more than a re-arranger of letters and alphabets, but a translator of the human essence and fill our veins with the a sense of awe and wonder felt when we read each other and think aloud,
"yes, exactly, that was and is precisely what I was feeling."
She is the glue that keeps us sticking here, sticking together, each of us sticking to it.
You do not know her?
No worries, she will find you when you least expect it, perhaps
when you need it.
This is not a poem. This is a human who's a poem.
Understand the difference and then you may begin a journey
that has no destination other than weaving the connective tissue that makes us anticipating excited when we log on.
Happy Birthday Mother Poet Laureate!
I do not think I can write a better not poem for you.
Forgive me then, if going toward, I repost this every
October 24th as long as the chemical composition of
blood, God, spirit, logos or reason runs free within,
exiting as words encased in tears that formulate into
human poetry.
nattyman
P.S.There are 800 poems here with Sally in the title, and least 700 are about Sally B. If you like, please feel to free to add yours, old or new.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC
The road was long and rough
It was a passageway of words
A parade of letters and prose
The touch of invisible pleasure
I moulted like a snake in season
I dreamt on a cruiser of reign as we
opened my pandora box in the cave
The road was smooth and right
It was a third eye paradise of seers
A mire of misery and blowing wind
The tears flew like fireflies on heat
I met the shrinks of souls in salt bed
I waved the rain as it washed my sins
On that sight of the pandora box
The road of wrongness and rightness
It was an unfolded augury of life
An awakened sleeper roared in dreams
The days when I touched the skies
I took the broken house and mended
I saw the clouds as bright as crimson
Inside the box when I met my twin
The road of love, lust, love, longness
It was when the ember coal was wild
A blaze of soul collision and resonance
The days when doubt taunted in mazes
I wrested my mind and the heart knew
I tested the precipice and intuition led
Inside the unconditional pandora box
The road where I hid and felt alive
It was a paradise of shining trees
A place where our loneliness merged
The safest heaven on barren lands
I saw my warrior and he shielded
I sat as he ran away with fear and pride
On that very opened pandora box
The road of unforgotten forever
It was a triangulation of continents
An immersion of difference and indifference
The open table of a scarce connective mess
I shed my naive bed and hardened
I shut the wild untwisted world
On that very inevitable pandora
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
I would've loved to meet her.
The sweetness you spoke in her honor.
A gentle breeze in a month of freezes.
Electric, connective, explorative.
I would love to meet the next.
The sweetest of peas.
Only bluest when being overly fruitful.
Reflections of trekking tower of the familial tree.
Expectations of expecting in introspect.
Forgive me for being greedy, wanting to be involved in your life.
Forgive me for involving my love.
I shall let the resting rest, the ones that need rest to get rested, and give my mind and soul a rest.
Ifeanyichuku Okoro © 2023
Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 12:59 AM UTC
I always wanted to be that random style of writer
Writing about things which have no connection
In reality but they are connective only by the ingenuity
Of his genuflection; the circumvention of his
Circuitous routing, his plaintive perturbing petulance
Which insists on stacking things of different orders
Flying birds together of different species
If I could write something of the ticking of clocks
Not as though the ticking were of premeditated duration
Embedded in metal tracks around perimeters
Of prevaricated die-cast hours; but as though the ticking
Were only a random fixture of a theoretical day
In which random clocks ticking played a minor role
During the still life of which a poet happened along
And copied it all down dutifully, not caring if
Ticking clocks were related to pitchers of Forsythia
Or falling off of cliffs into the Aegean;
The only task of the poet to capture it all
And let the reader sort it out later
In the random tracks of his circuitous brain:
Whether the pitcher was full of sea
Or the sea was stealing into the pitcher
One blue, serendipitous drop at a time
And where no clocks were keeping time.
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
What am I thinking about on these hot summer days
besides your cool, coy, cheerful gaze.
Oh, I'm moving forward but still pondering on
of your sparkle in the distant northwest horizon.
I'm thinking of those twinkles in your smile
that travel 1000s of fiber optic online miles.
I'm saddened to read your goodbye... and see you go
You, and your online profile... that is... this thoughtfulbeau.
I'll miss your Hi!, Hey!, Yah!, Yeah!... and your full smile
your patience for my replies... and willingness to stay online awhile.
I'll miss your attempts to banter... and our brief chats
your witty answers... and allergic opinion about cats.
Sigh. . . .
With your goodbye and turning off the dating light
I could choose to wallow in my own spite.
I feel the loss but not rejected or hurt
I'm filled with positive regard and a connective comfort.
Such as nectar turns into honey by a bee...
you sweetened my besotted feelings into endearing bounty.
So it feels right
knowing your heart
has found its light.
A local love
who hears your voice
respects your choice
and hopefully fits
like a warm glove.
So keep your lights bright
to keep each other warm
through the cool and comforting
Portland nights.
Peace out... ;o)
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 11:42 PM UTC
Yes so much indeed of this need!!!
Love...
LOVE IS ALREADY
Has always been and always,
Will Be
Willing to refill!!!
Only what We through this...
\ /
*Shared process have had, shut down, casting off out,
Have shut off through some,
'Big Squeeze's'*
\ Hugg's /
We long for...
He-Art
Dream's Of...
/ Lovingly...\
Waits Eternally On
t'ill it be
Of this re-filling;
He, S'he-Art's
Heart Mine
LOVE
Love
***IS
ALL
THERE IS
'Understanding'
'Seeing' 'Hearing'
Acceptence...***
/ \
Turn of process in re-fulling internally till over fulling,
Spilling and pouring out 'All Over Within Her' this 'Him';
/ \
Of which and by,
We Already,
Know Of!!!
***Imperishable Spiritually
We are granted as much as the 'Dust',***
STAR
Dusty Ones
Dusted
Star's
*Light
Star Dust
All Known As
EMcSquared's too,
We know our ******
Existence depends what is,
It's interdependence upon,
So Too...*
~***Without Is
As Within...****~~~
LOVE FROM:
Of Whereby She Sprung
'IS' Infinite' and too interdependent,
With this EMcSquared Domain...
<3
<3<3
<3<3<3
***HE-ART
HEART HEART
HEART HEART HEART***
***Therefor it is 'He', 'more' 'so missing'!!!
She' is in Her Own Turmoil, with and for this,
Shaman Master J said 'not even 'He' knows when,
These inherent forces come to restored balance' or,
These things that 'must come to pass'!!***
*Nostradamus too understood so much within,
With and about these could find no conclusion,
Of otherwise what was self evident,
Certain kinds of trends predictable,
But a blank of 'time/space',
That went blank thereabouts by,
Nine Times Nine the 81st page,
'The Lost Book of Nostradamus',
Where it was left open...*
IS... Us...
Knock Knock!!!
BLISS
You can become
***'One' with this then 'Great Architect',
See, Understand A Midwife Be Need,***
***Then Also Completely That None Can Be Left Out Indeed!!!
How else could 'It Be'!!!
OUR X'Factor'S' IS,
Are Klear Like Krishna's,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That Flute Still Playing On,
In Such This Way Eternally...
This Such is the Spirit LOVE YES;
'Is Defaulted Upon Us'.
**** straight that is with Joy, Fun
'All Deep Connective Pleasure', BLISS'ED!!!***
I myself am Overly Grateful for Every,
***Each of 'All the Birdy's' Whom Still Shout 'even if'
We Are Only Hearing these as Whispers, Upon 'the whispering winds'!!
Re-Calling:
These X'Factors is Now Most Klear,
More On 'Cue',
Being more 'Key' to the...
'Always Open Door of ALL;
ALL WHOM SO MISS
KISSS'S OF THE BLISS'S;
'So Lonely Without X's of You';
On the Ever Imperishable River's In,
OUT OF THE INFINITE SEA OF LOVE,
SHE AND HE TOO ARE INTERDEPENDENT!!!!!***
*There are no dependents or independents,
outside beyond this first off and foremost;*
Come Home All Returning!!!!
~Sa Sa, Ra!!!~~
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
don’t be dashing round
oh you so young and dashing dash;
so energetic –
you just bewilder us all
O dash –
what a dash you make for it;
O dash –
what surprises you have in store
O dash –
you’re not connective tissue
like the hyphen;
but dash -
you are a more dramatic fellow
I did use you once, dash -
but my sentence tripped and fell;
so now when I call on you
I ensure I’ve got you tied –
like a dog to the leash
don’t be dashing round
oh you so young and dashing dash;
so energetic –
you just bewilder us all
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 11:30 AM UTC
i think my feel box is malfunctioning, i gotta find a screwdriver to pop off the faceplate and inspect the insides. it keeps saying the latitude and longitude aren’t localized. i can’t calibrate it because i’m up in the air. it flickers when it beeps and my static causes feedback. birds don’t know anything about artificial connective tissue, but they know all about falling.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 9:40 PM UTC
defeat is only an objective.
as I lead I gain prospective
haters hate through being deceptive
the envy spreads like sheets infective
while they creep
playing detective
wolve in sheep
until their accepted
their reasoning is subjective
I just wait until they reach
then disconnected their connective
I'm a beast, I can't be infected
work off pure instinct
raw fear instantly detected
human nature,
to be expected
my only actions
moving forward is corrective
i exceed all expectations
with standing ovations,
use to bring power to foreign nations
outworking occupations
make so much sense
i get paid vacations
my buildings, block foundations
I empowered nations for generations
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
Pain
Eats at my very soul
Heart beats hard exploding in my brain with each thump
Pain
No one can understand unless they have been here
My mind screams with the unfairness of it all
Pain
It eats away at your confidence in self first
I was a strong minded woman now weak without strength
Pain
It can't be described as it rips through the body
Wholes are throughout leaving tunnels along the connective tissue
Pain
Detroying that which makes me unique
Takes away my wisdom as the tunnels weaken the mind
Pain
Leaving fear in places that used to be fearless
Alone as the demons remove my self worth
Pain
Creeps its way into the heart eating at the good as well as the bad
Heart skipping beats as it begins to lose its ability to beat
Pain
Works against every positive thing one has in life
Taking away my ability to stand on my own two feet making me dependent
Pain
Chews and feeds until it overuns the mind and body
Nothing left to help me fight even my will has been chewed away
Pain
Left to finish the job as no one notices before it is to late
I cry for help yet the vileness fills my throat and mouth making it impossible
Pain
Takes everything away, then heads to the next victim
I am left lifeless, no strength, energy, no will to live, fight, or breathe,
If only I had noticed sooner when that first seed was planted
I wish I had paid more attention to the weird things I noticed
Now I can no longer survice for the pain has won
Please I beg you, do not let it happen to you
FIGHT
FIGHT
FIGHT BACK!
Don't let it win
Don't find yourself in a huge lifeless formwanting to escape with no outlet
For heaven's sake fight for your life beat the pain take its power away
I will be buried soon and the pain will try to skip to another person
Put up your defenses around me and don't let it in destroy it while it is trapped inside of me
Pain
It is a scarey way to go, save yourself from the pain
Nov 21, 2010
Nov 21, 2010 at 7:32 PM UTC
Words,
they have some arcane power, the
ability of adjectives to steer our mind subjectively.
The presence of nouns, now, they'll denote something of note,
could be a cookie, a concept, a cart, a coat. Of course
there's pronouns abound to substitute these nouns,
from her to him, and from me to you;
it's pronouns that make a sentence feel new. Now
we musn't forget the versatile verb, the essence of to do,
verbing verb is quite absurd though possible, it's true. But how to
enhance the explanation of an action, for example if I'm acting,
who's to say it's great or lacking,
well that's an adverbs job to do.
And...
We can't forget the connective.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
clearly, the days slip past
i nearly lasted, keeping track
tags and descriptions, each one placed
as if a benefit falls upon the lot
for drawing connective lines
god's dead, god's not dead,
i'm god, the god of sand,
ephemera at my command
but what's it mean? these things
take time, but not seriously, because
the sun hits the wax on a paper cup
and it blinds us from the bushes
and so low, can't care
so low, lone, done dead
can't care for upsides
but asides and sideways
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 6:15 PM UTC
In my folly, of following fathers that have come before me;
I find myself lost, strewn about, and blown off course.
Teachers taught me time, in only the most linear of directions.
Yet the sins of those long past, seem to rest a weight,
Heavy upon my back.
Each of us an Atlas, on our knees before our masters.
It seems quite the contradiction, to have freedom inside a system.
Where rules are loose, in their applied use.
A game of pick and choose;
Played with loaded dice, that always seem to favor the few.
We the beast of burden, weakest first, penthouses the new-age church
Where the powers preach the verse.
Lost in our lack of direction, like southern-bound birds,
Plucked of their feathers.
Grounded in work boots, dumbfounded and resolute,
In poisoning our connective roots.
Fields of flowers and acres of pine, burning with the flame,
Stolen from us, somewhere along the line
A sinking ship, with only ***** rags to plug the holes.
Streets once paved with gold,
Forever cracked like our collective souls.
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 12:46 AM UTC
entertain the knowing of a term
amid how many names to paint that known
--depends on
termless origins
rising co-become
conditional a part for one unknown
~ wholly always ever-new produced in co-consuming-birthing all
~ intertracing weaves of what was thought was thought
connective tissue waves to render
individual arrays of signing signlessness,
precise obliques, pretend unends
all captured all undone and finally
defined
in seamless positings of word
yet freely boundless
always having ever been alive in proto-symbols
wet then dry of life
beyond the ken of humankindly limits
seen at brinks of sight
.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
7 billion conspecifics walk
on 7 billion pairs of feet
treading soft earth and waters,
concrete and sands,
causing vibrations through
individual kinetic plans.
All busy heading
ultimately to where all ends meet,
our steps are finite;
our souls are in our feet.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC
It's a common bond between the two
making a difference, connective tissue
assembled into a greatness
a line of weakness
combative graveyard
A manic savior
Tips to what keeps us up
a cheers to another empty cup
invincibility shall drown
like a statue underground
pushed away for decades
Eagerly brimming with pain
A terror of hope
shrieking of ghosts
of demons and mongrels
that make-up these problems
a mask of fluidity free flow down the hatch
A liver is weakened by this ugly thrash
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 4:39 AM UTC
You know what it’s like to be alone with god?
(long version)
(An infinite rustle of ideas
Silenced in this steady heart.)
Here my shoes fall freely
god knows I’m hungry for primitive answers; you see I relate to
life’s barefoot minimum while maintaining a full set of
godly lotus lashes, who’s petals fall like thin paper trails
where I rest my mind as I savor earths crooning tempo
At night with you god the fires burn like morning coals
Just enough to start the coffee, Just enough to wash my face
Just enough to sip away night trails made of lust from another existence.
genuflection in prayer is my choice because this position lends me a humbleness that makes clear my own yearnings, my desires are purified into understanding that I can never stop this flow of desire.
I pray with connective tissue smells of jasmine and myrrh and pinpoint the dust bowls of fury hiding north of my shoulder blades.
I am soothed by the contrast, where I bow my head and make my own pearls of wisdom to follow, you hummm to my knowing, you dance to my foibles like prince did in purple rain. You never ask for love,
I Just feel like love.
I ponder:
don’t you think god that this fermenting human existence is innocent after all?
after the fall
(after birth love’s forgotten all knowing)
for it is in birth
I am blinded by my mothers cooing call
and now, that’s all.
It really does not matter why I forgot
I remember now
All of this ‘knowing’ triggered by my failings
Triggered by the lack of ‘others’ to fill me up
Triggered by the desperation to know who I really am
because of my … failings
I look above and our likeness is astounding,
I may faint in the truth of it ALL…
I am flush to the bone
I fall
Landing in the crucifix position
Against the wall of Desdemona’s illusions I lift the veil
I open up to your call
(The
All
In
All)
You said, “and greater works shall ye do than me”
You said, “be still and know that I am god”.
“The seed does not fall far from the tree,” you said
The busy bees came through imagined murderous pesticides
That was my life (imagined) and their words hummed me towards my alignment
“accept your magnificence” they buzzed
then god said:
”change your focus and let your failings
fall like tears (did you say duckwater god?)
…magnify the joy”
And you will see
The
I (In You)
And
The
(You In)
Me.
Linaji 2011
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 11:16 AM UTC
35,088 feet over Nebraska,
(Nebraska-imagining me climbing a ladder, me upwards, Jacob’s angels coming down, off to a high school All Saints wrestling match in a cornfield town)
a place not on my bucket list, just a blue bias of an eastern stater’s unknowns, a sure sign of how much he doesn’t know
reading Patti’s slender volume “Devotion”
slender like her body, some would call it a wiry woman's
sparse but directed, connective, word-worshipping,
old familiar strangers she delivers to you that you have never met, her phraseology striking me and strikingly beautiful simultaneous
scan it and understanding instantaneous
she asking,
why do we write?
her answers are fine copper wire threaded
into a coil and I close it quick cause the loving ****** desire to
plagiarize such an oddly gorgeous offerings is overwhelming;
I feel the wire words piercing my temple, intending to
emerge out the other side, a decorative symmetry,
I don’t own
my need to script some cursive on my smooth body parts,
on my god-given papyrus, always at the ready,
is a methadone itch, a dulling urge needy for fulfillment,
that needs satisfying but me, soundly second rate,
write like the flip side of a hit vinyl record, no one is expected to play, fulfillment meets futility
thus the title is a modification of a Patti light touch
my alchemy never made any gold and my present presence now over Iowa a reminder that my prescriptions are 1200 evacuations; they are negative commandments,
proscriptions, not prescriptions
do not write, do not wrong words with a middling diffidence,
hide your face and put her words on a shelf above your head
hard to reach, so you do not be tempted
why do we write?
“All seeking an emptiness to imbue with words.
The words that will penetrate ******
territory, crack unclaimed
combinations, articulate the infinite.” Patti Smith
disambiguation she relieves us of uncertainty
my combinations over Waterloo, Illinois
are ordinary smokestack gray, a spewing wastage,
the angels conforming that my words Cain-fail,
my confession
meets no one’s standards, not even mine
7:07pm Central Time
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
It shines and lusters
Through any case, she tries to hide it
Its jagged edges sprawl, like the rays of the sun
Hypnotized by its beauty, she grabs hold of it
Edges piercing her fragile skin
But oh how the diamond glows
She barely notices the crimson
Gracefully floating through the pores on her delicate fingers
Connective tissue starts to mend the pain, lacerations become scars
She ignores the old wounds as she cannot leave the diamond be
She’ll hide it with her forever until she can no longer feel
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
Left to remain
Anything to quell fear
Seized opportunity
Sold soul to fear
Parallel vision
Past and present collide
Time recalled of time without fear
Haunting specter
Wild cry
Wild sound of devotion
Old quest uncovered from the dust
Old wilderness restoring to old glory
Firing from old expended
Reservoirs transferring water
Into coffee grinders, to dust
Chained in a crab *** at the bottom of the sea
Pelted with repeated blasts of particles of light
Until the matter is compressed into a singularity
Or breaches on the matter anyway besides
Unleashing rather than a sinkhole trap,
A flash flood over everything
Coating vision with a venereal sheen
Inundated in a fluid silk connective fabric bond
Until the matter reaches
Into pockets of relief
And miracles of situational
Restorative advance
Particulate regenerative
Relationship encounters
Debris from space accumulating
Hoping in some arcane sense
To be reformed together into beasts anew
While similarly fossils of
An ancient swarm of locusts
Are unearthed
They’re met with magnets
Positioned counter to the flow of electricity
This array is aligned to the magnetosphere
Of that old planet
Where I have lived before and left kinsmen behind to grow a colony of their own
But my own magnetism is calibrated today
To the wildly different magnetosphere of my latest home
To put it mildly, out of wild instinct, exiled from an old society
Of innocence/intelligence
A pretense over bell curve
Environment restrictive of
Fraternization ***********
On a day too perfect for itself
The stage-play left upon my table
All the actors meandering about
Chance encounters replaying dramas.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 8:00 PM UTC
As the night shifts, the glass prints
The universe retorts and restores
Connective strands pulls from dark
Exposed from the rumbled tosses
Mosses generate, diversified integration
Masses inaugurated in magical reality
Electrified from the syndical sorrows
Tarots of the forgiven, sad sung songs
The tree branches held strong as I slid
The town halls illuminated to capture
A magnificence of a nature umbilical
Enclosed in the warmth of the placenta
My centre cored on the base of the earth
A need to belong on grounded dense soil
Calm tornados and typhoons unheated
Treated in fountained grace of existence
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
Sounds of your voice linger
Within connective tissue,
Memories of us engaging in laughter,
Present in mind, but reality has past us,
Phone conversations,
Endless talks
Hours of nothing
Counting minutes
Two second call
To no rings at all.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
What is our society if not a copycat catastrophe
A cold-hearted calamity of blind hindsight
Severed chains reforged in the flames of minimum wage
How we herald the heretic
Free is the slave who detaches their arms and legs
To gift kings their reign
Jeweled towers of bone reach to the sky
And devour the progress of our connective open roads
What is prosperity absent a shared purpose
Like a brain held apart from its own heart
Human history imprisoned on a page
Ink-stained chronicle of our original sin
Thinking we can get where were going
By forgetting all we have been
Each obstacle a handcrafted impediment
Dinosaur dynasty doomed to irrelevance
Jun 8, 2021
Jun 8, 2021 at 6:39 PM UTC
there are four stages of healing wounds
1. your red blood cells will form a blood clot to stop the bleeding; then your wound would be swollen
2. white blood cells capture and fight rogue bacteria
3. fibroblast cells would enter, drop collagen and form connective tissues again
4. your skin will connect and contract and be out much stronger than before
but among all wounds, a broken heart is the hardest to heal
1. your heart will not be swollen, it would be numb, and there will be days when you don't even know if you still have it. it would be a black hole for quite some time, it will **** anything and everything you used to love and leave you with nothing
2. you won't have the capability to fight rogue bacteria if anything you may actually succumb yourself with it; sometimes you may even let it control you until you forget that you own yourself
3. and then when it hits you, you will feel everything again all at once - the pain of lost love, melancholy, longing. you will realize how much you have loved and how much you have lost. now what you do is you bounce back, but how?
4. at this stage you must already be stronger than what you used to be, but for broken hearts, this may take a while, or it may take bottles and a lot more bottles of alcohol, or it may need a quiet moment for you to think straight, some just let time heal it. but the good thing is, healing a broken heart is actually a choice.
yet unlike all other wounds, it can be fixed in two ways
1. you seek for someone who can hold your hand while you fix yourself
2. you fix yourself alone
you chose the first one, I'm choosing number two
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC