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Angella Joves Jul 2015
The cold breeze of the air
The smell pf pine trees
Children's laughter
A person's smile
Those people working..

Everything reminds me of you

You, who left without explanation
         who left without a sound
         who left without leaving a mark
         who left me behind

But why do I still think of you?

Our relationship was the kind of love
that was bounded not to last
and I don't know why

We have that kind of love where I was writing for you while you are busy writing for someone else
We have that kind of love where all I ever was tulips but you gave me dandelions
We have that kind of love that endures a thousand twinge
That kind of love where oblivion resides

Maybe it wasn't really love

How to outdistance myself from you?

How do I move out of this suffering
of love when I knew that all my love for you wasn't enough?

Because we have that kind of love that while I was busy loving you, you were busy loving someone else
Charlotte Graham Sep 2012
I
Originations of consciousness whir into a moan of torment.
A sudden bombshell of consternation;
    her eyes burst wide.

Baby?
Sleep-laden, post-finals brain gravy:
No, can't be. Could be. Shouldn't be. Want to be? No, can't be.

Lurking beyond the reach of terror, realism slithers closer.
The hysteria deteriorates as deduction brings lucidity.

******* eggs.
They are abolished, and never heard from again.

II
Suitcase tetris, smothering each layer.
She moves without direction,
or a lazy child with ADD.

At long last, the shimmering sink full of death beckons...

Dissatisfaction erupts in a symphony of fragmented drinkware.
Her assumption lingers, cresting into prediction.
Her expectations are met.
A thorn in her paw.
     The dishwater weeps.

III
Her rage is tangible, hissing in her ears,
bashing her skull when it is ignored,
clawing at her spine.
She abandons the silverware.
They never did anything for her.

The loathsome bag swings threateningly.
She ignores it, giving it a silent challenge.

Fate strings before her eyes, yanked taut and thrumming
with inevitability.
Crimson satin sheets tangle lovingly from the rift of tender peel.
Cake-batter-in-a-mixing-bowl splatter,
the dissimilitude of children's laughter.
Wobbling, fawn-like under the density of rage gnawing at her lips,
she retreats, acknowledging her submission.

She begins as a tree, but rapidly degenerates
into grotesque dysmorphic spasms on the cheap veneer.

Hysteria threatens to burst forth, frothing, but no.
This is not my day.
Inspired by "The Colonel" (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180106) because of its graphic detail but defamiliarization in use, using delicate words like lace to describe something gory. These events are true, only paraphrased.
Dan Hess Oct 2021
Tonight the wind blows;
the sky bursts under its weight;
the energy is immense,

and it is conscious.  

My mind splits;
my spirit lifts itself into the wind,
which drinks me in, to oblivion.
Thunder cracks on the horizon,
lighting the sky,
rippling in its immensity.  

Everything is subtlety, supercharged;
in nature, everything bleeds into itself;
in the ether, the wind blows backwards,
and consciousness is gravity
anchored to eternity,
streaming between the energy of thought.  

The wind has been blowing all day
and when I breathe,
in a different dimension,
where air shares a kinship with intention,
it caresses me; enveloping me physically,
restoring feeling to those parts of me
starving.  

I am too small to hold myself.
I am nothing, intermingling with being.
I am a raw throat;  
an aching thirst that cannot be quenched.  

I am water in its various states;
its many cycles.  
I am an ocean.
I am a puddle.  

I am limitless
-ness
drowning in the deep.
I am gasping for breath without lungs
to be seen.  

I am me, not being.
Who am I?
An unlabeled simplicity.  

Why complicate the mind?
(The heart, it aches to find
belonging. Only ever longing,
forever found in everything
surrendered unto nothing.)  

Can opening my eyes but rend me blind?
(The light, it’s all encompassing;
the white, forever bleeding into,  
fields of you; there is no you.  
Only truth can set you free.  
Die become eternity.)
I cannot.  

I must breathe it to believe it.  
Need to let it go to know.
Need someone else to show it to.
What’s one without two?

— The End —