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Lyrical Dream Dec 2018
Drowning is often described  as a
Loud event
-Someone screams for help,
Rapidly flailing their arms above the waves

  -They dramatically break the surface
Before submerging under again

-People rush from the shore to their rescue

-Someone jumps into the sea heroically and saves the day as a crowd of hands erupt into a booming applause.

Drowning is silent,

Every movement

And every scream muffled,

A sinking soul
Falling into darkness,

knowing that in moments they will be nothing more than flesh and bones prepared to decay in the rushing currents

There are no visible waves at all

Only the ones crashing against your skull

And raging within you chest
Almost like a knife
Held to your throat,
Threatening your heart to beat

Your heart will,
Of course,

And your blood will pour
Your lungs know they will flood,
But they still gasp for air beneath the waves


Though the sea swallows your every breath

You still manage to survive
Who cares for you Mom, when you
cry alone?
You give and you give
so much
to your children
and to all who are fortunate enough
to cross your path

But what about you, Mom?
Who holds your hand when your shoulders shake
from the strain
of getting up
and moving on
even when all you want to do is curl up
and have one more minute
before facing the day

Its okay Mom, sit down for a bit
take that breath you needed
you don't have to be strong all the time
why should you, when your in
the deep end
flailing for peace
clawing for acceptance
and fighting to find the meaning
that's dealt

Your dreams, something to cherish in
quiet moments
have been shoved to the bottom of your
starving soul
for so long
you cannot hear their screams anymore

What I would give to heal your wounds
and take away the heartbreak
for you deserve to sing until
like a balm
it soothes away internal festering

"Chin up," they say, "You are brave."
Well I say, "Head down, dear one."
"There is bravery in the strength it takes
to show that you are hurting."

So Mom, when you are struggling
to deal with a unending sea
of pain
close your eyes
breath in
and out
wade into the dark waters
and let
the healing

-Esther L. Krenzin-
To Mom. Who is the strongest woman I know. Who has faced death, and pain and loss. Yet she is still standing. To all the brave mothers out there.
You are seen.
You are appreciated.
And you are loved.
Llila Jul 2016
(written to be read as spoken-word)
There is a bird inside my rib-cage,
I swallowed it whole four years ago.
Its weight drags my feet further and further into the earth below
And its screeches never cease.
Sometimes I worry that it will **** me
And other times I wish it would.
it would scratch at my lungs and bruise my ribs with its flailing,
It doesn’t do that anymore though,
Sometimes I wish it would.
The talons reminded me that I was still here.
But now the bird simply lies inside my chest making it difficult to breathe.
There is no longer fury in its wings, only the burnt out embers of what used to be.
I fear that the bird has died and that his little bones are the only part of him left to weigh me down.

I dream about freeing the bird, cutting open my lungs and letting his dark feathers seep away,
Tearing skin from bone and bone from bird.
That would surely **** me, but at least the bird could be free.

(lines added later)
I have written this poem a thousand times and I will write it a thousand more
Because I want it to be perfect
I will say to you a thousand times that perfection is unattainable
and yet I will try a thousand times to attain it.
That is the curse of the bird
I’m beginning to conquer my bird,
But like a long had pet, it is difficult to let go
A close friend, a pretty drug, it’s difficult to put down
But when I do,
The entire universe will know
Because I will sing without feathers I my throat,
Because I will paint without darkness in my eyes,
And because I will wake up in the morning to see the sun rise
And I will walk for miles because I want to
And I smile and smile and smile
Until my face forgets the shape of a frown
I wrote this a while ago and added the last lines later
Benjamin Brown Aug 2017
There is sweet whistling,
And rushing wind
Around my reddened ears.
Flailing leg and arm
To catch,
but not to harm.
Striking whatever may lie near;
And fate does strike the hearts of evil men,
Like a blow of grace does dignify its blow,
And I?
true to that which does dignify
Hang on nothing,
And let nothing go.
A man,
making snow angels,
In sand
OC Nov 2018
I savored my own killing

I could've done so
at the twilight of my days
while I dose off
on a creaking rocking chair
my old lean limbs entangling down
my crooked joints melded to the arm rests
my heavy head resting on my collarbone
oblivious as I
mercifully approach from the back
gently stepping on the tube
leading oxygen to my dying body
watching as my breath become heavy
as my blocked throat wheeze in exhaustion
as my stressed lungs finally collapse
as I quietly yield to sleep.

I  could've done so
sometime tomorrow or yesterday
As I lay asleep on my back
snoring as usual
in an instant I'll roll over
and be on top of myself
clasping at my mouth and nose
pressing my full body weight
as I jolt awake, panicked and confused
my arm randomly flailing around
torn prayer flags swooped by a hurricane
my fingers digging into the flesh of my arms
attempting to pull me apart
until finally
my stubborn grip overcomes
and defeated I dim onto stillness
save for a twitch here or there.

I chose to do so
in my youth
as the texture of a heavy rope
grazes and bruises the skin on my neck
while I send a chilling smile at myself
from across the room
pulling a handle
that drops the floor beneath my feet
accelerating for the first time
relishing the hissing air
the absence of gravity
catching with my eyes my penetrating gaze
older than I am
full of grief, fatigue, and divination
cut by the cracking rope
torn like my snapped neck
with a hallow sound
much less revolting than I thought
watch me dangling like
a ragged pendulum
a grotesque puppet
an unripe miscarriage
feeling but a slight pinch of regret
for never knowing
this moment
Adrian Joseph Dec 2018
Stars never disappear
Like truth in times of trial
Always shining in some hemisphere

Ask men about stars and they will tell you of less than you see
There will be no time to say farewell   
All things will wind up suddenly

Stars are stubborn things
Unlike names and deeds which are soon forgotten
They fill the night sky and conceal some greater morning

Stars make us forget the flowers at our feet
Reflecting eternity on a black background
They are without fault

Man is the flailing catastrophe who forever grasps at the untouchable

That sole beauty which time does not destroy
Its golden fibre glitters and gleams
Interwoven in the night sky

Orbs of ice which adorn the threshold of heaven
Nightly soldiers wage war against the inevitable dawn
As Orion hunts the darkness

Too low they build who build beneath the stars

I try not to count but revel in their countenance
If only I could roll the sky into a scroll as to peer past its edges
Perhaps catch a glimpse of the infinite
See whether my name is written on the arch of heaven’s gate

I wish I could hold a star in my hand
Better share its wonder with the world
Maybe if I climbed the tallest mountain
I may get a closer look at those flashes
Which make feeble existence tolerable

They encourage me to climb till day breaks
My quest is complete
Per aspera ad astra
Over suffering to the stars
Jeff S Sep 2018
an arid earth can suffer to gag
through the suffocation of its tenants,
flailing with torrential—cataclysmic—seismic
limbs at the cold-hand smothering by
a race in apathy.

though, let's not just yet, not yet
pull the bullets from our guns.
Juhlhaus Jun 21
Someone lights up your world
Like breaking weather,
Scattering the clouds
And baptizing your soul
In a deluge of colors.

Every now and then,
Someone captures emotions
Like bluebottle flies
In a jar, only to release,
Too delighted ever
To pin them with names.

Every now and then,
Someone dares you to dance
With words or muscle memory,
And laughs with you
When flailing efforts prove
That you almost can.

Every now and then,
Someone glows like Traffic Lights
And points you to new roads
They've traveled on before:
Ways that part and meet again,
Every now and then.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too.
Everybody loves the things they’ll say and do;
Their eyes smile when they see you coming,
You smile back because they’re so loving.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too,
The girls surely love you two.

Brigid likes to crawl along the wall now that she can stand,
Ophelia does the same but the girls have to use their hands;
It won’t be long now until they’re walking,
Wait another month and they won’t stop talking.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too
The girls surely love you two.

They don’t know how to say they're in love with you,
But that's okay you can see that its plainly true;
They light up when they see you coming,
The arms start flailing and their legs start pumping.
Everybody loves the twins, you will too,
The girls surely love you two.

Dreaming of your loves in the comfort they’re in love with you,
Dreaming of your loves in the comfort that you love them too.
Dreaming of my loves in the comfort I'm in love with you.
Sung to the tune of Gary Lewis and the Playboys hit: "Everybody Loves a Clown."
Gary Lewis is the son of one of America's best-loved clowns, comedians, actor and philanthropist, Jerry Lewis.
Skaidrum Jan 2017
Don't you get it.
Don't you see...
This is the part where nothing is going to be okay.

This is part where flowers die before their expiration date,
this is the part where every verbal and physical beating dealt to me manifests itself into a fishing hook;

into a fishing hook that wants all the fish in the river.
and my eyes
dead grey ponds~
map the rivers on my cheeks
because the river is nothing without her children
and these young eyes

**** the river,
in a couple heartbeats...
that's it all takes, love

This is part where the doctors look you in the eyes and
make a joke about how
you must hate fishing,
to look that ****** up afterwards;
because they think it's you,
they think you're hurting yourself.

they don't know the symptoms for domestic violence,
and for my case
there is no cure

they laugh...
at me.

they don't know
who drugged all the blue from this river.

Your father does though.
so it's okay.

And the saddest part is knowing
there's nothing more they can do for you.

Because today I learned how to be wreckage
all over again
and I wept so many angry rivers
and my father went fishing again
and again...

and oh he wanted fish for dinner
and threw the fish against the walls
beat eyelids
with fists
beat me
with rusty fishing hooks
until the rivers mixed with my blood
it's nothing personal
it's the way
he says
he loved me


caught so many trophies and he says

"I want to **** yourself so I can go fishing"
"I think anyone who calls you beautiful just lies to you
to make you feel better about yourself"
"you're not my daughter you're a filthy ******* animal,
you don't even deserve
a name,
my disappointing *******---"

"that boy that loves you?
doesn't know how to make you feel anything other than stupid."

"that boy that loves you?
will never know how to make you feel special."

He wanted the fish that held my name,
so he could hang it on a wall
and remind himself

that you can beat a girl into a ghost if you tried hard enough.

And so I wept,
like I was the definition of bitterness and butterflies
and I ******* wept as if
god asked me to make his floods this time around,
but there's no ark,
no need for that.

I took my father fishing in the vastest ocean
and he kept throwing in fishing hooks
and dragging out fish made of quicksilver,
fish out of water
that were bones of the happiness
fish dying
that was my heart with a fever
fish flailing
I think that's my lungs caving in, that's me---
fish that cannot find a breath...

and every breath we take we give back

it took my father's abuse to see that--
how ****** is that?
he ripped that wisdom tooth from the back
of my poetic mouth
so I could see it.

I don't try to keep my head above the water anymore.

I have wanted nothing more than to stop
for everything to ******* stop
I want to press pause on these turbid waters
don't talk so loud
hold these currents
I can't hear you
I can't hear them
god help me I--
I can't--

I cry
and let my father harvest
all of the life from waters that are not his to begin with
because I am worthless...

I know,
I am worthless.

this is not poetry;
this is
the heartbreaking into words this is
the dissolve of a human being
of a girl
of a body
of blood and water
this is tragedy and the gravity of cold intentions

this is my self decay

this is the most painful way
to die,
scratch that, to survive
with my father.

my father knows that this is the
most painful way to ask for a river in the first place.

Because every time my father beats me
with his fishing pole;
makes a puppet out of the decay;

death is leading me
like a horse to water and he's
watching with smiles
that promise a warm hug.

Death knows that all I want
is a hug and some kind words.

He is the only one,
willing to give it to me,
how ****** up is that?

all at once
the river runs out,
and I write suicide notes to my friends
and to that boy,
that boy...tell him I'm sorry

"My father's demons came for me
they came for all of us."
this is the part where it's not going to be okay

© Copywrite Skaidrum
Fọlá Nov 2018
The door is open.
    Monsters might be lurking.
    Do you see your life as just a token?
    Would you even live long enough for your story to be spoken?

    Stop shivering, start praying.
    Stop screaming, start acting.
    Stop looking, start running.
    For the Demons, are coming.

    Your dreams, they are haunting.
    Your blood, they are craving.
    For Your sound, they are listening.
    For them to pounce, while you are sleeping.

    The Boogeyman is in town.
    Pound, Pound, Pound;
    The heart sounds.
    Silent, goes the town.
    Empty, goes the crowd.
    As the Darkness, grips the clouds.
    Even the King shall not be saved by his crown.

    Oh, you think this is just a story.
    You think this storyteller must be joking.
    The signs, you keep ignoring.
    The tales, you keep dismissing.
    Well, then fear not. Take your time, enjoy and keep playing.

    For very soon, your tears would be streaming
    Your throat would be croaking.
    Your blood, gushing.
    Your skin, flailing.
    Some body parts might even go missing.
    Because, the darkness is coming.
    The Darkness, is Coming.
‘The Darkness is Coming’ is a poem trying to tell the tale of an impending doom. A warning to the people. A warning that wasn’t heeded. Please, enjoy.
Jade Sep 2018
VI. I, Ophelia

­{The Drowning}

It was her--
Flower Child.
Weeping Woman.
Crazed Ophelia--
who taught me that the
drowning is in the letting go
and not in the doing.

Ophelia did not flee to the riverside
with the intention of
drowning herself, no--
it was merely a promise of bouquets--
daisies, violet, rosemary,  rue--
of wild, velveteen petals nestled softly
against tear-stained cheekbones;
pine needles--
beneath raw feet
(do you recall how The Little Mermaid
danced upon knives
in the name of true love?);
and the train of her nightgown
a focal point for dewy leaves
and frayed bird feathers.

For it was flying she thought of
as she climbed the scarred willow
and cradled herself atop its highest bough,
severed blossoms in hand,
legs dangling precariously over
blustering currents.

when the bough
b r o k e ,
the cradle did   f
                               ­   l
and down came
mad girl
cradle and all.

But you must understand--
the dismemberment of the
willow's flailing limbs
was not her doing;
when the rapids dragged her down
to the belly of the murky river bed,
she merely gave no struggle
as death lapped at her ribs--
she merely submitted,
allowed the snivelling maw of the river
to swallow her whole.

I think it suiting
that I ponder the demise of the
Flower Child
(wilted in her ruin);
Weeping Woman
(tears reunited
with the eye of
the water lily);
Crazed Ophelia
and all she has taught me
of drowning
as I let myself
fall asleep in the bathtub
at three o clock in the morning,
all the while a little drunk
and so very sad.
(You'd might have even thought
I wanted to drown myself. )
{Th­e Resurrection}

Doused in the pallid wash
of blue stage light,
and the clamour
of imaginary tides
growling in my ears,
I metamorphosize into
Hamlet's Ophelia
and all the other Ophelias
who came before me--

Women who were never
capable of quieting
the sea trembling
in their veins;
the barbaric deluge festering
within their souls;
the siren songs
musing to the cavernous twists
of their hearts,
piercing through artery
with stalagmite precision.

These women succumbed,  
not to the water,
but to the burden of their own

None of them survived.

Except for me,
of course.

And, I must admit,
it took my
writing this poem
to finally understand
why that is--
I have managed
to stay alive,
despite dreaming of that
same siren song
that lured my foremothers
to their destructions.

Ophelia could not weather  
the tempest seething over her.

But I different--
I am not alone.

Because I carry with me the spirits
of all the Ophelias
who came before me,
the fragments of their beings
melding together to create
a brilliant gossamer of hope.

And that is why,
we can breathe underwater.

Ophelia Bows,
her performance immortalized
through the remembrance
of a standing ovation.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer for optimal experience)
Neurons travel and wind
around your head like
draping tree branches, Christmas lights,
strings of tangled red yarn
weaving a possible

When the cords are
simply content with
remaining relatively still,
being with you
is like
sailing on smooth,
tranquil, clear blue waters
of a vast, magnificent
a blossomed sunset
in the distance
dripping on white, sandy shores
of an island of lost paradise
awaiting our arrival.

But when the cords
flail and twist, tying each other
into knots and cutting off
the clearness
and levelheadedness of thought,
being with you
is like
trying to hang on to
the back of a typhoon,
frigid black waters flailing,
crashing against
foamy, thick quicksand,
roars and curses of a
tyrant sea god
raging seas of water against
the skies,
rapidly expelling
hurtful, sharp anchors and lunging
them to the bottom
of our sandy beds.

And I wonder
what it would be like had I
possessed more
powerful features
as your sea goddess,
as the moon and stars
from above,
and the sandy beds
below that would
catch both
hurtful anchors and
salty tears
you let loose.

When loved ones around you are content, sometimes it feels like what you have then is enough.
Then sometimes when they abrupt with anger, sometimes you feel hopeless as to what plays out as a result.
Leslie Thielen Nov 2018
the realization overtook the delusion
not overnight, not like a light switch
but like a gradual suffocation,
liquid black spilling in
it’s a futile gasp for tainted air

i am the anti-hero of my own autobiography
the protagonist that gains nothing
and by the end of the 400-page novel
the reader understands, they’ve wasted their time

because the story was never about me to begin with
all wrapped up superficially in a soft cocoon
immersed in a pseudo-nobility that shielded me
and convinced me that there is a right answer
to every wrong thing

one of the most painful and crippling experiences
is forcing yourself to unlearn everything you thought you knew
and resigning yourself to the fact that
not everything makes sense
not everyone gets a happy ending–

and there’s beauty in nature, but devastation in ours
serendipity in our structure, but chaos in our hearts
nothing deals in absolutes, and pain does not subside
we hide behind small comforts, but these are often lies

humans aren’t built in black and white, so i’m drowning in the gray
flailing and failing to understand why certain people cannot stay
over two decades on this planet and i’m still trying to decide
if the tragedy is hiding elsewhere or somewhere trapped inside.
i just want answers
Flailing arms in minestrone soup,
grasping ropes in gloopy slop.

Slippery snakes in slippy hands;
bobbing bereft in beefy broth.

Croutons swirl - a death knell eddy
clumping in a bread bricked tomb.
Ghazal Nov 2018
I am the cushion that life first rests in,
The crib meticulously created layer by layer,
The soft bed of flowers, glistening like blood,
The protector of all beings, the seat of care

My love is fuelled by the silver calmness
I gently extract from the first lunar night,
When the moon emerges from its dark sabbatical,
Armed with tales it gathered from the other side

Each day, its luminosity deepens, its stories
Turn more vivid, more wrenching, more morose,
I soak it all in- the pain, the suffering, the injustice,
And colour myself, in the darkest shade of rose

My red is no ordinary red, it is the
Culmination of every sister's deep cry,
It is the crimson of anger that can only be felt,
By the cradle entrusted with preservation of life

I am full and brimming, with pangs too strong
And hues of vermilion too dark to contain,
I rock back and forth, my cot full of stories,
Twisting, flailing and writhing in pain

And then I burst out and let freely flow,
The dam I created with laments of loss and love
Painted with conversations lasting until twilight,
With my cratered friend in the skies above

Petal by petal, as I lose my form and disintegrate,
She is connected to each woman's cry that I assimilate,
Flexed at the pelvis, helpless yet so strong, she listens,
And understands the lore I sing about, every twenty-eighth.
Hands off my magic box you nutty, flailing-limbed spastic! I get all
of the elastical stretch that I need from Brazilian rubber-tree elastic!
Anatidaephobic para siesta,
on the park bench w/ the child molesters:

eyeballs eyevory as Arctic detergent,
amid shingle by De Beers are REMurgent.

Whitsands of some incroyable Bermuda
(white man even his own intruder,

upon cetocephalic theta depths,
that whistle crystal Dixie, seahorses for clefts).

'Peas have great individuality,'
but peristerite is this sea,

not peagreen.  A pickpoctopus of preag
(pre-peag more offshore than 64,000 leagues),

klepto Neptune mudlarks the silica,
into his limelylit hypothermia

sleeves shells, like the desirable hermitcrab Earth
of my astrally orarian self.

My gaze stolen by tealeaf tides:
samphire, sapphire, squid's suckereyed .

Under the sea, there is no CCTV.
But guilt is a silk meat to the nee-

dleeyed nostrils of PC Jaws;
feefifofumes slip faded scabs' pores.

He's not a panoptopus catching your tentacle in your mouth,
but squaloid cop whose own gob's a ganch.

Phaser intangible thru verdantique,
Policeshark! does davyjonestowns deek.

On a fishing expedition in shipwreck slums,
whose 19 new tenants are pinklewickers from Morecambe,

but they're innocent as God's goslings, so Policeshark!
capriciously octocuffed a gangster's mollusc

- by 'octocuffed', I meant crunched the suspect's stu-
diously nonevolved backbone in his beartrap bazoo.

After flossing the caries of noble cause corruption,
moody maccarelics had snubsnouted selachian

policesharkraid! an octopus's gardengate,
& half a McCalf, knee, did he confiscate

- minus the 'confisc'.
His beat is wide & his beat is deep, from Frisc-

o to Portalprints,
Constantlynubile  (Instantbeau) to Pawsmith,

from pertly lisped Perth to hellsmiled imorteen's
imaginary Miami, styrofoam unicorn shoreline.

& traversing isthmus now wasthmus, Lemuria,
where  the wreck of the Sargassoworks lies similar-

ly submerged, sunk by Cap'n Sanforisedbeard,
nautical vagabond who thought he'd blagged a pond,

but was wonking all the angles on the sextant,
till mainsail was mainly flailing like an introvert

among many reprikates of Rik Mayall. Policeshark! swam
thru turquoise ****** of amino acids, liquid farm-

yards of forms not yet strangely familiar enough,
where plankton are those new clear vitals' scurf,

or Creation's intelligent designer stubble.
& Creation's archeozoic goosepimples are bubbles.

For around Policeshark!, waves may turn time-
twiddlingly wavy: Zeit's gristle to the Sein-

shark, the Aardshark, the Wailsnark, the Sharchetype
worrying my liminal jugular like a vamp-

ire scarf. In the blink of the eye of the
Policesharknado!, Policeshark! the merciless mer-

monitor has done his bloodhound rounds,
reset his primordial aura dial, outswam Ground

Zerocean brane, that damp original,
even aquathreshed the 'bi.ven.' in that bilateral

venture 'tween surf 'n' turf, Sinbad the Flavour.
So as to spyhop above cursive of rips & rollers

to stake out this shorehugger, whose Shutter Island discs
sirenade not of Portalsmith, Bizzyhandyman or Frisc-

o, but of a more prosaic 'mare where sharks go quack.
So rage, Ol' Cuntsea, Thalassa you ****!

Big blue wobbly ****, Red Label Sea
of my unconscious! It is mens rea

for which Policesharks! frenze, pinprick of shame,
but the dreaming animal's meat is not game.

I am Ruestungminister in his Argentine cabana!
I am God in His Gondola!

& the Policesharkcage! is the cordon sanitaire
of my not really being there. Or here.

I'm Shore Ryder splittin' for a sun-Ken-
tucky, para siesta passing for a con-

tent Tuesday come to pass like the rainbands
that wore Ray Bans were disbanded by whitsands

fresh-CV-not-cream-scroll-brill, yet
inadmissible as Icarus giblets

or a mohican of gills' nullity.
O Policesharkbait! paltry

as dismembered Freudianism of carnal lagan!
Less catabasis & more embasan.

A dreampoet about to jump the Policeshark!,
awoke to the trope of a Savileville park.

Was it a dream within a dream within...
TL; DR, Policesharkfin!!
'embasan'  (Filipino)- to wear clothes in the bath
In an age of braless nymphettes wearing lululemon
Who speak of unequivocal virtues
We seek **** role models and female superheroes
Ambition has no equal in all its atavistic ambivalence
Still we ****** our ******* feminine values into each other’s faces
Disrespecting our past predators and predecessors
And the pirate priests who prepared our souls for fiery salvation
In wartime circuses we are all pretzels and pantyliners
Who necessitate no changing stations for these gyrating giants of industry
And the gentle guardians of the spirit
With giraffe sized necks and human hearts that beat in their vulturous beaks
Who tear each and every naive feminine seeker into thousands of tiny pieces
Till all that’s left are precocious and imperfect targets
Seeking articulations of their convulsive
Nay, compulsive addictions to affection
With dinosaur sized scars and crocodile scales covering their erogenous parts  
We hide beneath a pile of beautifully styled business cards and good marks
Like we are a bunch of naughty children caught lurking in someone else's basement
Until the morning comes and we heed the need to once again impale our flailing limbs on another angry treadmill
While pilates preachers speak tender secrets from palaces of perfection
A hungry intersection of underwear and diamonds
When we finance our families’ vacation with blockchain investments
That eventually all end up feeding the same weapons dealers who control the world’s most vulnerable food chains
We are all deniers of the warnings of climate change specialists
Who liberate their minds with psychedelic toad poison
Moist as the dawn we overcame the wolves of oblivion
And covered up a significant number of Mother Nature's sounds that we abhorred for all the wrong reasons
Preferring fir-scented yoga rooms to an authentic forest floor covered in pine-needles, acorns, cones and a plethora of edible fungi
We’ve come to detest our own chthonic scents, senses and instincts
So we try to pretend that we've never sweat before
Exactly like a pile of compassionately discarded compost
Innocently left to rot in the sun for several weeks on end
So now for fun we back-bend over thundering volcanoes
Earthenware bowls asymmetrically formed in our souls
If all our pelvises tilt slightly to the left of west
Then the forest’s health is a direct reflection of our own faulty perspectives
And now you justify selling your soul for meager earnings
For next to nothing is always better than being wholly broke
Or broken holy or even sometimes just a little bit more hungry
The deck outside
felt fresh.
The moon,
full and luminous.

In a corner, I noticed a web.
So intricately designed,
Each silk string glistening,
While the spider hid out of sight.

A "buzz" passed on my right,
As fast as I turned
There was a void in sight,
But, it must have been in flight,
because, I heard it again at my left.
And before I could react
I was knocked in my chest.

I got up and scurried away.
And, would you guess it,
I went to sit on the deck,
Attacks from all angles
Still, no sign of the suspect.

One day
I decided to station myself
a bit further away,
And it was then that I saw him.

Blizzardly buzzing,
like a drunken buffoon,
A beetle so reckless,
flying right near his doom.

I just knew he was going to
get caught in that web,
And, I suppose it was wrong of me,
to slightly hope for his death.
But, I didn't mean it of course,
I was just a bit upset.

When the wings ceased to fly,
freely in the air,
I had a moment of guilt and despair.
A part of me wanted to help,
While another said don't interfere.

So, in turmoil I watched
as the spider drew near,
fangs exposed,
But, the beetle showed no fear.
He wasn't twitching or flailing about.
Perhaps he'd accepted his fate,
knowing there was no way out.

She cut each thread of her web
Surrounded around him,
I was a bit baffled by this,
And greatly dumbfounded.
How could she miss?
And so many times?
No, there was something there,
Hidden between the lines.

So, I watched for a few days,
Moved closer each one.
And the closer to the web I got
The beetle would drop like an explosive bomb.
Now I get it,
I thought.
I think sometimes it's easy to fall into a head space where the world revolves around you. So when something is bothering, one could focus in on it like it is a direct attack against them, not really allowing themselves to see that maybe it's bigger than them.
BLT Jun 24
My emotions like shifting sands-
Deserted desert of sun scorched earth,
void of life, lacking mirth,
numb, with no feeling in my hands.

Then, torrents fill the dry river bed-
uncontrollable tears like a monsoon,
newly carved crevices, roughly hewn,
the stinging salt tells me I'm not dead.

Sometimes, smiling like a carefree boy-
infectious laughter, spreading contagious,
delivering anecdotes, absurdly outrageous,
displaying nothing but joy.

Most times, with no expression at all-
grumpy, brooding, staring ahead,
the day filled with wretched consuming dread,
flailing against the proverbial wall.

Desiring consistency of any kind-
acquaintances flowering into something more,
aching for simplicity to not be a chore,
freeing up my troubled mind.

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