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Arshia Qasim Nov 2017
There is a certain romance of incomplete stories
and unrequited passion....
A certain heroism , in unfulfilled ambitions and sacrificed wants ...
(There is also
Selfishness in altruism,
Mockery in humility...
Fragility of pretenses,
Deception of senses,
Armors of sensitivities...
all those nitty gritties,
paradoxes that haunt
etc, but then...)

Sometimes this happens,
love stays and we go.

Sometimes this happens,
there is no beginning, nor end:
through “ifs” and “buts”
priorities distend
the space between, what is seen and what has been.

I picked your hopes with my eyelashes
and thatched together a shade for us
You caught my fall in the web of your thoughts,
softening for me, the landing, and thus,
we built a dream.  

Sometimes this happens
the stars are buried in the desert sands
the lines dissect though you’re holding hands
but for the heart that understands....

it’s all divine. Not yours nor mine.

Sometimes this happens
one understands, but it’s not enough
one knows, but accepting is still pretty rough

You may have all ingredients
but you still need a “here” and a “now”
no question of why? or what? or how...

Sometimes this happens
the wait becomes unbearable
so remember that you know....
time is deceptive
and it’s already tomorrow in Tokyo

Arshia.
Nov 26/27, 2017
A Sep 2018
I want you to imagine fixing a watch, all the tiny little parts
And I want you to imagine fixing a watch with broken hands
An overly involved metaphor for the idea that you can’t fix someone else when you yourself are broken

I fell in love with this image of drugs and ***** and rock and roll
And the reckless way you lived your life despite the fragility
When I found myself broken I spent years picking up shards of glass and trying to put them back together
You swallowed yours with a bottle of whiskey and marched on

I think you’ve always seen me as someone who could fix you
I’ve never been able to do that
And that’s why you come back whenever you feel like killing yourself or you’ve finally decided that you want someone to come home to that doesn’t live inside a bottle

I’m still picking up glass
I wish I could love you enough to fix you
But I won’t ever be waiting for you at home
There’s too much glass
There’s not enough time

Even if I could find a way to go back and fix that watch I can’t use it to turn back time
We’re here right now
And my hands are broken
Everything is
Old *** repost poem
Butch Decatoria Sep 2018
The impetus
                     Of being
Always on the run
               Through pinwheel eyes
                              Those standing by
                                          The mystic roadway :    River
Blues yet to be brushed
                      or in blush
                           Of evening chill's breathing
a canvas like windows dreaming felt
All mindful
And chockfull O'
                              Wonder
Then ponder
                Yonder "window breaks"
                         Past the wilderness' sleep
Bone heavy wood
                             Umber earth

                             Past whoosh and rush of liquid
Folding on itself / a soundtrack

      Listen now
      Pedestrian be

Mindful of the cautionary whales
                                               Old Ahab’s yell
                                  Obsessions
                           Fears
                                   Or loathing.

If one is drowning in one's sleep
Look wildly
                  widely
                              Blithely
                                    Down river  
Or up there beyond finger's point
                      Sidewinder snake journeys
Until sky and below it
All meet

The distance
        Now only a line
                 Coalescing what is beyond
                      Our ability to see
Far and away
    Evanescent
         Effervescent
                     Ever after      
                             River.     Life.
Here we are
And proud
     The free spirit is fluent
           With the rapid rivers loud
                            Always on the run
Currents like a child's curiosity ...
How then,
When or why
                        does it end ?
Where do we go?
                    
Like most things existing,
           Will lead to the high art /
love's deep oceans...
          
We often forget to seek
                              And mind
                                     the sublimations/
                                                            d¬¬r­ift wood.
So then,
Begin with a dot .
A speck of dusk
                     A burst of light
                                        A starry sky,
pieces to mastering
                   Raging fragility of water

Liquid undulations  
                    Folding itself in / volumes

Or falling from on high
       A droplet cry

Then the lightning
                   (crash or bloom)
From the heavens
                                 like electric rivers
So brilliantly
                   Festoons

Where do we go (so low)
       There and here / underfoot /
                   Over north / southern sleep
                                   To oceans twilight deep?

Go wrapped or map-less
Or no.
            Up
                Way
       Up yonder
There up there
                    Everywhere
                    All without fear...
My heart like the river yearns
                 To go toward the sun
                       A flow /
                                     the beating drum
Always on the run
And
     Yet
            Still
                    Here.
Repost
Liam hopson Oct 2018
GOD NEVER LEFT US
HE'S IN EVERYTHING WE KNOW
HE'S IN EVERYTHING WE SHOW
GODS IMAGINATION IS OUF REALITY
GODS IMAGINATION EXPOSES OUR FRAGILITY
EACH INDIVIDUAL MUST SHOULD RESPONSIBILITY
EACH INDIVIDUAL MUST PUT AN END TO ALL HOSTILITY
GOD NEVER LEFT US
HE'S IN EVERYTHING WE KNOW
HE'S IN EVERYTHING WE SHOW
Steve Page Mar 2
God writes straight with crooked lines.

He zigs and zags out of compassion,
out of recognition of our fragility,
our inability to walk aligned to the sun,
our preference to shun the glare of the bright
and to tolerate that light only from the gloom,
but God makes room to write straight with His crooked lines

and so He completes His story.
The first line is a Portuguese proverb.
See also Genesis 50, Joseph speaking to his brothers who sold him into slavery:
v20 "You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives."
H E L E N A Dec 2018
Petals, oh these metals.

They fall,

Paling.

Blackened.

Dyed crimson.

A celebratory death dance,
I have found a new advance.

And the brilliant yellow sun,
How it slinks in the night!

So comfortable,
I have left it behind.

Toxic were the tendrils
that kept me where it stood.

A million stinging nettles,
In my heart, they took root.

The pink quills of Cyanea,
the futility of their purpose.

They don't always wither away,
So I've set them all aflame.

Romeo's sheath, Hermes' fool-
Treating my human tendencies as a tool.

Forget this fragility we call love,
Cut the strings and rise above.

Past the smoke and ashes,
it will come clearer through these lashes.

If my woven words fail to reach you,
Nothing else will ever do.
I fell in love so I began to write. I might be falling out of love as I recreate our plight.
Butch Decatoria Aug 2018
What genius evening keeps secret… the moribund...

His foot falls to echo the chill of November deep
Tapping, clapping, wrapping
His man heavy fragility in wool

How distant and suddenly wide is the night.

What shrewd skills fear casts, a mask,
That evening keeps him wary, attentive as wax,

Shadows shed no comfort for this lamb,
His rhythm once lord of the dance
Pulsing toes as eyes flash to every creak and whisper

Depth of sightlessness made paranoid by twisted twilight
Shapes, shifting with the nerves frozen with haste…

His weakness, not knowing, a pallid winter on his face
Even now the slow climb upon his back
Carried by the slip of a breeze laying waste,
The soundtrack of dead leaves and black

His foot falls stomping to clash and map
A stroll as reality saves nothing sincere, when fear
Deepens to his bones resolve and panic...

What genius a weapon: flights of fancy
And the conditioning of youth to preconceive

The hollow of city sidewalks, midnight’s screaming chill
The mouth of alleys he passes ready to swallow him still

Strange and delicate the space between his ears
Defeated before finding a sure foot
Before reaching a well lit street

Familiar and familial suburbs of a mind
Diminished by the subterfuge of fear…

His foot falls turn a corner
And the sound of concrete and conflict

Disappear…
Repost
Glory Jul 2018
They say
             To guard your heart
       from bad people
                                who hurt you

But I can't help it if I want to lock my heart away
in the highest room
                   in the tallest tower

Breathing fire on anyone
                                              who gets too close
Only for my heart to weep a sad song
                          every night, alone.
               Because it watched the world move on through blurry glass windows  

But it doesn't understand its own fragility
I can only protect it if it stays within me
                         If I give it away,
                                                    someone­,
                                                      anyone,
 ­                                                      everyone
                                                                ­     will break it

No, my Prince,
                           for you,
                                          I will not let my hair flow down.
Does anyone else have a desire to be loved but holds their own heart so close at night that it just might drown in blood?
Camilla Peeters Sep 2018
do not forget me
as i trickle into your skin
funnel babe
trying to slightly breathe again darkwards we move

(undercover king
under covers will be paradise and
inferno
a wasteland of blankets and spit)

cut off my fingertips and i'll remain Other
and i'll somehow Stain you

and i hold on to the tension
spread it out butter on bread
strange breed that is all there is to say about it

the amount of people who
walk on bare feet i
cannot believe the
fragility in the streets

me: with nausea and extra cover
you: starting and pinning and purring and running
we: twosome group of always more cannibalism

animals and cages we
change constantly

a maybe-core
Marco Bo Sep 2018
under this suburban sky
red stain on the dull gray, when you move away to your elsewhere
you revive
as a fish returning to the water after a short yet intense pain

for you I'm the bait
and the hook
and the fisherman too,
not in that order
in the order you decide
since you decide

you are elusive, you always look away and tighten your eyes
your words are lashes
I feel weak in your presence,
at the same time your fragility confuses me and it moves me
as a boat adrift in a lonely sea
...................
sotto questo cielo suburbano
macchia rossa su grigio opaco, quando ti muovi nel tuo altrove,

tu rivivi
come un pesce che ritorna in acqua dopo un'agonia breve ma intensa

per te io sono esca
amo ed anche  pescatore,
ma non in quell'ordine
nell'ordine in cui decidi
e tu decidi

sei inafferrabile, distogli sempre lo sguardo e stringi gli occhi
le tue parole sono staffilate
mi sento debole in tua presenza,
allo tempo stesso la tua fragilità mi confonde e mi commuove
come una  barca alla deriva in un solitario mare
..................

bajo este cielo suburbano
mancha roja en gris opaco, cuando te alejas a tu otro lugar,
tu revives

como un pez que regresa al agua después de un dolor breve pero intenso

yo soy cebo para ti
y gancho
y también  pescador
pero no en ese orden
en el orden en que tu decidas
y tu decides

eres evasiva, siempre mira hacia otro lado y cierras los ojos
tus palabras son latigazos
me siento débil en tu presencia,
al mismo tiempo, tu fragilidad me confunde y me conmueve
como un barco a la deriva en un solitario mar
Megan Oct 2018
Early Sunday morning.
Brisk wind, no jacket.
Waiting for a taxi,
shivers in my bones.
Shameful looks from my mother -
she thinks I stopped out last night.

Monday afternoon.
The whole school knows.
Taunts, laughter, names
as I walk through the corridors -
isn't school supposed to be safe?
I see the boys
- I hate them, I hate them, I hate them -
feel ***** rise through my throat
and the blood in my brain thicken.
Hear words that cut like knives:
"****", "*****",
"I can't believe she had a foursome".
I cannot walk into the canteen,
it's full of piercing lion eyes
searching for their prey;
me.
I am called into the head of years office,
heavy footsteps echoing with sorrow
as I enter.
Concerned eyes break through my skin
creating bullet holes in my fragility.
The words I couldn't face
finally enter the wind.
"Was it consensual?"
No, no, no, no.
Cheeks wet with cascading tears.
The truth finally said,
spoken aloud like an oracle.
I wait for fifty minutes.
Fluorescent police uniforms march the halls.
And my mother.
She's crying, she knows,
she hugs me.
Tells me she's sorry.
In the small back office
surrounded by teachers and police and my mum,
words are exchanged.
I see moving lips but cannot hear the words.
My senses are drowned by the event leading up to this.
They gave me a name
in the bedroom that night.
"It", like an object.
Unhuman, unfeeling.

The same Monday evening.
Next thing I know I'm at home.
Brought back to consciousness
with an assertive knock at the front door.
More uniforms, more police.
Mum explains that they have to take my statement.
I panic, cry -
I've done a lot of that today.
I hide some things from them;
I'm too ashamed.
They have cameras on their vests,
tiny eyes watching me,
recording the moment I recall my trauma.
My body hurts,
but my brain and my heart are in agony.
They ask me to take my clothes off.
How can they ask me that?
Explanations are given to my mother,
her face conveys the emotions that I'm too numb to feel.
It's protocol,
they need evidence of any injuries, they say.
Choked sobs escape my mother's mouth
as I take my clothes off.
Shades of black and blue litter my body.
*******, thighs, stomach, *** -
my skin edited by violent hands.
My most intimate areas a part of a police file forever.
They take my ****** jeans, underwear, top all into evidence.
They leave.

Tuesday morning.
I am told not to go into school
by the head of year.
The boys are still allowed.
Motionless body lying in bed,
I stare at the wall for hours.
All of my energy put towards breathing.
Mum skipped work,
sitting outside my bedroom door
like a prison guard -
terrified I would hurt myself.
I can't speak.
How do you tell the woman who raised you
that you don't want to be alive anymore?

About a week later.
I still haven't been to school.
I've barely moved from my bed.
The physical marks have almost vanished,
but the sadness cripples me still.
I have to go to a police station today,
a forty minute trip.
My best friend comes.
I'm numb, I cannot feel the car moving.
I have been numb for over a week.
Isolation caves in on me -
I'm in an interview room with a policewoman and man.
They say three's a crowd,
but I still feel completely alone.
Just over six hours.
Recounting the event took over six hours.
The walls of the interview room painted grey,
or maybe that's just the only colour I can see now.
I didn't cry.
I haven't cried since the Monday that everything became real.
Fragments of the night flash through my mind,
it's becoming difficult to close my eyes.
I went into the interview room while it was light outside,
I leave and it's pitch black.
When I check the time on my phone before I hand it in as evidence,
it's almost 11pm.

Another week passes.
I'm still not allowed into school.
Most of my friends have given up on me.
They don't want to be associated with the girl who cried **** because she was embarrassed of her foursome.
But no-one knows what happened behind that door.
The horrors that occurred,
the venom in the insults they spat at me,
using my body as a human rag doll.
The police call, the detective assigned to my case.
My heart drops
as my mum tells me what he says.
"They're treating two of the boys as witnesses,
only one as a suspect."
I go to my bedroom as I feel my heart strings sever.
Try to sleep,
but I cannot close my eyes.
I see the room,
the darkness,
their eyes.
I smell sweat and shame.
I hear them calling me "it" -
a worthless victim.
I feel the poison on their fingertips.
Dead the second they touched me.

Months pass.
Less contact with the police.
I go back to school.
Adjust to life as 'that girl'.
Learn to sleep again.
Deal with the nightmares and flashbacks.
Stop panicking every time someone touches me.
Open up about the pain I feel every day.

It's February.
Ten months later.
I haven't heard from the police since December.
When I ring
they tell me my case has been dropped.
They say there's a lack of evidence.
What they really mean is that no-one in court will believe
my story against the three of there's.
I expected this.
The blood on my underwear
does not count.
The pictures of my body painted with bruises
do not count.
The six hour recording where I describe every soul breaking ******
does not count.
The countless therapy sessions trying to fix the flashbacks and panic attacks
do not count.
The nights I planned how to die
do not count.
I used to be a person.
Now I'm just another **** case,
unsolved,
at the bottom of the pile.
Arke Sep 2018
red torii gates separate the sacred
engraved with kana names
I step on the stone tiles
reinvent myself by praying
to every god I have never believed in
donating all the coins I have to shrines
the omamori will protect me
with pretty ribbons, silk, and wood
their birds guide to understanding
converting lies into truths before me
their paper songs a tender kindness
and there is courage within me
even as my voice turns to melody
my words spill out a tune
the temple walls hum
a chorus of veracity, louder
I have come to realize the importance
of moral authenticity within me
your gracious decency, divine
delicate gentleness with my fragility
from shattered pieces I rebuild
recollect myself and rise stronger
the sakura blossoms melt
the tide rises up the torii
compelled by a cold moon
wooden birds take flight away
and I return solid and true
zandranix Nov 2018
If only
She
Knew her sheen; the luster

If only
She
Knew her cherished soul

Our wretched world therein
She
Existed

A single promise
To protect
Such fragility

Elegance
Where the lilac
Sway lazily

Sharpness
Quick to become ablaze
But swiftly serene

An enigma
Sought out by many
Where the greed consumes

The selfishness
I feel
For her presence

And I thank God
The metaphysical
For this blessing
I will always be there for you.
Grace Conde Oct 2018
I exist
on the border
between Reality,
and the Imaginary.

I breathe in belligerent Black,
and Withering whites.
I am incapable of grays,
a gradient of gruesome Grief.

I dance on the Border,
exhaling exuberant fragility,
my border is made of glass.

And I rise from the ashes,
a Byproduct of the
bridges I've burned.
Craving soothing touch,
Yet silently seeking
Incriminating Isolation,
Addicted to my own destruction.

A shattered soul dutifully
Dances on the Border,
Held captive by her sins.
Trapped between Good
and Bad. Happiness
and Heartbreak. Lost
and Found. Death
and Resurrection.

Born on the Border, a
Simple Figment of
Immoral Imagination.
Levi Windolf Oct 2018
Fragility is fertility to change,
That which needs to become new,
Must first become old.
That which needs to be full,
Must first become empty.
Those who need to become stronger,
Must first suffer weakness.
Those who need to be loved,
Must first feel alone.

Change is the birth of growth.
That which is new,
Must now grow old.
That which is full,
Must now be shared.
Those who are strong,
Must now breed strength.
Those who are loved,
Must now love those who are alone.

It is our duty and our right,
As those who learnt to fight.
To fight for the voiceless,
To defend the defenseless.
To ensure the world we leave,
Is a world our families won't grieve.
To ensure that our daughters,
To ensure that our sons,
Never once in their lives,
Have to take up a gun.
Astraea Apr 20
when porcelain shatters
the fragments don’t piece
together into the state
it once was

what was once a
delicate
sculpture
is now thousands of
hazardous
shards

lay askew

sharp enough to pierce
those oblivious enough to
seize it,
deep enough to draw blood
from those careless enough
to mishandle its
fragility
B L Costello May 5
Someday,
I’ll be you,
Older and gray,
Inevitable,
Still…
I am afraid,
Your wisdom,
Your beauty,
Amazing to me,
Challenged with fragility,
So important,
All that you do,
No one could ever fill your shoes,
Who will listen,
Who 'll want to talk?
When my hands shake,
Or I need help to walk?
Who will be my friend?
After you have left,
What becomes of the childless?
©B L Costello 2019
A scary thought.  I question the kindness of strangers.
Chris Neilson Apr 19
If your love was an Easter egg
I would hold its fragility to my lips
the sweet taste of desire the prize
without the calories on our hips

I would gently coax your halves apart
and delight in the treats therein
unwrapping chocolate drops of heaven
with no feeling of guilt or sin

The smooth curves of your outer shell
would tingle my fingers to the bone
cupping your bottom my pleasure
now I have you to myself all alone

I'm licking and ******* as you melt
you're dissolving on my probing tongue
as we slide to a final coming together
I wish it was Easter all year long
Enjoy your Easter weekend!
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