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"fragmentally" poems
How can I access these feelings I’ve never felt before? No experience can measure to the pain I feel internally, fragmentally. I’ve never felt real pain, but I can write. I can imagine how it is to feel this way is this indirect or insincere? I’m not sure. But I feel it. In my lungs I feel it. In my heart I feel it. In my brain I feel it. Pain I’ve never experienced, It’s inside of me and I can’t make it leave. How do I make it leave?
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Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
Is This Empathy?
I packed you perfectly like one packs organs in ice to preserve them-- to keep the memory breathing in a box of souvenirs from our six years fragmentally put together, until I'd need to relive them again. I scanned our pictures like x-rays, the bones glowing silver linings, blurred and blue. You always light up. In any recollection, you will always be the clarity I connect to. I have my moments-- Don't you too? Nothing is what I thought it was. I feel you pulsate like blood under a bad bruise I packed you perfectly. You didn't move.
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Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
Rummaging
That which has gone before days that are no more but memory never sleeps even fragmentally some remnants it keeps how blessed are those who have no tears know not life's throes of anguish and pain and what have I to say? my sorrows I hide. You asked: 'Why?' But I can't refer you to the file of my life--where it's kept I know not---therein, forgotten in dust and oblivion wrapped for none could ever escape from the all-pervading force of fate free-will, courage, defiance all drops in failure at its wrathful gate yet, somehow, I don't know how these my long-suffering tears have given me more strength than I deserve I prevail despite the onslaught of tumultuous years.
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Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 7:13 PM UTC
THAT WHICH HAS GONE BEFORE*
I stitched hands trembling patch to patch concealing your perfection your fabric pricked with each new stitch an inverse of C-section Each ***** at you a stab at me and trickles of red blood adorned visage of clotted dreams the color of dried mud Patch after patch meticulously fragmentally I forgot aware that there’s no other way full of dismay full of regret A grim artwork you stood and smirked your scarred and awful smile a bride of snide spread far and wide a dusty, mangled guise of guile I covered this textile Frankenstein this fractured made a whole covered myself with you and mumbled a prayer to rest my tattered soul
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Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
Conditioning