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It is funny;
Funny how one day you can see the universe reflected in your own eyes
And blue-rich galaxies bursting from the hidden darknesses
And the gone-places of your mind.
Your pen is as ceaseless on your paper as your feet are on your bedroom floor.

Other days are like tepid water, or half-sour milk
That is undecided on the matter of its own freshness.
Those dark, gone-places of your mind are not even dimly lit.
And yet you wish for that eye-universe,
And those blue-rich galaxies,
And for your pen to skate across the page
As if possessed by the likes of Ginsberg or Kerouac.

So you wander down to the quiet places;
To the caged city forests where the trees cohabitate with basketball hoops,
And the birds sing their squeezed-in yellow melodies.
To the crumbling, sandy banks,
Where on a good day you can find a smashed white seashell
Or a pocket watch, rusty and decayed with time
And confident in its fragility.

But all you do is stare at the sky.
No miraculous inspiration comes to you;
No stardusted metaphysics,
No juice-rich red and purple existentialism.
No darling lovers dripping with candy-yellow sweetness
As the birds sing like Blake or Wordsworth.

So You return to the loud and cluttered places;
To your places,
To your off-white apartments where the water runs cold
And the refrigerator stinks worse than hell.
To your concrete-welded rivers,
Where the only birds are grey pigeons,
And the most beautiful thing you will find
Is a ***** green bottle
Or a razor blade
With more memories than you.

And you will try tomorrow.
Maybe the ticking of your generic clock
Or the casual griminess of your old green bathtub
Will be enough.
But for now, you will sit,
And you will consider constellations
And contemplate the reason why your lover's eyes
Remind you of the Milky Way.
For now, the eye-universe is still, and the blue-rich galaxies
Are deep in sleep,
Just like you wish you were.

For this is a tepid water day, a half-sour milk day.
And that is not a bad thing, in the end.
written on a sunny afternoon in march on a day where i thought i couldn't write for ****.
Mur Jan 2017
I can't imagine what it is like to feel relaxation in the shower. For me
the shower is nothing more than a literal rushing of hot bullets stinging
my body but leaving me alive. The cold tiles offer no relief from the water rushing into my mouth, my nostrils. I can't tell if it's 60% shower 40% tears or the other way around.

I can't imagine finding the feeling of soap cleansing. No matter
how hard I scrub I still feel as *****. I feel as though I committed a horrible crime. I'm no longer clean, I'm doomed to this fate of dirtiness, griminess.

I can't imagine the sound of the water rushing downs, gallon after gallon, being anything other than horrifying. It's traumatizing, really. The water mixed with my shaky breaths, my gasping cries, my silenced screams. When my knees hit the floor the water keeps screaming. I want silence. This water is deafening in an awful way.

I can't remember what it felt like to feel better after a shower.
this was something i wrote really quickly the other night and havent edited at all
Murad Husain Jun 2018
The conventional life got indulged in griminess,
And poetry has lost the courage to go beyond the limit.

Yet time is flowing on the balcony,
The apparent three dimensional life lost its face in multiple existence,
And Multitude in marvel and Originality in Variety,
Ah! life , an endless dream,
Dream that has no boundary,
Other than infinity and endurance ~~
Paperbruises Apr 2018
Some days
I feel your griminess pulsating through my arteries
I feel your disgusting presence ruining me
I see the childhood I never had flash before my eyes
And it takes my breath away to know that I grew up before I was ready
I became an adult before I grew hairs under my arm pits
I was troubled before I could even write my name neatly on a piece of paper
Some days I feel like I’m drowning or like my lungs have been removed from my body
But yet, I keep on breathing. I keep on surviving.
I’m an adult now, biologically and mentally
Yet you still hold a grasp over me that I never gave you permission to have
And it makes me feel sick to know that I can’t change that
My past will never change
What you did to me will never change
And because of you, I have to live with that.

— The End —