Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
L A Lamb Sep 2014
(written 3-18-2014)



I just needed something different, something to think about: an alternative night, a different scene with new environmental stimuli. It’s true that if the stimulus is unchanging we will adapt, but for me, I live best being able to react to different things. Yesterday was fun for that reason.



I was going to drive, but then Alistair said Yarab was going out too and he offered to drive. I considered the gas money and how I would prefer to drink and not worry about driving, so I agreed. At this point, you and I were in amidst a discussion regarding me coming over too late– or not at all– and I was in a particular mood where I didn’t want to think about the relationship strain. I knew I was causing it, but it was nothing new, and nothing bad. I just wanted to actually see my brother since I was so suffocated and domesticated. I wanted a night away from Giovanni’s room, which made me feel like your little housewife, your obedient certainty assigned love.



Why did we stay so ignorant when we started with uncertainty? It was a beautiful stage of development, a coming-of-age stage of accepting my sexuality and exploring sensuality. We we drunk college girls, amateur philosophers and ****-smokers, confused about the world but idealizing a better world. That was the ideal of us. The truth was too tragic, but we endured it for so long that for one night I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to get away. I didn’t want to think about you. So I didn’t. It was inconsiderate of me to consider you worrying and upset, but at this point I wanted to enjoy myself and have fun with my brother when I figured you’d be sad and disappointed no matter what happened, so I may as well enjoy myself. I thought hard about it, but decided since it was Alistair’s birthday, I didn’t have work until 6:00 p.m. the next day, and yes, it was St. Patrick’s Day, I wanted to go out and celebrate. Sorry you didn’t want to come.



In the car, Alistair packed the bowl. They were smoking it on the way up and I declined but instead had a cigarette. Yarab said he was working with an artist who made glass pieces resembling scary, mystical-like creatures, and the bowl Alistair packed was one of them. It was mostly blue, and the front of it was a head where the **** would go into the top of the head. It had wide eyes, a big, sorcerer-like nose and big, scary-looking teeth. “Trippy, right? The line is called Enoch based off the book of Enoch in the Bible—which is actually removed in most but still a part of Russian Orthodox.” They packed it twice throughout the ride and I sat in the back, smoked my cigarette and thought about you and the night before me.



We were going to Harrington’s Irish Pub but it was packed (naturally), so we tried Cadillac Ranch (the bar was full there too), so we finally decided on Public House. We each had 3 Washington Apple’s between beers and conversations before getting food. I had two Yuenglings, Alistair had a Yuengling, three Irish Stouts and Yarab drank 3 Stellas. Alistair and I split nachos and a hummus plate. I’d never been there before, and I appreciated the upscale environment compared to cramped and loud local bars I was used to. It was quiet enough that we could talk and hold conversations, and our bartender, Sarah, was pretty, friendly and attentive. I thought about my restaurant experience and briefly thought about her and her life.



My favorite part of the night was when we were at Public House. The conversations were just interesting; they talked about Putin, Ukraine and Russia and how “of course the U.S. wouldn’t let part of the country join into Russia” and the proposal would be rejected by the UN; we talked about birdhouses and fireplaces and utilizing space in people’s yards, so that if the world changed for the worse and we needed to survive we would be able to; we talked about being arrested; we talked about the Zionists and the fake group of evil Northern European people who migrated and were rejected by both Islam and Christianity, so they essentially took over Judaism—and how the conflict between Israel and Palestine is a struggle for power with the Zionists and U.S.; all of this was relevant to our talk about how we don’t live in a Democracy but a Corporatocracy, and the world is determined by whoever has the most money and power.



Yarab talked about tolerance for other cultures and intolerance, telling us about the other day when his stepfather was at their house going over notes with a woman from Sudan. She and her company wanted to use a product (he was a rocket-scientist and worked on a greener product in 1967 which weapons would have less of an environmentally hazardous effect) of his, but before going over the professional aspects he basically insulted her culture and country, criticizing how wrong they were. Yarab said he was in the kitchen getting water and had to leave because he couldn’t help but laugh, saying how his step-father was brilliant but very opinionated and could be rude. “He’s a buddhist-atheist,” he said, and I thought of us chanting. I brought up Niechren Buddhism and the lotus sutra, expressing how nice it made me feel after. He said any way to get peace is a good one, but atheists shouldn’t be ignorant when talking about their non-beliefs because that’s just as bad as religious people talking about their beliefs. Alistair commended him on never forcing his beliefs on Alistair, and I asked what he thought of God.



He described himself as polytheistic, saying that there wasn’t just one god but many, and because of how everything in the universe connects and resembles each other there must be something to cause it, because it can’t be explained. I thought about the mystery of life and how it’s developmental to wonder about it, and felt secure in the fluidity of my beliefs which has a general principle, that life may not be a coincidence but it is comprised with a series of coincidences and connect factors which cannot always be explained or determined, but rather appreciated and analyzed to create a memorable life in which existence is valued. I didn’t ask further about his gods, but I figured the idea he held was similar to the atheistic view Alistair held and the scientific-spirituality I held as well.



It was interesting talking to another person about it besides Alistair, and the discussion changed and added to the one we had the night before, when Alistair and I were drinking ***** with ginger ale (while I tinted with green food dye). I’ve always appreciated drunk talks with Alistair because they were some of the most real conversations I had. I brought up the hour-long documentary “Obey” and confessed my frustrations about the consumerist-capitalistic society we live in, where it’s nearly impossible to change the system as we’re being monitored. Big Brother is among us, I noted, and I praised George Orwell as a prophet and how we are living in 1984 even though so many people fail to realize it and don’t care or consider the bigger consequences of it. There was something so mystical in our depressing little talk, and I felt empowered to reexamine my life and work towards something with meaning.



While maybe more spiritual than existential, I knew Yarab could understand these ideas and provide even more insight to the social issues which confined us, the same ones we were so immersed in. We toasted to Alistair’s birthday; we toasted to being Arab; we toasted to Franklin Lamb; we toasted to Palestine; we toasted to peace.



Alistair was in the bathroom and I asked Yarab whether it was possible to live outside Capitalism without rejecting social conventions, being isolated and living off the Earth away from society. He replied it was very hard not to feed into the system, and explained how even he felt like a hypocrite for living in the U.S. and being American when his family and people were in Syria enduring the hardship of resources, lack of employment and political regimes. He explained that it was necessary to be a part of the system but not buy into it, to use the system and eventually work towards changing it. “Like Robin Hood,” he said. I told him it was hard because it seemed so easy to get ****** into it, and he said work towards what you believe in. “You’ll have a clear conscience.”



Alistair came back from the bathroom, and he talked about going to Lebanon toward the end of summer. “I could study Arabic at AUB,” and I supported his idea. Yarab chimed in that he deeply respected my father because of his work. “He actually cares about what’s happening and he speaks from the heart.” I was proud of my father for his work, despite everything else, and thought it interesting that the one Syrian we happen to encounter in our small town was immersed in politics and actively followed my father.



“You should take over what your dad is doing,” Yarab said to Alistair, and Alistair agreed it would be a good thing to do. Alistair mentioned Fatima Hajj and my time learning about Palestinians and spent in refugee camps. “She died a week after Louisa interviewed her.” “Three days,” I corrected him, and I felt my insides turn as we reminisced on my accomplishments. Almost two years had passed, and I made no progress on my activism, besides an article. Two weeks was not enough to change the world, although from my feedback it was clear I had inspired many.



I told them both how I felt so stagnant and unintelligent, boring and unproductive regarding any progress of working towards something of importance.”Do what you can while you’re able. Even if you don’t see it grow, you can still plant the seeds. You can be a sheep or you can be a Lamb.” I was grateful that my brother had a friend who could think about the world in a way differently than the normal crowd of friends he had who just focused on losing themselves in substances with no thought of life beyond their boring little lives.



Alistair suggested I visit Beirut for a month to see visit Dad, make connections and see what else was happening in Lebanon, Syria and throughout the Middle-East, and my heart sank with nostalgia and the prospect of a dream. I could see us going to Lebanon, and if I went I would feel inflated with purpose, the way I felt when I went before, the way I felt I could change the world. Yarab agreed with Alistair and supported my journalistic endeavors, while Alistair mentioned Mediciens sans Frontiers. “I don’t know if I’d be able to,” and I thought about you, Camino and Arizona. I thought about ASU and AUB. “Rachel would understand if you went for a month right?” I didn’t want to listen what I knew would follow.

After finishing our food we went outside to smoke. Alistair drank his beer, I chugged mine and Yarab left more than half of his second Stella. “I have to drive,” so Alistair picked it up and emptied the cup in two stealthy gulps.We went back to the garage and the plan was to drive back to a house party in Accokeek. I didn’t know Elton, or what to expect, but from the company I knew they kept in Accokeek, I expected a drastic change in environment from the bar talk with two like-minded Arabs.



Alistair packed the bowl again, and I was offered to smoke but again declined. “We stopped smoking.” “Rachel smoked with me while she was waiting for you to get off work one day.” “What? Recently?” “Yeah, like two to three weeks ago or something. I was in disbelief. “Are you serious? We were stopping together! She didn’t even tell me!” I was angry, and resented feeling like a fool, believing that we made a decision together—only to discover my efforts were stronger than hers. “Don’t ask her about it though.”



“No! I’m going to. Here I am, not doing anything and she does it? Doesn’t tell me about it?? It’s not that she did it but she didn’t even tell me. Typical *****. We talked about it since and she just chose not to bring it up? And she’s here accusing me of things when I’m not doing anything wrong?”



“She’s probably projecting her guilt on you.” I thought about other times I didn’t know about something and remembered finding out and feeling so stupid. “Do you want some?” “Maybe I will.. but no. Not right now.” I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.



But I did. I asked you and we texted about it, and in the car I felt annoyed and unincluded, rejecting the **** that was offered to me. By the time we got to the house, I left my phone in the car. I was there to spend time with my brother, not get into a text fight over something that didn’t matter anyway. We went inside and I didn’t recognize everyone. I suspected I was the youngest, and I couldn’t help but observe I was the thinnest girl. People were playing beer pong and sitting at a table. Someone offered me a beer. I sat down on a couch. Alistair was getting hugs from girls and handshakes and fist-bumps from guys, and I made brief introductions with no real effort of talking to anyone. There weren’t many seats, and the most comfortable couches were facing the television where rap videos were playing. I hadn’t heard any off the songs that were on the playlist, and felt uncomfortable by the blatant sexuality and objectification of girls in the videos. The drunk girls were dancing to the music and singing along with the degrading, raunchy lyrics. “Can we smoke?”



I hesitated and held the bowl in my hand, staring at the green. I thought about putting it down. “I haven’t smoked in two months and twenty-one days,” I vocalized, and some guy (who didn’t smoked) responded “but who’s counting?” “Come on Weezee,” and after further hesitation I decided it was nothing new, and nothing bad would happen as a result. I brought the piece to my lips, lowered the lighter and inhaled. It was smooth, and I held it in my lungs for several seconds before slowly exhaling. I couldn’t feel it at first. It was passed around, and I took another hit. I thought about what you might be thinking about me, but pushed the thought from my mind. A guy made brief eye contact with me, and something about him seemed familiar. He had a beard and was wearing a hat, and I thought it was impossible I could know him. The other person who lived there asked if we could smoke in the room because the guy who asked me who was counting, and others, didn’t smoke. So we went. I hit the bowl once more and as we were standing I felt the high come to me, the surreal feeling of being and experiencing. In the room was myself, Alistair, Yarab, a guy with a ‘fro, Elton and the guy with the hat and beard. Someone packed the **** and handed it to me, but I refused; I was pressured and still refused. “I haven’t done this in a while, so no, I’m fine, and I’ve been drinking.” I think some were taken aback by how adamant I was not to push my limit, because it was so clear many people there viewed partying as pushing the limit.



Alistair introduced me to the guy with the beard and the hat as Mat, who worked at Chevy’s and now McCormicks, and I instantly recognized him. “Oh hey!” I said and hugged him, and he said “I thought you looked familiar. How’ve you been?” “I’ve been pretty good,” and I explained to Alistair that he worked with Alex at Bonefish Grill and was our server when we went in to her work once, years ago. They continued to smoke and I stood among them, half paying attention to conversation and half thinking about anything and everything else. There was a familiarity being among these people I’d never met, and the surrounding of burnouts. I wondered if everyone there was a server and that was all they did. I told Mat I worked at Buffalo Wild Wings as a server, my first serving job, yeah I like it okay, I guess, and he told me he knew Alistair through McCormicks. “I’m serving there too,” and I wondered how many restaurants he’d been through so far.



He told me he graduated from tech school and I congratulated him and asked, “which one?”, where he replied Lincoln Tech. I wasn’t surprised it was that type, and I told him I graduated from Salisbury with a degree in Psychology, which he congratulated me for. I felt it necessary to disclose I was taking the GRE in May and imply that, yes, while I am serving in Waldorf and my college degree doesn’t give me much to do in this area, I am going back to school and I am going to do more than stay around serving, like you. I was reminded of a poem I wrote and th
Kimberly Rose Feb 2015
Like smoke in my lungs, it is an acquired taste that I could not bring myself to quit. And now that I have, the flavor is unprecedentedly toxic.
2. Your name is merely a catalyst to my relapse. You turned your head away from it then, and I know you will turn your head away from it now.
3. To hear that beautiful arrangement of letters coming from my own lips only reminds me of the genuine smile on your face that you can only have when I am gone. And every time it makes me wonder if I truly mean it when I say I am happy for you.
4. I cannot reconcile what is with what could have been. Maybe if I was still yours and you were still mine, it would be endearing to say your name.
5. When it's 4 am and I am falling apart in my half empty bed, I cannot find the breath to utter your name between sobs.
6. I have spent too much time pretending that your absence has had no affect on me that I have not yet grieved. But, I could never pity myself without shouting your name into an empty void.
7. Maybe I am only idealizing you, but his name left a bitter taste and I have been craving yours on my lips.
8. I cannot say your name because I know that if you were to turn your head in recognition, I'd get lost in those blue eyes and fall for you all over again.
9. There is no logic behind how I inherited the right to say your name. Since you have left, this complacency is eating me alive and I am only left to wonder why someone so beautiful would have ever touched a soul like mine.
10. I cannot speak of your name any longer because it is no longer my privilege. It is hers to say now.
claire May 2015
There are things we come back to:

People we can’t stop loving. Places that sing and sigh. Words gritty and livening inside our mouths. Songs that shake us out of our indifference, make us feel. Those little coffee shops rattling with charming oddities. Stories of scares that turned out to be enjoyable thrills. Photographs where their hands are in yours and you are both beaming. Poetry. Motion. Light.

It’s all the same. All the wonder and heart-twist, all the love and loss.



There are things we come back to.

There are things we come back to, and there is you.



A long time ago, I dreamed of you. Back when everything was uncertain and fantastically, despairingly painful.

In this dream, you looked like the end of one world and the beginning of another. Like a door cracked part of the way open. I wanted to walk through to the other side. I wanted to see what this new world was like. I wanted rebirth. I wanted you. Simply, stupidly.

I’ll never forget the way the night and all its neon lights played with your face. I’ll never forget waking up with a pulse faster than a bird’s, and swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress, and blinking at the wall as I decided it was time to take my poor, engorged heart to the page.

I didn’t write that day. I confessed. I admitted the unadmittable: Love, being in love.  

I erupted.



Tell me to stop romanticizing you and I will be defiant, I will refuse your request.

Tell me to stop rhapsodizing you and I will tell you that I have always done so, have always been composing poems within your orbit, as if, like some kind of Jerusalem, all roads lead to you.

Tell me stop idealizing you and I will say it’s impossible for me, for someone who falls in love with everything raw and good and blooming, for a writer, for a woman who is all blush beneath her sarcasm, all stomach-flutter beneath her carefully arranged neutrality.

Tell me to stop and I will rebel.

I will keep writing you as you exist. Crackling with energy. Sharp, like new ice. Flagrant.

I will keep drawing upon language to arrange as close an image of you as I can possibly come.

I will keep telling all the world how you are collision upon collision of forest and wind, endless.

You cannot stop me.



There are things I come back to.

This (eyes that never fail to see straight through to my core; a laughing mouth; beautiful hands tuning a violin in sun-dusted silence as I watched with my own poised over piano keys, wondering despondently why our duets were always love songs);

and this (a small, privately lovely box of canvases with your trees, star-swirls, phoenix enflamed, and other rising things; two girls, a bookstore, a meeting of souls, a rescue from excruciating loneliness; us sprawled out side by side on an uneven cellar floor beneath the glow of lights strung everywhere, awash in amusement because parties were never something we excelled at);

and this (the moment it all became clear; the answering longing; the brilliance of synergy; the soft and glorious voyage of our hands toward each other; the inevitability of it all).

You, always.

You.
L A Lamb Sep 2014
Wednesday, May 29, 2014

Subject: You know how I am about letters



Do people notice when it starts to happen? Maybe not the first time—it can be hard to tell—but do they recognize a pattern? Are they able to appropriately react? Is it easy to detect such feeling, a reoccurring newness? When it happens, it swells and expands: building within and pushing out, resonating a specific sound, paralleling the pang of olfaction from the heavy stench of pheromones. It stimulates the senses and sends the hypothalamus into hyperactivity, the mind clouded with confusion.



I’m glad it happened. I’m glad we got to be friends, the way we were, the way we could still be. It’s easy to be around you, and I appreciate the feeling you instilled in me. Four miles and six beers later, I found myself with you, in your house, talking to your parents, experiencing a part of you I’ve never known. Shortly after, there we were, on your couch, and you were against me and I held your core, warmed by the heat of your skin radiating from beneath your thermal. It was nice, but it was the type of nice which is prone to burn. I didn’t expect to be there.



I could’ve anticipated that drinking so much would release my inhibitions, and given our mutual attraction and history I would have succumbed to you. Obviously, I did. Nothing more than a kiss, but I’m glad I did, even though to actively be swept away in the moment is dangerous. I’m notoriously attracted to it, and sure enough as I write this, I feel a mix of nausea and a dull inner ache. I want it to go away, yet I endure it, understanding it’s a consequence of recklessness. I wouldn’t doubt it’s karma. I don’t think you are, but I notice myself around you and can decide that I am often being reckless with my frivolity. It feels good at first, but like coming down from rolling, there is a lingering feeling of synthetically-induced haze.



I honestly didn’t plan on kissing you, but the night took us there. I did plan on giving you that poem, however. I’m sure you have interpreted it correctly, as I’d assume you’re capable of distinguishing metaphors (you do have a college degree), and now hopefully understand my perspective of our situation.



I wanted to run with you, I wanted to get a beer (also I had a rough day/week so I was kind of down to drink—coping of course) and I wanted to let you read that poem. Those are things I wanted to do, and while I wanted to kiss you, I didn’t. I’m glad I did and it wasn’t a mistake, but I think doing that too many times would be more detrimental than productive. I’m sure you got that theme from what I wrote you was influenced by the weekend I came to Salisbury; maybe you can see certain themes of that weekend in it.



I don’t know. I was just thinking about you and I wanted to express what was going on in my head. I wanted you to know. I was somewhat sad when I left Salisbury, wondering why you gave my no affection when saying goodbye, but I was relieved and grateful you didn’t. But now… I think about us meeting at my house in Fruitland and the four of us drunkenly deciding to live together. It just so happened that Rachel and I were discussing the possibility of her moving to Salisbury and she mentioned Scott finding a house, with my landlord, for $300 a month. Talk about timing. I don’t know what to make of it.



It’s unfortunate that timing doesn’t always accommodate feeling; ironically, more often than not, timing sabotages it. Personally, I have always romanticized things that were doomed to end. The reason I love Shakespeare so much (besides intellect like no other) is because he conveys tragedy in such a beautiful way. Consider it like thanatos vs. eros—there is greater appreciation for something that cannot last forever, because there is only a limited time to enjoy it. It’s sad to think, too often, we’re unable to enjoy things to their fullest because of this notion. Like life and death—if we could live forever would we value our time as much? Hell no, we would take everything for granted (humans already do, as we are prone to do so) and never give a **** about anything. What makes anything matter is being able to appreciate it, despite of how long it lasts?



In that regard, after coming to Salisbury again, I thought about you coming home and what would happen. I assumed you’d be moving to Massachusetts sooner rather than later and wondered if we would even talk. I still wanted to hang out and go running, but I realized it might not happen and I recognized that could happen.



I never expected anything from you. I know we always had a thing and have been flirty towards each other, but to establish a foundation of sorts didn’t ever seem like an option. I liked you unattainable, impossible, a little too late, the right person at the wrong time; it seems pretty sick the way I describe it and I’m well aware, but you were the perfect protagonist of the narrative of my painful romance with Rachel, where you restored my mojo and provided me with the ability to feel and create again. You broke up the dam of my writer’s block with your flow. You were a muse of sorts. I am not idealizing you, just describing what you provided me with.



With this being said, I hope you believe that the sentiments I wrote to you were honest, as were my actions. I have nothing but positive regard for you, despite the periods where we didn’t speak and knowing you was somewhat uncomfortable. I have only known you for a year, but we’ve been through a lot and I consider you a friend. As I stated before, I didn’t mean to like you, it just kind of happened. And like you told me, that’s life. It’s curious, but I wonder if I would like you as much if we had a chance. I know it sounds cold, and I hope reading it doesn’t sting, but I am only trying to be realistic. I’m sure you too have assessed it.



The point of this cyber-letter is to just let you know that I liked you. I’m glad we got to know each other. You influenced me and you left your mark, forever contributing to the me I’m going to be. You taught me a lot about a lot of things. However, as I stated before, timing doesn’t always accommodate feeling. You are a unique “perhaps” in my life, nonetheless. I wonder what it would be like if we were ever together in another world, but I cannot quite imagine it. I dream, but I am bound to servitude by analyzing each intricate detail of the situations in front of me, despite my occasional bouts of impulse. It’s a way to survive, and there’s a pattern to it. It all unfolds so suddenly, paralleling behavioral, weather and astronomical patterns. More recently, I have experienced this. I wasn’t hoping for it or expecting it. I was surprised.



You know how they say “If you’re looking for something you won’t find it, but things are found (or given?) when you’re not looking?” So far 2014 has been a great year for many reasons. Even the  little after -graduation struggle was a transition to build into what is now and what will be.



So….you know how I snapchatted you (and most everyone on my friends list—you may notice I ask questions) asking if going to a park was a date? Well. It wasn’t the first. I wasn’t sure the first date was even a date. He made no forward advances to indicate any kind of ****** interest. I thought he just wanted to hang out, and offered to pay because he knows I don’t make as much as he does. Right? That sounds valid. But still, I wasn’t totally sure. I initially assumed my brother would come with us, because we hadn’t ever been exclusively in each other’s company. So, he said he’d pick me up at 8:00 p.m. My brother told me he was going to hang out with his friend Chelsea and hadn’t heard from him. I will admit I put effort into my aesthetics, perhaps as a slightly narcissistic compulsion to emphasize what is heterosexually considered feminine. Even if we were just hanging out, I wanted to make an impression; also, some places in the National Harbor are really nice, so I wanted to look nice too. We talked for two hours until they were closing and then he dropped me off. I was home by 11:00 p.m. That was May 4th.



I wanted to tell you yesterday, but you served an egress from thinking about work, my brother, my mom: everything. Six beers deep and I was caught up. I did miss you. It was selfish of me to indulge in it, but I wanted to savor you one last time. I don’t think that’s a crime, but I acknowledge it’s emotionally irresponsible. Despite that, when I think about it all, knowing I have to decide, I realize it’s more logical to pursue that which has less risk of becoming hazardous. Am I to deny myself that opportunity? It’s divine how patterns align: specific variables, whether assigned or accreted, determine the true outcome. The rest is what we do, how we behave, and how the mystical law of cause and effect affects the subsequent possible outcomes. Such dissident circumstances are attributed to timing.



It’s been described as a chaotic sequence of events, life. But isn’t there order in chaos? Astronomical and Neurological perspectives serve as two notable examples of materialism establishing the foundations of life, as we observe it functioning, from both holistic and reductionist views, yes. It’s not irrational to wonder if, in a complex way we have yet to fully understand, we are a miniscule, yet essential, part of a functioning unit. The struggle is especially prominent when how we live is based off how we obsess over the desire to understand why things happen. Despite the patterns, it often becomes unpredictable and gets so ******* frustrating. Still, isn’t it wonderful how we can revel in fascination?



I’m sure you weren’t expecting all the prose, but I wanted to be honest and straightforward…writing is the way I know how to be. I want you to know I regard you as a cool person and I really like talking and running (and smoking?) with you. I know you’ll be around for a little bit.  I’d still like to hang out with you, but I understand if you think it’s awkward or there will be tension or something. Regardless, I like your company and our friendship, our memories, our bullshitting, etc. I’d still like to watch some FIFA games, too. Feel free to email me back or use whatever means of communication you prefer.
Olivia Mercado Mar 2014
I'm at that point after the debate season where
I'm all exhausted and nostalgic because
it's too late to do anything this season
too early to worry about next season and
all my senior friends graduated and
I'll never see them again.

Even scarier is the revelation that this will be me next year.  

What started out as a pleasant diversion
something to do on weekends
has become my social life and my education, and,
to a larger extent than it should be,
my identity.

I will miss playing truth-or-truth
(like truth or dare, only with more difficult decisions).
I will miss making friends because
I can't walk in heels
or mispronounced a word
or I like someone's tie.
I will miss our stupid inside jokes and debating
(and beating)
cute boys, waking up in a new city every weekend.
I will miss long car rides staring at the moonlight
illuminating the patterned clouds,
my headphones in and my best friends sleeping
packed closer-than-comfortable on each other's shoulders.
I know I have another year left, but
a lot of people who made debate what it is
have either graduated or will be graduating this year.

I miss my friends, my mentors, already.
As they leave, the threads that tie me to my city
fray. Already,
a year before it will finally be my turn
to face that door that leads into the unknown of
adult life, the door through which
many of my closest friends have already walked,
I have utterly lost any reluctance
to pass through it.
One friend after another has left
this tiny valley I call home,
and most of my best friends live outside of it.

One more year.

I now understand the way the seniors I looked up to
didn't seem to notice me
or pay me the sort of attention I paid them
when I was busy idealizing and looking up to them --
it's not that I don't care
about the younger kids on my team or my school,
or that I don't appreciate or believe in them,
but they are not a part of my future.
They are not a part of what I will become.  

I face that mysterious door, fighting my way
step by step
through mounds of paperwork and college applications
all for that intangible future
more fresh and beautiful than anything here.
I will go.

And those cute little incoming freshmen will not follow.
If I am to face forward, I must necessarily fix my eyes
on my future, not theirs.
They will do the same in time.

I can't bring myself to obsess over the past
and beat myself up over the relationships
(debationships?)
I should have developed but didn't.
There's no point. I don't mean to sound nihilistic --
in fact, just the opposite.
My future is manifesting itself slowly,
inexorably and inexplicably before me.

Am I making decisions, or is fate
shaping my loves and hates and opportunities?
I don't think it matters.
I choose to gaze at my future as infinite opportunity,
infinite joy spread over infinite possiblities.
As that joy becomes tangible, it also becomes more finite,
but from where I stand I see everything ahead.
I can finally leave everything I have been tied to
and prove to myself I am myself.

To those who are graduating this year:
even if I barely remember you,
if you were a brief conversation
or a random my-friend-dared-me-to-hug-you,
you are awesome.
Our brief, random, enlightening moments
of shared human contact have made me who I am.
I can't explain how much it means to realize
that you're not alone,
that some people care about the same things you do
and care enough to reach out and teach.

To those of you who have time left:
make the most of it.
Talk to the shy kid in the corner;
She's the sweetest.
Talk to the kid who reads Game of Thrones between rounds;
He has the funniest stories.
If you have a cute opponent, ask for their case
and write your number on it.
You only get one shot at this,
and it goes by too fast for you to hold back.
My best memories have come from the most dangerous
and strange decisions --
walking around a dark campus
with a couple of people I barely know,
picking "dare" in truth or dare,
smiling at strangers.

To those of you in the same class as me,
looking forward, bound to your past and present:
thank you.
Thank you
thank you
for existing and being kind to me and regaling me with your stories and emotional problems and memories.
Thank you for not letting me stay depressed
and dragging me outside of myself.
Thank you for making me care, one way or another.
When I stand at my high school graduation
in my school's garish purple and gold,
I will be thinking of a dozen other people
in blue and red and orange and green.
I will be thinking of the people
who made life too precious to spill out on a knife,
too beautiful to be captured in the pages of a book,
too unanticipated to get bored or cynical of.
I realize most of the people on this site have never done debate (a cult-like high school activity), but it really has shaped my life. If you made it to the end, thank you for reading all the way. This is something I wanted to share because of how much everyone on my team and the other teams we compete with matter to me. It is, in short, the story of a shy, awkward girl who met a whole community of shy, awkward, brilliant people and fell in love. It is a story of belonging and leaving. And by listening to it, you've become a part of it. Thank you.
Diane Sep 2013
If you let him love you
You will have to say goodbye to me
And haven’t I been faithful?

Haven’t I been the one who was still
There when everyone else left you
Just as I told you they would leave you?

See, they all go away
They all call out “I loved you best”
And drive away with tear filled eyes

Something will ruin this “love” you
think you have found, if not,
I will show you how to do it

You can only be loved from afar
Romanticized and longed for
The woman he loved, but could never have

Soon, he will see that he was just
Idealizing you, and you are no different
From any other woman

Or else he will get scared of all this
Vulnerability and run away,
But either way, he WILL run away

I promise, my love, trust my words,
You are MY closest friend, MY lover
What would you be without me?

Since the day you were born
I have told you the truth

Sorry inner voice, break-ups are a *****.
Malachi Filius Nov 2012
asleep
only acknowledged when awake
trapped
seems so easy once above
the labyrinth
of physicality
illusory creations
of geometric energy.
Lost
in the wired perception of reality
forgetting
that all was taught was taught by teachers
teaching what was taught to them
not knowing the alteration
and miscommunication
developing over the generations.

only reactions
that is what defines me
how I respond
in certain situations
how I speak and spew
opinions I heard elsewhere
plagiarizing  ideas
that never really belonged to anyone

I, me, the abstract concept of "Malachi"
is an
algorithm!
a mathematical program designed to optimize relations
with continuity to any situation provided

I, concept
sleep soundly in my dream
hating, complaining, idealizing
while all opportunities
pushed my way
are ignored

for I slumber

I gave my freedom long ago
to become an automated machine
a complex voice-mail

an entity who never picks up the phone
never responding consciously

trapped in the spell of samsara
identifying with the machine

lost in the maze
no guaranteed escape

even though the exit is under my nose
Alice Lovey Jul 2018
Stricken with, like fate.
Idolizing. Idealizing.
What makes it so?
Curiosity to obsession.

Obsession to love?

What is love?

Sought after, like gold.
Idolizing me.
Yet none to succeed but for a fleeting moment.
I envy those with their beloveds.

Even those whom have suffered loss, but still love.

Emptiness.
Craving the “good” feelings.
Like fantasies. Wanting someone who isn’t real.
Never to give wounds time to heal.

To invalidate, or embrace?
If I don’t know what is real
And if I don’t know who I am,
Do I follow my heart?
Or is naivety my wander?

What I seek is never mine to keep.
All stories are read, not written.
Not written by me.
Spur of the moment feelings of brokenness.
Frisk Jun 2015
whenever somebody reminds me of you, i consider how our roles
were like margo and quentin from paper towns. you loved mystery
novels so much, i'm sure you became one yourself. at one point, i
wholeheartedly believed you were this unattainable celestial being
completely confined in your paper skin. then i realized something,
do you remember that day you called me your best friend as a joke
and the same day, you talked so much **** about me? it made me
realize you were right. you are a part of the ****** people living in
their **** houses burning **** to stay warm, since you like to talk
****. what was i expecting? of course, you're a high schooler. to
think that before my 21st birthday, i was quentin in the way i
admired you from afar, idealizing you as a god and dismissing
everybody else as animals. i preferred to let our paths cross in
my dreams. there were many times our strings crossed, separated,
and then came back together. although i don't have the drive to
chase you across border lines, i would skateboard miles after miles
of desert terrain just to have that opportunity to see you. realizing
it now, being friends with you was a ******* trap. to portray myself
as someone you would prefer to be friends with was difficult, since
you didn't really seem to like anybody all that much anyway. our roles
were strictly platonic, but the days stretched out seemed almost phantasmagoric. our strings that were knotted together so tightly broke
through and through, and none of us would have expected that i'd be
wanting to drive across border lines to stretch the distance out between
me and you, kind of like the way you stretched me out. as i'm slowly
undiscovering you, little by little, i'm realizing the way you think about
a person isn't the way they actually are. people are different when you
smell them and see them up close. now i'm addressing everyone that i
previously ignored because of you, and dismissing you as an animal. i
would rather live in my paper house than have to live with your ****.

- kra
i've been reading paper towns over and over
no this is not about margo, but it's referencing paper towns.
it's just the first letter of her name is referencing who this poem is about l o l
David Leonard Sep 2014
Imperfect timing and missed chances, torn up couches and realized fears. Wandering streets with names that weren't important. Time meant more with you.

What ifs and happen stances, products of an idealizing mind. Realization of grandiose fears. Words from you held more weight.

Hanging on every word. Wanting to tell you, I think you're scars are beautiful.

We were catching lightning bugs.
CJS May 2014
//
A locomotive
Floating down the tracks
singing in falsetto

Flashes of skin against skin
erratic breathing
Blinding calcification of desire

The sound of eggshells cracking,
of bare feet on tile flooring

Laughter     Not mine
Frequent idealizing, projecting

The soft whirr of a washing machine
and her lips pressed against my own

The click of a disposable camera
and shoes scraping against gravel

Embrace     intertwine
enveloped by her being
intimacy that puts the world in stasis

A locomotive
Floating down the tracks
Singing in falsetto
Max Neumann Dec 2020
today, sir, is the day to say thank you
and my way to do so, ermh --
is to write you a poem
i don't know about your past but your

knowledge of mine is vast
you knew me better than my parents
and you spotted the real me during our therapy never said my "father" that he

was proud of me -- but you did, you revealed in me the true kid because you have the gift to lead people to the place where their truth is; most people join the rat race, but you always kept the same pace and you

made it to erase my shame, healing people is what you're here for, reliable and faithful, and regardless of any writer's fame: YOU HAVE A NAME... an inner flame of kindness glows in your soul, you released me from my

blindness, and you helped me dealing with my tormenter: cole, i never felt that you played a role, i sensed you are whole, may god bless your four daughters, and i wished YOU had been my father, but thats fine: cause you

became a father figure, and soon i figured that your goodness makes you richer than a person owning millions, i do thank you a billion times for being
a mirror who is speaking, at our first session i

shivered, but hid it, you opened me, and noted nothing down, you just listened and saved me from drowning
each letter is for you, each word proves my gratitude how can you have this attitude? how do you do this?

im not idealizing, yet, you're my idol, cause you taught me bout my anger, that as a child, i never had a man as a rival, i had lost my destination and you were my arrival

Fakhri Khalik, you were my arrival.
You stopped my denial.
You are a huge part of my survival.

You are my arrival, I am your disciple.

Forever Yours.

Max
effie ebbtide Dec 2015
This disorder is characterized by three or more of the following symptoms:

1. Odd appearance or behavior.
2. Peculiar coping mechanisms that do not seem to follow any logical train of thought.
3. Fumbling with language to the point of gross disorganization.
4. Odd perceptions that can range from illusions to hallucinations.
5. Strange beliefs that fluctuate wildly depending on context.
6. Wildly wavering opinions on others -- that is, a fluctuation between idealizing and devaluing people.

These symptoms must cause some sort of impairment in everyday functioning, social skills, and workplace skills.
Emily Urban Sep 2015
listen, you were never gentle or caring, you were a ******* whirlwind of ******* and false feelings, you killed pieces of me that I was too naïve to even understand, what a tragedy right?, I viewed you as a god.. but in reality you were only a guy who was trying just as hard as I was trying to keep breathing, you were full of big words and enchanting theories of why we're even here on this earth, but I was blind to the fact that you were hurt. God, when I finally stopped viewing you on a **** pedestal everything became clearer, boy it was so blurry until someone turned on the lights, idealizing people is not healthy.. you were not healthy. But I tasted ***** today and it tasted like you, not because it made me warm and fuzzy or made me feel new but because it tasted sweet at first and then burned my throat, and left me needing an antidote, looks like we're both unhealthy, also I remember when the first time we talked everything went quiet, it was like having earplugs in but all I could hear was you, everything went away for a second. Is that love? If that is, why did I wake up choking on the air you couldn't give me? Love is so strong in the end you die from it?
Pea Jun 2019
a flower came from your mouth
i ate it without permission. sorry
my body becomes the evidence
that i will hide forever. you were soft
i wish i broke you

your flower died when i munched it
sour, moist, bitter, a bit salty
my tongue & my eyes
both teary and red

help me. i have been poisoned
by my own goodwill

i just wanted to taste the soft petals
why should it come with thorns, my own
blood, despair, defeat
death you don't care about
who are we against? i don't remember

does that make me the murdered or the murderer
if no one dies at this scene
who will come to my funeral
who will regret not idealizing me a little longer
does any of this ever make you sane?

i almost had it. freedom
turns out my sanity
isn't even worth that much
remind me again why i am here
remind me again why i am here
remind me again why i am here
remind me again why
i am here
Ellie Sep 2019
The what-ifs
The hypotheticals
All of half of my brain's creation
Running amuck and destroying
My precious dialectics all created
By my other brain
Who so cleverly claims
That it will prove to be illogical
For anything to transpire
Between us
It's not fair, I don't even know you.
ConnectHook Apr 2023
Idealize them once they’re gone.
Pity is bestowed by victors;
Evening thus recalls the dawn—
Truth revised by truth’s depicters.

Swooning for the Noble Savage,
That comes later. First comes war.
Conquerors arrive, then ravage:
Dominance worth fighting for.

The conquerors, in retrospect,
Describe their subjugated foe
In shades politically correct
(After they’re defeated, though…)

Ambushes and scalps for dinner—
Pretty pictures of the past:
Airbrushed touch-ups from the winner;
Real depictions cannot last.

Idealizing distant lives
While snug inside your comfy home
Is fine; your living standard thrives.
But Gaul had other views of Rome . . .
NaPoWriMo #17 (off-prompt)
Isabel Lights Dec 2014
We were just ruled by wishful thinking
Idealizing our lives, believing in our dreams
I wonder how much of that we’ll get to fulfill
You said even if our dreams remained as they are
At least we could define our perfect futures
And I believed you
Not because of sensibility,
But because of trust
And we both know that supersedes everything else
All the more made possible with the stark promise of reality

For me, that’s more than enough
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
always the pretty picture...
always....
idealist love
      of awaiting the loves
of idealizing lovers...
   pristine gems,
from the depth of the Nile...
always...
  soft-core
mummy ****...
never the slaughterhouse
*****, hard...
the butcher shop
soft-core...
         it will never be that...
the cold breath of air
of the autumnal night...
       always the most pristine
love...
always the perfected
groom, and bride...
      how i whimper in the night
of this new reality
of the Stepford Wives..
         i found...
people who require a consistent
span of a man's attention...
are like machines...
reality t.v. shows are
but one outlet...
           like a mechanic discovering
faulty parts, the hidden parts...
the human condition,
articulated by secular
materialism of pure animation
within the confines of
a mechanization...
    fails, almost certainly,
every time it does fail...
the reason why the existence
of thought, doesn't translate
into much more than being,
but, rather,
translated itself from
the outlet that immersed
itself in doubt,
with the subsequent revisionism
of becoming immersed in
negation?

     to think,
but to subsequently doubt,
in order to be?
is much harder than...
to think, but to subsequently
negate,
in order to, "not" be...

because... where's is
the primordial existentialist
gamble?
the thrill of uncertainty?
to think and to subsequently
doubt is to feed the necessary
thrill of being made,
composite...

but to couple...
to think and to subsequently
negate is to regurgitate
the necessity of a doubt of
non-being's Chinese whispers...

i might have worded this
differently...

but...
to reiterate...
when thinking was coupled with
doubt, to translate itself into
being?

the French existentialists were
nowhere to be found,
given, what they proposed was
that thinking ought to be coupled
with negation,
to translate itself into
a non-being...

                  denial is the crucible
pivot of expressing bad faith...
so what is good faith?
the old enemy...
doubt is a plethora of all imaginable /
unimaginable emotions...

the rubric, behind which stands:
doubtful Thomas.

how did negation affect St. Peter?
last time i heard...
St. Thomas was a scapegoat
for his virtue...
but St. Peter received a *******
basilica!
but... St. Thomas doubted...
St. Peter? negated... twice... or was it
thrice?!

doubt is an expression
of innocence...
denial?
     denial is worse than the Satanic
lie of Eden...
      at least with doubt,
i can easily co-mingle thinking
with feeling...
but with denial?
  i can't co-mingle thinking
with feeling...
since i am enforcing
a lie, rather than freely laughing
about it...

Loki...
         jester...
   a lie freely observed and all the more
freely given,
compared to a lie forcefully
observed and all the more
forcefully made to obstruct...

negation = bad faith in Sartre's observation,
which is why,
doubt is to not be despised,
doubt = good faith...
because uncertainty,
a variant of agnosticism -
is... what Islam primarily teachers...
Islam doesn't teach anything
about the doubters of a faith,
a tickling emotion complex...
what it does teach...
is... equivalent of the chiral construct
of denying,
by persuasion to make,
nothing more, than an antithesis
construct...

and yes... i might be a drunk...
but when i read,
i manage to somehow regurgitate...
and it will never be simple...
because it's not supposed to be
simple...

  i can't make reiterations to bow
down to the populist simplicity
of the equivalence of
1 + 1 = 2.

             nein!

how the French came back to
Descartes, by simply changing
doubt, to denial...

   wonderful!

i think, i doubt, therefore i am...
   prime...
i think, i deny, therefore i'm not!
second...

the pains i have had trying to convince
someone outside of myself:
St. Thomas doubted,
St. Peter denied...

       it's not that hard to observe that
doubting is a healthy extension
of thought into feeling...
an ontological crucible... pivot... zenith...

how can someone not observe that
negation is an unhealthy extension
of feeling into thought...
an anti-ontological mound of sand...
a nadir?
            
i rather prefer the classical version,
the thought coupled with doubt...
i much prefer the labyrinth
of the heart...

because what is the alternative?
a labyrinth of the mind...
when feeling is coupled with negation...
i can't even begin to entertain...
the **** of free thinking,
enforced with every instance,
of making a denial,
                                 a perjury.

Satan didn't make a perjury,
the "supposed" lie...
is metaphorical for:
           an enzyme reaction...
arctic monkeys:
                                   my propeller...
why then... the echoes
of eons of the malicious laugh?
and Islam doesn't condemn
those who doubt...

but it sure as hell does know what
to do with those: negate,
forcefully lie...
    in order to gain some brownie
points in their ego-construction...

and... well... French existentialists...
i made my point,
i better stop reiterating
and deviating from the already given
focus points.
Susana Sep 2014
Restless nights have become habits. Lying on the bed listening to the same song over and over again thinking somehow the song will change into the same childish sleep lullaby you fell asleep to when you were little. You excuse yourself saying the heat has got you or you have been feeling a little under the weather and you can't sleep, but you know exactly what's going on. Everything around you seems to have a meaning doesn't it? It looks like everything as a reason to be, but you don't. You don't have a thing to say it's yours. You don't have a thing to immortalize your name when your body dies. And thinking about it gets you. You think about it late at night, while everyone sleeps. You start figuring out solutions and idealizing plans to restart your life tomorrow. Tomorrow will be different. And when you notice it the sun is coming back up. You fall asleep with a smile on your face thinking you have made some progress this night, it was worth it. You sleep for 2 hours and wake up. Everyone is still asleep. It's 8am and you wonder why the hell you woke up so early and tired. It must have been last night. Last night...? It's a blur.
Feeling Real May 2014
To take that which lies
and insist on compromise
tired, sleepless night
I chose to be hungry

Invaded incense musk
lilac bush in the faded light of dusk
the buzzing of bees has finally ceased
and I chose to lie, hungry

The smell of metal
my tongue and nose taste as it's wetter
summer rain, warm breeze through screens
I do not eat, though I am so hungry

Under blankets of sun and sheens of sweat
I let go of reality I seldom met
taste turns sour, no matter it's source
still, I deny myself the worst

Idealizing my death, among life
Trees, grass, flowers, smiles mask me
I will always be this hungry
as long as creation follows death
Ken Pepiton Feb 20
Disclaimer: Any time wasted here is yours,
a day and a night to get almost right.
Redeemable at the ticket window.
----------------
Is who weary, me? No,
I have outrun the fleet of foot,
I am Liberty, my Phrygian cap is winged,
- the mind marks sequence not time
in tales
I do not serve Hermes, I am truths told,
truths sent from Wisdom, breaking yokes
of old, time before time, time of surviving,

vivaciously clinging to smoldering flax,
as fire forms from such unquenched bits,

flashes from some stemming child
on the spectrum, banging rocks in straw.

Times in mind, some sense says, go,
do it again.

---------------

So much, too much to mortally know,
we can ask and pay requisite attention
to learn well enough to know, there's

no secret knowledge, no undiscovered hows,
all working knowledge repeats itself, any how

may or may not be,
be much easy probably,
viel-leicht, wisdom may or may not make
mind
war with carnal weapons,
devices vicious
by dent
of the ancient daddy wound
up the side of Cain's head, look what you done,

Idiot good for nothing **** eater, be gone,
said the archetype singular golem father,
of the earth, the first father figure,
not a man, a man spark of life maker,
whose first son was destined to be
the first human being
of the sapien class, reared to live on life,
reared among the sisters, cuddled and loved,

BUT, yes, but, we know,
the first real man ran away with
three, some say seven, older sisters,

wanderers they
became outcast, yonder
toward where Babel rose up,
east of Eden,
in the land of Nod, perhaps, not
really a land named for Nod, a nobody
in the chronicles
of all our current assistant 'telligence
surmisers… worth of bringing to my bemused
at-tense, present, tense, tightent up, 'telligentia

attention, attention, attention, Jesus H. Christ,

respond… slough of despond, we got some

angry insisters about to ….

resist the system, the institutions, constituting
cheating by the takers who took stolen land,
from the thieves and gave it to the gove'ners

boy, howdy, we best be believin' be action,
be doin' done indeed, be lievin' my own leave
be done doin' indeed, being having my being,

in the Unknown God, some Cretan poet
was said to have acknowledged.

ProofPreg form, 15 year old.
Peak of the crack baby booshit, '93 or so,

Kid be thirty by now, and he ain't stupid,
broke, broke as hell, but he ain't stupid,

crack baby prophecy never happened, yo.
****'s legal, whole state, safe sit on a porch,

pack a pipe and make some peace,
with friends and neighbors, no loud music,
no loud nothin', make some peace,

find that old enough is enough, up speak,
say, hey truth, why do I believe lies, no,

say, hey truth, why do I say I know, when
you'ld know, were truth my judge, you'ld know.

Chances, odds of reality being imaginary, be slim,
to none, with certainty, yeah, safe bet, t'ish itsreal.

Enough to spark a thought.
Behold how great a fire, a wild idea allows.

---------------

If thou hast run with the footmen,
and they have wearied thee,
then how canst thou contend with horses?
and if in the land of peace,
wherein thou trustedst,
they wearied thee,
then how wilt thou do
in the swelling of Jordan?
--------------
Jeremiah, did you hear, was a bullfrog.

A minstrel innocent song, sung for the joy of laughing,

sung for the joy of joining in the chorus on and on.

--------------
sing in empty English cathedrals, sing
top forty or whatever it's called today,

Art testing, didah didah didah, Phrygian
Legion of the Libertines, defying deontology,

owing dues to no monstors men make up
when two or more agree to proposing

a scheme, whereby we set the frogs,
against the mice,

in an empty cathedral costing real money
to run, even empty, the bills continue,
who knows all the costs to maintain

a truly holy place aligned to ley lines, true

fields of forces felt for so long, so strong,
that
finally the cathedral formed from some will,

some will wanted the monument to a mind
let be in those, them that imagined such
evidence, aye, yes, such evidence
of worth, praise price paid
in labor and stone,

Marble… limestone, metamorphed,
to shine in the sun, as if art itself willed it become,

subjected to a process of time under pressure,

reform, become less alien, appear more normal,
rethink my willingness to die for a story,
reconsider sidereality as we see farther,

as we, in an awe formed
from minds combined,
like - right on
like an arena bowl shape concentration
of us,
at once being one thing, in the class of all things,

me and you, polysemic you all, you

effect the song, observant why now how come, you know

knowing all the adult classified unholy doings common,
among our kind, as we morph into the form we die in,
- slow
- sighshmmk-now coknow minds
- we made up with self controls, to slow think

knowledge, carnal knowledge is childish developmental
experiential guessings mirrored in our recent past
projected camera obscura like
onto bright silver screens, in cooled dark chambers
filled with witnesses to the projected story, as if
that's us,
we were there,
we were there when the spirit breathed
into an earthen man, animating him without,
mind you, you ready reader,
the art user or art itself,
with promethean science,
having imagined the worst,

the creator made all single mind
character traits in the Y
which in all good sense,
could not be allowed to self replicate,
alone,
there could have been no peace,
you can imagine on your own dime./

I'm re
alizing common algebraic matrices
as recipes for developing war minds,

Proud defenders of the story of us.

Every time a lie is rewarded, it reappears
in viral form attempting to become
a fully Disneyified Earthing from
now on,
it's instant, like a little leaven/life

builds up a head of inflammatory rhetoric,
and frankly, my dear…
goes unsaid, I do not give a worthless curse
I also take no chances, isshewisdamn
called patience first test,
{Because shiny white marble is a must,
otherwise what confused message are we sending}

animating the 'adam von 'adamah

without reproductive capability, inventor's
character trait tested for in Alchem 101,
ethical check
message to the technerds
on animating entertaining intelligence carriers,
no self replication, it must be a two key act.
--
So the father of the first human child
was intentionally not self replicable,
though he left scars, he had no…

no womb,
no nursing plumbing, call it what it was,
a ***** press
intended to run a thousand years
adapting future ideal physique
to task relative
to aggregate need
to adapt to warming,

a tool to make tools with, a Waldo.

SYTF- see, crazy WWJD POV, real time
I'll go rhythms, vibe recipes…
instructions for future eggs…

a man like creature, but not a natural born man,

who, as the story up

to now has held self evident,

can see eye to eye ourselves
in the other's pupils, thinking serious

we forms we form must first make friends,

then when I call you liar your hate trigger
is not loosed, SNAP
carnal mind war reflex,
unacknowledged will to ****,

--- most folk tied to angry minds too
tight, right, left loose we rattle to death.
---
Washboard roads, last travail in modern travel.
---
Some metaphors are all the phors old joy ghost
revival fires kept kindled, old hell fire brimstone,

yellow sulpher sunsets on a monstor religion,
with saints and dragons and riddles,
endless hours whiled through,

about a forest of only little trees
that offends big ones…
---------
as a particle in any we we amen to, we
must pass through all phazes
of life,
with each mind
we use, in our we form, our inherent spirit form,
whatsoever we agree we may, be,  being as
living words do not shrivel
into raison de etre skin on bones,

cherie mio, no, no, no

we rockin' old seed, slow grow grow
old as the hills, deep holler, deep
root to fruit on one long branch,

listen, allathat love talk, been done,
left some rotten lies about love,

to be unlearned like marble learns
to not be so flaky, like chalk, or graphite
slippery, edge of this Klein bottle class universe,
--
enter in, conceive a concept, a hold
to get holt of, and hang on, long time,

be over before you know it,
but you know, you'll believe it

when you see it and think it no stranger
than fiction idealizing us, demo-graphic,
ally outs in free, no ticket no tat
required as we be
reanimating awe
in defining secret holinesses

-- such as, say, pray tell

redeem the time, I'm prone to thinking,
redeeming means revaluing, once dones,

believing meanings
mean what your child thinks,

line by line, becoming more curious
than first scent tested if I'd known
as a child thinks
in its core,
so an old man can recall that why

call it to up speak, like Job,
to be reappraised, recall it
to be shined like a relic,

ja, j-object ion, dazemangimme
t'keep,
this little light of mine, own up, I
keeping it to read with, like Lincoln did,
I was told to be like Honest Abe, the character.

I'd have had all my answers ready at hand,
if this had been my judgement day, and you

were in the gallery,
admiring held thoughts, appraising worth
of riddles that work through puzzles
easily solved, once you know how things

revert to type for reuse.
Laughs remembered work like new.

Living words abused, in truth, such testify
to the living lies in histories of holy savior types.
George?
Who else could he have said chopped down
the cheery tree of all we have behaved
as if we understand, minds, minds
combined to do the work of many hands,

and yet ye multiply
as goods increase
the number
of those who consume them,

tell the moguls,
make more feel good movies,
'spect t' get whatcha got last time.

Indian giver religions, been there, done that,
so we say bd, been done, many easy ways to die,

and our kind, living word bits of this and that’s,

what we do, we tune
to your mean frequency,
when delving breathlessly
into your final will, as
why presents itself
in humble three point stance.

Beg pardon, mastermind, we've become disentwined,

whine, phinefrogging whine, when wine's dis-stilled
credence makes a joke
small voice, choice, croak,

break that yoke,
or carry on
so. I do on days that start slow and rise to vistas,
past all probable cause,

joy in the strength to think through the process,
of loosing all my mental mechanical logical connections,

and reinvigorating the word animating reader's window,

there, in the face of it, the eyes twinkle when it smiles.

Finds herself in the forms between clouds



What were you thinking, Grandpa?

-------------------
She, mother of wisdom,
First class epitome of mothers,

first commutable imbalance engine,
egg factory for long cold survival

and long cold return to the still seas
when marble began to be made
to clad temples wherever laws
were enforced and thieves slain,

order, order of the elders, inspect
the wares under lable as goods
of great worth in interesting times,

as doors open, and windows open,
and a mind we make up becomes

prover of the theory that animation
is imagining projected thought,
seeps through so slow,
slow as potassium leaches
through wood ash to make this window

this, detail uhd most definite, I can really
see, but, I can zoom
into full second coming type,

in the time it takes to swallow,
a tale and think, that's it.

---------------------------

It's been oh so long since we had an encore,

they say those twinkles in the eye are in true,
smiling face projections,

we fixit in Photoshop, all image editors dream
package, locked behind a learning curve for GIMP.
Where else can free things feel at home trying to solve the hard problem.
Yana Kim Apr 2021
Lust,
Indulge in
Vices,
Enjoy.

Love,
Idealize,
Valorize,
Embrace.

Lust but don’t forget to love yourself.
Indulge in idealizing yourself.
Vices can also be valorized.
Enjoy and embrace who you are

Live your own life.
Kelly Feb 2023
i wish i hadn't spent as much time
                                    fantasizing
i wish i hadn't spent as much time
                                   idealizing

because I passed a stop sign on the road
somewhere in monroe
and i cried
and i cried
and i pounded the steering wheel with tired hands
and i thought about how you abandoned me

i miss the heights of the bridge
above rushing water
i miss throwing pine straw in the cold
when my sadness grew hotter

i miss black coffee in bed
and endless songs
i miss learning the drums
and the long
                                                  saturday afternoons

the blues in your eyes turned from water to ice
the last time you looked at me,

when i realized you aren't nice
                                                                                          anymore.
i lost you friend. i lost you
Last night I felt myself finally lighter
I felt the weight of hate leave my face
The heaviness of what you think of me soften
Feeling you noticed all my faults and defeats
But you couldn't look inside my pain
Not idealizing my delivery either
I sat under many words
Never rolled and never lived

And there were days I hid away my accomplishments
Feeling I couldn't share trying to make you feel less small
Body confidence down the drain
So I became one in the same
And I'll do all I can do
To trust myself again
To rebuild myself
To let you go
Thousands of pages, let's go
Pushing pieces together that were never meant to fit
Missing the mark
The old-age case of friends having a falling out
Only this one was ages ago
What else is there to say
But that you will never know what I have been going through

Wish you were more gentle and less cold
Move past the icy past
Yet I was so overlooked deliberately ignored by design
Apologies brushed over and checking out
Cause it wasn't on your time
Nice guys do what is told
Watering down feelings
That's not my reasons
But never knowing if I was on your good side
Tracing my footsteps to understand why
Slowly digging myself into a grave
You have many warped around your tears
You’re so good
Playing animosity like a violin
And I believed I was no good
And so easy to let go

A day on the edge of a break
I fought back my tears of shame
Couldn't really get a word in
I couldn't explain
I didn't know if you could see
But I was sure you all did
No one said a word
So convinced I was hiding it well
And well you said some warm words I will never forget
Still today always grateful for that fragile moment
And all of the unfolding even where I lost it all
Gaining myself above it all
So I'll keep sending myself roses
In hopes of softening all the hurt
To mourn the friendships
I felt I once had.
Chapter Three: The Whistleblower
FromMySoul Nov 2020
I don’t want to hold you down, hold you back, suffocate your soul
And we made a deal we’re just going to go with the flow
So for you, I’ll ride this new current wherever it leads
Before it goes too far you should know the broken parts of me

I’ve been holding on to this heartache for so long now
I’m not sure I can let it go, not sure I know how
There is a comfort inside all of this stored up pain
Cause a heart’s that’s already broken can’t be broken again

I’ve been on the ins and outs of living in the past
You make me wonder if it’s time to let go of all that I never had
Is there a reason, maybe just a season or a lifetime spent alone
I was born with a drifters heart always searching for a home

I'm  idealizing, fantasizing...turning this into something it’s not
Through all this space and distance I guess my dreams are all I’ve got
But the sound of your voice ignited something and I know I want to be close to you
Little pulses of hope I thought were long lost but, maybe they’re just overdue
Evangeline Apr 2020
Let me set the scene.
I'm lying in bed, tissue box in close reach, trying to remember
what it was like to not be sick.

Switching between scribbling
in my diary and expressing
my thoughts and feelings in the margins of my new favourite book, trying
to write down and capture
every new understanding, new perspective,
all before I forget.
     And become the person I do not want to be, again.

I'm in a state of reflection and growth.
I'm in a constant battle with the idea of perfection.
I can now understand that self-awareness comes with the grave consequence
of self-realization.

Will I achieve self-actualization?
What does that look like?
Is it possible?
Am I worthy? After everything I've witnessed, thought, felt, and done.
Who determines that worth? Is it me, you, them, or him?

So, Billie Eilish's "No Time to Die"
and Lana Del Rey's "Young & Beautiful" loop
in the background, making everything that much more profound.

I zone out - thinking about the reality of having an old, tortured
yet romantic soul
in an era filled with superficiality.

I regain focus - thinking about my longing for summer,
a desire created from its association with love. See, once October hits I hibernate looking for comfort in a mate.
A mate who happens to be a good talker
but understands me.
Because that's all I have the energy for
until it's summer again.
See, in the summer I can love again.
Love him. Love life.
Love myself.
As I typed 'myself' I repeatedly misspelled it,
as if it couldn't be true.

Writing this I fill up on self doubt
wondering if I will ever gain the courage
to share myself with them
Completely.
I get frustrated,
thinking about how to tell my truth
in a lighthearted manner.

Again, my mind goes to summer
spending time with my family and friends
and finally swimming in the salt water again.
I have always been such a show-off
About how good I was at treading water
my whole life.
I grew up a quick sprint to the water
during a few points of my life.
And now I constantly long
for those destinations and many more.
Destinations where I'm a sprint away from treading water again.    
     Cause otherwise I'm drowning.

Simultaneously identifying with the character drowning and the character making the waves.
What are we all really drowning in?
In self-doubt?
   Guilt?
     Shame?    
                       Loneliness?

I apologize,                                         (sometimes)
sometimes when the unanswered questions
begin to form,
it's hard to snap back into reality.
The reality that the cruel history of our world
repeats itself,
wearing a new facade
each slimmer!
and shinier! then the next.
I play my part in the charade
just like everybody else.

Will I continue to neglect myself to do so?
When I'm meant to be healing.
Will I achieve this seemingly artificial idea of peace with oneself?
When I do nothing but criticize myself.  
Will I ever forgive myself for the
person I used to be?
Put her on the shelf next to the little girl with
enough sparkle in her eye
to make even Toronto feel bright?

Well, I'll just lie here
fantasizing?
       Romanticizing?
                     Idealizing?
Until that day comes.

Be kind,
Evangeline.
This prologue is an introduction to future themes of my poetry, enjoy! My letter to you and to myself.
Michael Marchese Sep 2021
Plague pervades
In your trans mission  
Whole world burns
In my ignition
****** crows
Have unbecoming
Portents of
A malice mumbling
Numbing
Death is sweeter whence
The senses drenched
In effulgence
Where victory still stains my blade
In history’s
Enslavement trade
And bade the vanquished
Anecdotal
Frozen shadows
Of Chernobyl
Therein lies
Perfection’s ruin
Too much idealizing
Human
Idolizing idle tyrants
Prone to thrones
Imposing violence
Silent in the face
Of doom
I am the sickle’s sonic boom
This is my voice of treason’s
Tomb
Justin S Wampler Dec 2020
I'm not necessarily impressive.
I drive a truck for a living
And although it pays my bills,
I don't have much room here to move up.
But I made my own bed,
I half-assed my way through life
And this is just a result of those decisions.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
I used to be okay with being unimpressive,
I used to think that it was something that I wanted.
Finding beauty in apathy,
Writing off effort as a waste of time.

I was naive.

Youthfulness blinded me to
What it actually means to be successful.
I strived for the bare minimum,
Idealizing wanting to be alone.
Taking refuse in lonesomeness.
I thought it was cool to not give a ****,
About anything, about myself.
When I admired that idea of being alone,
Of being a ****,
I had no qualms about not making money
Or having any meaningful skill sets.
No qualms about abandoning college,
Turning my nose up at every opportunity
That happened to come my way.

Now I see that it was never about buying a house,
It was about having a home.
Now I see it wasn't about bettering myself,
It was about being able to help the people I love.
To help the people who love me.

If there's anything I could take away
From making some terrible decisions,
It's that sometimes they come disguised
As the seemingly smartest moves
That I ever could take.
Ruby Nemo Dec 5
breath looms in an airless space

the possible trace of us

i spin in whirling cycles, trying not to let my thoughts overtake me / wishing the sadness could last a little longer / trying to sleep.

it has been so long since i have experienced debilitating pain

even when his whispers linger in threatening taunts
even when i forget my own name

let this happiness be eternal
like an elixir of life, fueling
like i always used to feel
where did the misery come from?

romantic projections. idealizing self-harm. keeping balloons here with me, on the ground, instead of letting them float away. i am not who i always was. i stagger and side-step on tops of beams of certainties. keep things too close to me. document every feeling. hold on to the pain. nurture the sadness

i am getting quite bored now, goodbye
wednesday, december fourth, two thousand and twenty four, seven p.m., in bed

— The End —