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RK Aug 2018
I was thinking about you and reminding myself not to interfere but it’s so hard not to, when I love you.

Still, that gives me no special rights so I ended up minding my own business.
The whole saga unfolding before my eyes I tried to reach you fibrationally. I sent you love and kind wishes and many blessings
All the while realizing the dangerous situation you had encountered.
I saw you  losing your vitality!
I prayed this prayer for you !

Move away from the toxic atmosphere. That cut throat, manipulating back stabbing, "you scratch my back,  I’ll scratch yours, if you want to succeed in this life, attitude."

That environment is not good for you...

Money isn't everything! Pray tell me, if you lose your soul what good is the whole world?  It will be empty, destructive and counter productive.  If you say you need more you tell yourself a lie, you already have everything. Why create a lack, a void, where none exists? I watch you grow paler thinner-the light in your soul  dimmer, a bare glimmer of the one you truly are. The dis-ease is spreading like wild fire burning you out mercilessly, eating your liver. Destroying your beautiful vigour.  

I see it so clearly, will you hear, will you hear?

You see, I remember you! Yes, you had everything. Love, kindness and empathy, all these beautiful soul qualities. You knew how to share, care and be fair.
Now you are empty with lots of money, you have nothing and everything. What a ****** dilemma!

The degrees hard earned, and book knowledge but nothing really of true value, no equilibrium, balance.  
Too much of everything! And you told me you are full of despair. You laid you're heart and soul bare, a circle outside the square, yes I heard you.
You've travelled far, drive a fancy car. Nothing wrong with that, the world is your oyster.
Though in the grand scheme of things, do those  things really count for anything.  Albeit money itself isn't the real issue here. It's the belief that without it you are nothing. The words nothing and everything are so misunderstood! We all have to work out this stupid and harsh conundrum.

You included!

Thats if you want to know the true meaning of success, of being blessed, that is...

Can you hear, can you hear, can you hear?
The prayer answered ...

Oh! I hear, I hear! loud and crystal clear.
I now know, and of this you can be sure. It's taken a long time to work it all out. Now I'm here, and close enough to understanding the conundrum.

So yes,  I hear!

And I understand The dilemma! Not left or right,  but the centre. The circle squared if you like! I had to go through all the fear, oh! the terrible fear to find the truth. The courage to work though the pain the suffering.

I remember when I started out.  I didn't fit in at first.  I was so innocent, a lamb to the slaughter.  I became so competitive. I fought, driven by ambition, t'was like an addiction. I wanted more, worn down to the floor accumulating, name, position of authority, the status. The friends, the enemies! Who is who? Trying to figure it out was horrendous.  I lived in dread, under the threat I'd lose it all. The sleepless nights, the reflux, anxiety,  the psoriases, the fall.
But I kept climbing! Never staying too long on and any one rung, moving higher and higher. The ladder was made from steel, the building made from concrete blocks, while I, was born of only mere flesh and blood, a mortal being going under. Saved by grace, seeing my beautiful being, falling asunder.  


The awakening!

I'm clearing the slate of all the confusion, delusion, and getting to the emptiness where I now reside alone, not born only of flesh and blood,  but of spirit, of good. With God in my soul, I now know
the glory and wonder of the world.

Peace
Hmm, I'm not sure if this is suitable to post but I'm posting anyway. It's a dialogue in my head I had this morning. A friend and I have discussed these problems and issues and this morning I j found myself thinking of this person and marvelling how this dear one  came through such a rough period in life. All these musings are based on all the suffering the person went through!
Peace
Sitting here in class I am today, minding my business as they would say. I’m listening to the teacher teach but hearing only things left beyond my reach. Another whole day in this **** school so I can come out each night 'more-of-a-fool,' and would it behoove them all to know, I ain’t no dummy, no 'coffee-Joe'?

  …but then I’d have to get the chance, the opportunity provided to advance and the equal treatment they all receive that somehow has been lost on me. Why do I even come here? Why does my Mom insist on this? They don’t call on me, care about me, acknowledge me, it’s ridiculous. At lunch each day I gotta use my fists and even my own kind acts wicked, cause for the rest of them fighting is all that exists.

  Exists; having objective reality or being.

  I exist alright; exist if you call this a life, defined by ******, **** and monkey, or related to some stupid-actin’ ****** or some dumb brawler or that dude good at running but never ever seen as intelligent and cunning. The girls ignore me, teachers too, white guys hate me, what did I do? What did I ever do to them? I’m just like you, I just want some friends, want the chance in life to succeed, man shut up about being freed that **** happened a hundred and fifty ******* years ago, I’m just as sick of hearing about it as you are 'Bro.'

  They say I have rights, they say that it’s fair, they say there’s a chance for me everywhere, but everywhere I look that’s not what I see, I’m put-down and degraded cons-tant-ly, told that I should join the team, or passed over in conversations about some thing. Forced to be friends with thugs that hate but to them at least I can relate, for just like me they was excluded or marginalized when told that they are deluded; they’ll never make it anyway, never achieve their dreams, never have their say so why even bother when no one cares how you feel, when your dreams in life won’t ever be real, when you end up in the streets and all you got left is to steal, when its still,

“Go back to Africa ******!”

...they say with zeal and the vitriol an violence comport surreal, Helen didn’t hold this secret to reveal nor does rap, truthfully, with these problems deal? Cocooned by stares and ****-sure glares, because your own sports brothers hate your *** and make you just wanna ditch that class, so here I ended up on the streets, hangin' round on my crew’s beats, acting tough, street-cred and clout and there your 'momma-an-sister' out n’ about, while here I am a fresh drop-out and can you guess what?

Here we come to take her purse, I clock your mom’s mouth and shove down your sister but ***** you boy I could’ve done much worse, she could’ve lost her life and come home in a hearse!

  Is this the ****** ya’ll wanted to see? All filled up inside with hatred, cause I was told that I would never make it, from day one got no attention, spent half of high school in afternoon detention, training me for my future as a prison convict yet another sign our society is depraved and sick. Given no chance or help or just some praise, no moments to shine and no Happy Days, he’s just a gang-banger, a **** they say? My actions may be worse than your words assail, and well, that may be me and I may be in jail but here’s something from my Grand Momma, a little encouragement goes a long way to change this drama...

You see me on the street you better ******* run cause you already know what’s in my jacket son and my hoodie will be up so you can’t see my face since I already know what you think of my race.
I guess these are rhyming stories really. I grew up poor in rough neighborhoods and majority-minority schools. This piece is a tribute to tribulations of poor African Americans which I know all too well having grown up in their neighborhoods.
Oli Apr 12
i'm mounting my bicycle
i'm minding the pain in my gums
in my eyes and the sun
and the candy rappers, little candy rappers
there's blood on my palms
there's a trail in the dirt
there's an older man, holding hands with his small daughter
and he smiles back
and now i have a reference, but not today
today i suffer
allow me to suffer
my mouth full of sugar, and a muffled "no"
no, no
no, not today
you're not allowed to save me
i have shiny clothes and my mouth is sticky,
red
you're not allowed to take me
save me, erin
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1ZENjv1ZUC_6bb3bRqT8Z7TkqQ81zUIKN/view?usp=drivesdk
Umi Feb 2018
By the time as it passes endlessly without coming to a halt.
Each human has been gifted with wealth, wether that be material or
not is of no importance, some possess more, some do possess less.
However, the most valuable wealth which is in a clear recording,
Is neither chosen to be owned, nor can one choose to abandon it.
Some tend to waste it, according to others by their individual opinion.
For some it is a cruel fate, as it runs out quicker until the life has reached its destined point, fades away into the embrace of death
Some use it for their advantage, to gain success, renown, luster.
Are you able to guess what it is, has the obvious been pointed out ?
Tick, tock, time passes, to never to turn and change it's path
As I am getting lost in emotions, such as tremor in my thoughts, I have stared into the pocket watch, its motion which gently calms me,
Thinking about the seconds which pass, I am locked in this angel's
sight with no chance to flee, digging deeper into the structure of my mind without minding the time which is escaping before my eyes.
Tick, tock, self reflection, thinking through actions, this time I spend staring is far from being wasted, far from being thrown away.
Until finally, I close it, sighing in relive

~ Umi
In memoriam of my pocket watch: Angel Zadkiel
Blake Jul 2018
Don’t tell me you Understand
Not until you’ve stared at a blank wall
With a blank face
For hours
And cried
Not until you’ve felt
Every little piece inside you break
And instead of feeling pain
Or sadness
You’re numb
Not until you’ve slit your wrists
Not trying to die
But not minding
If you do
Not until you’ve watched blood
Drip down your arm
And thought
It’s a nice colour
Not until you’ve done stupid stunts
And dangerous acts
Just to feel
Alive
Not until you’ve seen inside my head
The thoughts that live there
And tried
To die
Not until you’ve seen and felt
What I have
In this life
Will you ever understand

Don’t tell me you Understand.
Because you don’t.
I don’t
acacia Jul 12
Sullied, broken shoes coagulate down-below the creek, endlessly floating to the bottom
running away with bare feet
You are just like they told me you'd be: nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing at all

I wish I could fall back into a blend of a plethora of cottons whisked with the textures of you and are all delicately folded within these seams of stretched and wrinkled fabrics, tempered and brushed
I'm just like they warned me I'd be: tempted, tempted, tempted, tempted again

A warmth escapes your nose, your eyes drop below the balloon, but have you stopped to see what's rising before and from me?

Beforth you, remember, the decision we made in the drastic evening many moons ago where we saw butterflies free themselves from chrysalides

Progression towards your death for I will be the eclipse, the catalyst—then you will apply towards me and separate towards me, for we all do, we all apply and separate and tighten and loosen and wax and wane and attract and unattract and maximize and minimize and captive and repel—
to know those things makes me feel better
Reverberating between the sink, I bounce off porcelain brisk neatness, twined leggings, and floating fortunes
Fortunate you're so unfortunate to be blessed with the only way
of knowing me: through the soul—each year you'll find me,
each life you'll know me; as long as you have feelings to hurt
I'll have a way to get to you
This means nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing at all

Without being too direct, too blunt, too unpoetic,
don't listen to my feverish talk
I am in a state of ill-will, in a state of benign-despondency,
I am catatonic, I am feeling threatened
It is buried in the past, though my intuition is in flames
Let me give this a try: I'll give you my letters written in my tears,
I package the letter in tears, I deliver the tear-veloped letter in tears; when I fall, right now, through this loop, through the bed for
the bed is my loop, for the loop is my bed, and I want to feel better:
falling through repeatedly: portal above me, portal below me
The same fallen places, the same sunken categories
You'd love this constancy, wouldn't you?

Drop into an abyss of rising sunshine and jaundiced moonshine,
for I am never going to see you again—I will, we all will
The sun sees you every day, the moon watches you every night,
and I have thought of you for years, never understanding why (nor who you were),
but now I firmly understand why
If I cease my ignorance of the future, will the future still happen?

Wilting towards willowing followers, budding flowers in exchange for a faulty handshake: the most cheekiest of ******* you see down the street, freely (arm-in-arm) flying from under your frown; they fraulick under trees for what seems to be forever through meadows, meandering with the smoke and lingering as a Jordanian river-like stench near a swamp,

for you are just like they warned me you'd be: fleeting, flying, flipping, frenzying away
Infamous one Jan 13
Years of minding your own
Others think you are weak and broken
Finding a way to be happy
Not about money or material possessions
Not asking for permission I just do it
I'd say sorry, never forgiven not able to change
Soberiety is my way to make it better
Not the same tired of holding onto hurt and pain
Learned to forgive myself move forward
Got to do it right, never given a second chance
Make the most of things they don't last forever
Sunshine Apr 1
I thought I'd be able to comprehend my feelings
but after last night
       after the shots I took
       after the alcohol made me blurry
       after the smoke cleared the basement lights
I knew there's never been anyone but you
I knew I shouldn't be here
Sipping back tequila and thinking about your eyes
Sipping back a beer and thinking about your hair
Smoking another one and thinking about your exes
Smoking several more and thinking I should have called you
And I'm in this party state of mind
Minding your business and not keeping to myself
I think I was a little blunt
I think you were a little tipsy


xoxo
-sunshine
Ryan O'Leary May 11
A candle flickered
and lied about its
height,
but tear dropped
grease and waning
wax exposed the
threadbare trite.


ps.

We are in County Wick^Low
now, minding a pair of Donkeys.
You never knew how much I loved you.
Sitting on a tree.
Minding the stump.
I was afraid you might fall!

Burlesque minds make fun of you.
Call me an idiot too. I think.
But every time I hear the screams,
I just can't get over that you'd tell me to delete you!

Since when was a man measured by the viscosity of his morals.
To invest online my heart.
But the world told me too, I never had a choice. Because the world decides whether I'm fated to invest in your company. But where would it end? Easy, the world cuts off your existence like a hot knife through crying butter. Could a fate ever be so cruel as mans resistance to the reproachful sickening thud of two people never being able to feel deeply about each other again? But the world doesn't tell the moon what to do. She sits there, waiting patiently for someone to come **** her.  She's come to understand that life without a heartbeat is not a life worth living. because everyone who came into the world, our moon included gave their heart to someone. The world told her too. So what if its painful? So what if it's pitiful? Everyone does it so it must be correct, truly. Those words. I love you. Just having you by my side keeps me from hating myself a little. I like the pain of being with you. I don't ever want to leave this place, it's lovely. No one ever liked me before I met you. Touch me harder, rub me harder. I will achieve your dreams with you. I don't like to see you sad. My heart has been connected to you since the day we met. I like guys with long hair. I like girls with a nice ***. I'd give up the world for you. Now you know that I like you. Don't ever think you are alone. Even if he doesn't like you, I like you, I love you. When we become ghosts, we can be together forever. You're my hero. Don't ever leave me. You're my purpose for living. We don't have to be rich, we're happy together. It's not that I like you! I just wanted to help you. You're the only one who understands me. My reason for being is you. I've always loved you. You're the only scream I like. Don't ever make me cry, I couldn't stand it if you made me cry. We can stay in heaven together honey. I'll stop whoever makes you sad. Please come back tonight, I miss you. My heart can't take anyone else, just stay with me. We'll be the best of partners! No one could ever touch me like you do. I had a really good time, I mean that. I cherish the world for bringing me you. I will marry you. He could never hold a candle to you. You've ruined me for all other men. I can't be with anyone as long as they're not you. Keep me in your heart forever. We'll get married when we grow up.  I will love you, so don't ever say such miserable things, you're running away. Please don't delete me, I love you. I'll be here forever.

But the world just kept on moving.
It never stopped to tell the moon those words she wanted to hear.
That it was sorry.
The responsibility was just too much.
Just trying out this style of writing, pretty cool
Jim Hill Dec 2017
At 104th street
a great bulk of igneous rock
heaves itself from Central Park—
wet black-green in halide streetlight
like a breaching submarine.

I hadn’t seen this place before;
still, I passed, all a funk,
mind inside itself (a typical brood),
moving past with just a sidelong look.

By a low stone wall
at the foot of the cliff, a man
(black parka, pants
too long, high-top shoes)
leaned as if in muttered
collusion with the ground.

He spoke to someone as I passed
(I figured he was drunk).
“Fella,” I heard him say,
as if to me.
I stopped, and looking back,
saw from across the wall,
crouched on the side of the cliff
a raccoon, black-masked,
capacious gray coat,
tiny hands.

It sat there watching me,
or rather, just watching,
attentive to some
attraction I didn’t see.

And then another.
And another.
And all along that black expanse
must have been twenty raccoons
(I didn’t think they could be so varied)
quietly foraging, awaiting,
I came to understand,
the man in the black coat.

He threw bread to them
like the old pigeon lady in
Mary Poppins
and five or so gathered nearby
on the other side of the wall
not minding his humanness,
only eating.

“I come out here every night,” he explained.
“I don’t got a girlfriend anymore,
so I come out here
and feed them to **** time.”

He tore a piece from a half-gone baguette
and threw it to a little one.

“There’s like fifty of them now,” he said.
“There were twenty when I started;
they have four or five babies every spring.
Nobody knows they’re here except me.”

As he spoke, a baby raccoon
climbed up a sapling
by the wall, extending its sharp black nose
toward the man who held a scrap of bread.
The raccoon took it unreluctantly.
I flinched at the thought of tiny
raccoon teeth missing their mark
on my index finger.
But habit was fixed and easy
here between man and raccoon.

“They’ll come up and sit on my shoulder...”
he said at last and then trailed off.

I stood and watched for several minutes—
this assembly of raccoons
along the black cliff
and the man who called them “fella” and “baby.”

At last he said with satisfaction,
“They call me the raccoon man.”
Deciding he had said his bit,
I gave a soft, enthusiastic whistle
between my teeth
as if to say,
“Well done.”

At 105th street, I felt remorse
for not having said more
to the man who drew
his nocturnal congregation every night
right there on Central Park West.
And in a gesture of regret,
I turned slightly back as I walked
to the see his black form
bent over the low wall
dispensing bread.
Ryan O'Leary May 21
Minding a pair of mute
Donkey's, we are, near to
Ashford, by Roundwood.

Past Greystones, at the
beach, is another town,
I'll take them there, to Bray!


For Bert and Clover.
21st May 2019.
Kiltiman Wicklow
Ireland.
Mohamed Nasir Sep 2018
No wonder I couldn't find her
She was out all night
When I opened the door
My pet cat rushed inside
And looked at me with her
Big round eyes puzzled
As if asking why didn't I
Opened the door sooner?
As if I read her thoughts
As if she understands
I said, "well, you didn't
Tell me you went outside?"
Greysha is a beautiful cat
Doesn't go out with the guys
Obedient passive goes about
Minding her own ways
Wasting time to look prim
Always around the house
And keeps me company
Now purrs lay beside me
Tapping gently her soft paws
On my arm nudging me
To pat her and stroke her
White and geyish fur coat or
I don't know what's going on
In her mind perhaps she's
Just being naughty or maybe
It's her way of saying
"I am sorry."
Lips of intrusion and confusion
Concubines and cantaloupes
Sometimes it all goes south
Coveting our pleasure
We destroy our souls
Branded with talent
Love is rare these days
I used to run from my own desires
Now I face the fire with a steady gaze
Come bless my heart
We define the sounds of silence
And are minding our own eyes
As Pharaohs moan
Far away the vultures wait
I place my nose in your open mouth
And hover in the sunset
For now we call each other names
And say the things
Of which we won't be proud tomorrow
Violet Moretti Aug 2018
Dear me
the me that I always wanted to be
the me that I can still be
you are so strong
not hiding behind a screen
because you finally aren’t terrified to speak the words with your mouth
you are so brave
letting your voice be heard
and not minding the attention one bit
you are an amazon
a woman, yes
weak, no
despite their words
you are fierce
you are a warrior
depite their degrading
you are beautiful
you are majestic
you are a bird
not the sloth
not the water bug
you aren't lazy
nor are you scurrying about due to fear
you just flap your wings and soar above
above all of the people that said you wouldn’t make it
above the ones who said you were never good enough
above the pain you felt because you told somebody that you are different
that you are more of a pink and blue
than just a blue
that one color doesn't intrigue you by itself
because you love both just as much
the abyss of deep and dark pain is below you
because you are no longer terrified of yourself
you no longer cringe when you look in the mirror
you no longer cry yourself to sleep every night
you no longer wish you were more than allergic
you are strong
you have your battles
but you already won a battle like Zorndorf
you just have the Boston Massacre left
you are making it
you fought
you cried
but now
you laugh
you love
and I am so proud
that you can say you made it
you deserve it
sincerely,
you
the you that you never wanted to be
Ryan O'Leary Aug 2
Yesterday my 96 year old
mother paid us a visit at
the country house we are
currently minding in the
townland of Kilballyowen.

The tossed bread, which is
normally thrown to the hens,
was incorporated into a
traditional pain perdu, or en
Anglais, a bread pudding.

Afterwards, the dispossessed
were rewarded avec Le Creuset,
as there were good and crusty
peckings to be had from all
around the high cast iron edges.
Ogoru Vidrine Jan 27
Pieces by pieces my heart fell Like a broken record.

All I see is an ocean of pure confusion; what’s next is the question on my empty heart.

It’s best melody has been stolen not minding what will be left of it. My life torn into tiny little pieces and rage engulf my thought like a wild fire.

It’s now or never my inner man said. You have to get a different life, don’t ever let yourself get ****** again by wolves you call friends.

Scars remains, a reminder of the past, a reminder of mystery, a constant sign of what’s been done.
Michael Marchese Nov 2018
The difference between us
Is seen as
What keeps us
Divided, united
And trying to hide it
With notions of sameness
Partitioned in races
And paychecks to rub it in
Spite-her-nose faces
Despite whether on
The excesses of luxury
Porcelain thrones
Do we trickle down waste
Upon those without homes
Or we find ourselves
One of the billion
Have nots
Minding only our businesses,
Tending our crops
We depend on it always to be there
To make
Livings off of
These lands,
As their claimants we stake
And it takes us a lifetime
Of filling it with
Any worth we convert
To devaluing it
But in each of us lies
An identical pit
Of despair in disparity's
Wealthy abyss
In days dead and burried in time,
In a very far away enchanted clime,
In the mighty kingdom of Nineva
Where there fairly shone forever,

There once was a strange lonely wood
That ever in fairest robes of green stood
By the edge of a fair shoreline of pearl,
Whose mystery none may tell nor unfurl.

For akin to the most effulgent yonder star
That forevermore scintillates from afar
In a splendiferous novelty golden cluster,
So thrice scintillated the gem's luster.

And 'tis for this that as we all truly know,
All mortals, I say, all mortals  of long ago
Gravitated from corners of distant lands
On the quest for riches by those strands.

Once, sweltering was the noontide
When upon a violent lonely rolling tide
A bunch of desperate pirates were seen
Nearing that wood of emerald sheen.

In a while, they'd gathered all they could,
Leaving not a single gem in the wood.
Alas! A wind murmured upon the skies
In faint whispers: "Woods have eyes"

So muttered all birds - all birds of the air,
All creatures in caverns desolate yet fair,
All leaves upon strange shadowy trees,
And all - all creatures of wild lonely seas.

But, despite the looming dark omen,
Swifter than plummeting drops of rain,
So hastily dashed every single pirate
Blindingly minding not about their fate.

They raised their silvery sails to take sail
But hark! All this - all this was to no avail;
For upon the skies no wind was seen
To render them across so wide a sea.

In a jiffy, louder than birds of the skies
All gems whispered, "Woods have eyes."
From that moment on, all lost their sight,
Doomed never to behold the sun's light.

And now, upon those murky restless seas
They dost weep but no plea can please,
For they were doomed to rove evermore
In search of their long forgotten shore.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros, Kampala, Uganda. 29th.July.2018.
#Tales of Nineva #fantasy #adventure

Nineva is a magical kingdom in Kiko's legendarium - A miscellany of tales of mystery and maccabre like you've never heard of. Tales like, "The Dwarf Of Nineva, The Nectar Stream, Jazabel The Witch, The Novelty Tea ***, The Witch's Cauldron, The Enchanted Gold, The Mystery Of Lenore, among so many others.

Thanks for reading.
JK Casilda Dec 2018
Being away from home makes me able to do anything I want without my parents having a panic.
I mean they don’t know that every morning I have my cup of coffee despite being told I’m acidic.
Or that at least every week I go try different coffee shops and order an espresso with less milk.
Really? Am I a coffee addict?

I mean…

Who can say no to the aroma soothing your nostrils   and leave you
                                                                ­                 craving
There in your table sits your very own cup, waiting
to be kissed from its very seductive rim, parting
            your thrilled lips, burning
            your yearning tongue, providing
your soul the bittersweet taste of the coffee you love
And as you sip that blessed liquid
                           Like lightning it electrifies you over your taste buds
                                                                ­                              to your throat
down
             to your chest then back up switching on every nerve in your brain.
You bathe in that wonderful kick of caffeine.
And you just can’t help but close your eyes and enjoy this hot bath from a long cold rainy day.
Listening to the every chemical reaction
feeling that sublime sensation
now creeping into every part of your body
telling you
                     that you are no longer your own property.
Then you suddenly get reminded of the last time you had your coffee.                               The abnormal beating of your heart
the fireworks in your head
           the ringing in your ears
                       the whispers of voices from your back
thezjdflksjcxkdjfghdisquiet of the night and
            how it left you gasping for breath
   drowning in the sea of your tears of regret.
It’s frightening.
But being scared makes you hear your present heartbeat, slowly, rushing
like it’s 8 in the morning
You’re alive.
It’s beating. You survived.
You savor this forbidden sensation for as long as it lasts.
                                                          ­               But nothing lasts forever.
When it starts to wear off, of course,
               it all comes back to the tongue.
Here comes “The Finish”.
Funny how acidity
is the strong point of coffee
but a weak point of you.
Cold sweat runs through your back
and a sharp burning feeling starts in your stomach.
Your tongue                      touching the ceiling of your mouth
                  is now starting to burn an unpleasant, undesirable sharpness,
over-fermented bitterness.
The bittersweet becomes            just the bitter.
You open your mouth like puffing out cigarette smoke
breathe out               deeply and slowly
your tongue searching every corner of your mouth
trace the lining of your gums
               desperate
for that elusive sweetness
that once filled you with     happiness.
In despair you’re left with nothing      but the bitter aftertaste.
Like a whistle of the kettle that tells you the water is boiling
The reminder that you had coffee.
Had.
For a moment you want to cry—why can’t you just cry—but if they tell you not to cry over spilled coffee then
         more reasons they’ll tell you not to cry from drinking coffee
Because who cries over coffee and why would you cry from drinking coffee?
You ask yourself
        left with two answers:
You’d cry because it’s bad,
           or you’d cry because you once had something so good.
Almost.
See even the most natural task on Earth like drinking coffee gives difficult life choices, too.
But before you lose your mind thinking about
The aftertaste,
        your breath,
        your heart,
        the whistle,
        the bittersweet,
the bitter,
               the sweet,
  the aftertaste,    the bitter,
the…
You feel the cup between your hands
            warm and welcoming.
A faint light from this darkness
has started to devour the blackness.
And you open your eyes.
You no longer hear the whistle of the kettle nor the rushed beat of your heart.
Even the bitter taste in your tongue felt like it’s been there right from the start
And you just no longer care of the aftertaste that takes ages to depart.
You look at your cup with your loving doe eyes.
You’re ready to take in another sip of your coffee
not minding the aftertaste                      of that same unrequited love.
This was originally performed as a spoken poetry, my first in that field.
Butch Decatoria Dec 2018
a light that beams…

This must be a dream. I assume I’m fast asleep elsewhere, but can’t bother to care to find out exactly where that may be, since all my focus and curious thought are centered here, in this moment I am minding. I feel that this is most definitely a dream, yet as vivid this lucid sleep may be, I have a wakeful awareness, conscious of what this all may mean—although unreal.
Verdant greens, rapacious reds, metallic cobalt blues and sharp cold whites, eggshell and city winter skies. Each color I knew in my existence, reintroduced with a new sense of discovering their more flamboyant shades, their other worldly patina, some explosive or fluorescent. I’ve never seen such colors and with more emotions to witness them, and I know full well that in our dreams, it seems that feelings speak—the only language our minds translate, lacking logic and reason, and still understood. Mind-speaking with heart...

I awe at the surroundings of astral nebulae and cosmic bodies spacial walls that wave and wink with stars and eyes or both or all.
I’m being lead in warp speed worm holes and tunnels of levitation and light, pulled by a hand I’m holding, aware now that I’m not alone here, in this dream I accept it to be, but who is dreaming with me?
I turn my attention to that hand, the connecting arm, and the rest of whom I look down to see, if only with the blind eyes that my human limitation allows. I smile with my whole face discovering a young child cherub beaming back at me, with eyes reflecting the stars and twilight shades of space… there is such depth in those large windows of the soul, knowledge and wisdom and enlightenment, beyond my mortal coil. My unevolved homunculi of spirit, full of conditioned fears and judgmental faults, a prehistoric presence in the light years of our civilization. I feel a yearning to ask “where are…?”
Shhhzzzz…lightning then thunder…. Pull back awake…
(Life is but a dream)
Just embrace it all with wonder. A light that beams.
In the morning I will wake. Breathe anew, ethereally, the lovely other space, where I feel at home, in place. Swimming in god’s Other face, a bright ocean of perfection’s grace. And peace...
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