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JS CARIE May 2018
Assert confidence in a convincing recital
Claim certainty that protection is binding
safety is paramount
a rehearsed amount
until she takes it on ethics
every truth is there to detect
A battle for reason
until potential yields to the objective
Loyalty isn't just imagination

Fate constructed in a noiseless dialogue
momentary eye contact
pencil hits paper
Smoke and vapor
Fire comes later
an unsurpassed honor
All the letters weve written
are a smear on the page of occasion
Resulting in endless treasure
Only to be rediscovered
When the omission is uncovered
Francie Lynch Dec 2017
If you're complicit
It's not illicit
To keep your mouth closed.
But, know you this,
When women are dissed
With words like ***** and **,
You're surely committing
Sins of omission,
From your head
Down to your toes.
You left no doubt,
When you didn't speak out,
You're spineless
And missing marrow.
I'm not worthy either to throw a stone.
gone \’gôn also ‘gan\

no longer existing: no longer at a place; departed or lost.

When asked about my favorite memory, I can recall nothing. All that comes into mind is a blur of what has once been, of what things were, right before everything ceased to exist. I remember the shadow of your smile, the echo of your voice, and the silhouette of your embrace. It was the simplest of things, and also the insignificant ones at that, that seems to be tattooed on my mind. Nothing can quite compare to the feel of your lips pressed against mine, to the touch of your hands igniting my body. When it comes to you, all else fades into the background: my fears of commitment, of being not enough.

However, none of it matters now, anyway. Not when all is lost; not when everything is all a little too late. So if one would ask why I do not consider these fragments of memories as my favorite, the answer is quite simple. A favorite memory should be something that could bring you rapture in reminiscing. How could nostalgias centered with you become my favorite if all they do is haunt me of a love lost and another round of “what could have been”?
Once in every dream my brain could come up with, amidst the constant troubling of my nightmares to sleep, I get visions of us holding hand in hand with everyone right there to see. I dream of you singing me to sleep, enveloping me in your warmth all through the night. But this wistful thinking burns all hopes like how a piece of the sun could burn like a coin in my hand. No more, darling, we could not go back to the way it was, no more.

Like a missing piece in a puzzle, I know it is more than a mystery, an enigma, why I vanished suddenly. Are you even still waiting for me? Are you still there pining for my return? If yes, then good for me that I have someone like you. If no, then just know that I completely understand. But whatever the answer may be, I know you deserve an answer. The lies I reasoned with for leaving are not entirely tell-tales. But I did lie, by omission, of denying you the truth of why I wanted out.

As I write this letter to you, I want you to think of me with the sun’s rays illuminating my dark locks. Envision me in a meadow by the hill, with the sun setting behind my back, the pen in my hand with you as the subject of my afternoon daydream. But in this reverie, I do not think of how it feels to be loved by you again neither how it soothes my insides to hear your voice once more. Instead, in this contemplation, I gather all the courage to make myself vulnerable to someone, to entrust a portion of my soul to the hands of another.

I remember how you once asked me, “Will you stay with me no matter what?” You took my lack of answer as an affirmation and kissed me on the forehead instead as we looked at the stars lighting up the night sky. There was a lot of everything that I would have wanted to say but nothing came out of my mouth through every attempt. I wanted to tell you that I could not, that no matter how much I would have wanted that to happen, it would be more than unfair to you if I stayed. No, if you stayed with me.

Do you remember how I told you how my grandfather switched up names of his own daughters? Do you remember the story of how my aunt mistook her past lover to be her husband? You see, love, a year or two from now, I might become them. I have been diagnosed with a terminal memory loss, the Alzheimer’s disease as they would call it, and only time then could dictate the deadline of every single memory I have.

Leaving, as they say, was always a coward’s way out. But is not it dauntless how I braved living without my lifeline, living my life without you? I did not mean to be selfish, dear, but cannot you see how I am being selfless in letting you go? To set you free of me is to protect you from anymore hurt that this condition of mine would bring you. The knowledge of me leaving you for an unknown reason is a more tolerable pain than the reality of me forgetting you in the long run.

“Where were you then?” I was at the far distance looking at you exist without me in the picture. “Who else was there?” No one but your silhouette haunting me every minute. “Saying what?” That it was a mistake to abandon you.

Mourn no more for our lost love, dear. Mourn no more for the longing of what we once had and the regrets of what we could have had. As my every memory of you slowly wanes, always remember how hard I held on to them, the hardest that my brain could ever allow. Sometimes it is bliss to pretend that memory loss happens since the brain gives way for the heart to store the collection of moments we have, that my mind flushes you out to store you inside the core of my body.
But most of all, darling, the pain of leaving is endurable than the unbearable pain of seeing you suffer all because of me, than the inevitable pain of taking one glimpse on the masked agony on your face every single time I would ask “Who are you?” It would hurt to look at your beautiful face with me unable to know even just your name. You see, love, to be gone from your life is far more tolerable than to exist day by day with you in my life slowly vanishing into dust. Always, for always it would only be you. Even after all of my memories plummet into the hollow chasm and they are all gone, gone, just gone.

Disclaimer: This literary work in prose written in a first-person point of view is penned as a reply to Pablo Neruda’s poem entitled Clenched Soul.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.who said... that German was, unbefitting to fulfill the concerns for the operatic?! Germans sing the most... nettopern known to man... their baroque reinterpretation... shudders the body to usurp all the ancients' phobias borrowed from the Greeks... goosebumps and... ****... like:

  freude, schöner götterfunken,
tochter aus elysium,
wir betreten feuertrunken,
himmlische, dein heiligtum!

but then again...
  anemia with the Wagner...
come: walhall..
       come Chopin...
and an...             orchestra!

you are born, to be lived...
and what questions you have,
are questions indeed,
but they are rudimentary...
and asked,
even if asked at all...
at what could be
beat estimated
the worthy time...
beside the / outside
the mortal script...
                   known as... life;

how does that feel?
when feeling
the "art" of the implosion
of thought?
the, missing moral "ought"
of the narrative?
the lost, theta?!
how does, that, "feel"?
all, emotion,
yet, seemingly,
no, thought?
   how does that feel...

ship, micro-cosmos of
quasi-Braille telegraph...
how, does, i, "feel", mother?

the complexity of human expression,
within the confines
of the childish beginning,
culminates in the banal finality of...
   that, which, is mortal...
       that, which, is mortal...
will always over complicate the sentence...
and make life, almost causeless.

we are all but wagers,
in a game that consist of nothing more
than a win, or a loss...
a game, waging...
   falsely perpetuating
a gain... mortality...
and a game waging...
not falsely perpetuating
a loss... again: mortality....
why should i forgive
the bass guitar omission in modern
JS CARIE Jul 2018
Amid the morning traversal
Isolated movement in peripheral optics
Flashing visions caught my attention
and passed so fast, then behind my back
This contrast casts playful blasts
Wondrous attacks upon question
But the sights ****** with me,
in a scarring way
like cutting into me
these incisions intent
Almost as if she's demanding me to prefigure
to anticipate her resolve in steps ready
Trap and trace her shadowy inhibition
An illusory female in swift glided mission
She wouldn't be paying me attention
If she didn't want me to see her
in an apparitions condition
Back and forth between ups and downs
Omission transmits imagination,
on repeat
As she comes and goes
Appears and disappears
In a childlike hide and seek
Transition to remission
My jaunting disposition was put to shame
While trying to chase and catch
This, her silhouetted composition
All the silent while
I cursed blame on my beloved,
for coming so close to smell her
but not letting me hold her
But in real time
She kept reclusive
in a remote wood...
So many days without
I would long and ache
While her abilities are endlessly innate
As determination continues to persevere
She is alive, just away
out there
This figure I imagine is only that
My need to see her presence is a desperate one
Creating her graceful body in modes of bliss
Any way shape or form these divine bits
Her transparency I am offered
Only it's the tangible I am wanting
Her actual body and hair and hillside profile
My style is my struggle
As is this continual desire
Jason James Aug 2018
Sitting on the broken love seat
Foot's asleep
A shepherd whose lost track of all his sheep
Keeping a lonely path up the hill,
Sitting still in quiet contemplation.
Omission not a sin.
Too late to begin again
And the journey is steep
But the only other way is down.
Fashioning a crown of thorns,
The cross waits at the top of the mountain
A fountain of blood and tears rain down upon the garden,
Baptizing the children in sadness and brutality,
Setting them free from these fleshly sins,
And riches given with Satan's strings attached.
Detached from earthly things,
Waiting on the promise heaven brings to the righteous
But long nights stave off the dawn.
Fires loom on the horizon.
A crucible to refine the pure of soul from natural, ******* evil.

And we walk barefoot on scorching blacktop and broken glass,
Many approach
Yet few pass through
With heads held low
And know
The true pain
Of salvation.
Sam Oct 2018
            you’re still visible.

When you smile, just wide enough, bright, and --
your eyes glaze over, just a little. ever-present, the red-rimmed edges.
Your posture is good form. Back straight, shoulders pulled, and -- rigid.
too rigid. so when was the last time you let down your guard?

You seem perfect, darling - you seem fine.
except the moments that you freeze, stuck still, can’t move,
when no one’s looking.

Because the people who would have noticed you --
who would have seen you,
                                                  Did see you,
falling apart at the seems,
hands shaking and gulping unsteady breaths,
head spinning when the world wasn’t
desperately alone and wanting not to be --

                                                         ­    Are gone. Again.
                                                         ­                               There’s no one there.

Months ago, almost a year now, they found you.
{Your soon to be, family, of 9 friends.}
Not impressive in the least,
                          almost completely faded into the wallpaper,
                                             utterly breakable, utterly close to broken,
                                                         ­                                         utterly alone.
And they gave you
                                                                ­   lifelines,
                                                                ­                     and hugs.
Resumed you back, to a more bearable way of living.
                                                    ­ And you were so, so,
desperate -- so you
stayed, against your better judgement --
you watched, and you learned.
                         How to hide things, your secrets.
                         How to lie, and do it brilliantly -- always only to protect.
                         How to fake being fine:
                           trying to hide tear tracks? -
                                 rub your eyes with cold water, just say you’re tired
                                 (it’s always true)
                           make other people believe you? -
                                 lie by omission, and avoid the word fine
                                 (use synonyms)
                           panic attacks? -
                                learn your signs, nearest places no one will go, and when
                                 (and walk, then
                            who to trust? -
                               the ones who stick close. the ones too much like you.
                               (the ones who see
you, always, visible or not.)
but also:
How to let other people orbit around you, and not just orbit them.
How to throw caution to the wind and say,
I love you, permanent or not.
nothing lasts (but you knew that), but
sometimes, somethings, are still worth it.
And how to breathe again, a little bit more easily,
bit more like you used to be able to.

It falls apart spectacularly (the kindest way imaginable), with
        i love yous,
              i’ll miss yous,
                        stay in touch,
                                 a plethora
of hugs (you used to flinch away from).

And being alone is so
hard -- however did you stand it?
there’s a gaping ache, of loneliness,

                                      of missing, in your chest, you can’t quite identify --

you just want a hug,
                                       someone’s arms around your shoulders just to
ground you,
Just a laugh, or a smile; a friendly face,
just someone, just anyone --
                                                         ­       your closest lifeline lives sixthousandsevenhundredandeighty
                            ­                                    kilometers away.

it’s one of your further away friends, who tells you,
If you feel homesick, you know, that makes sense
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world

                                                              It makes the air around you go still,
                                                                ­               makes your breath pause.
you thought home was a place.
and if home was a place, well,
you’d never have one.
                                                  so however did you end up
                                                 with nine, whole, pieces of it?

                                                with something like a family,
                                              even if you can’t say it aloud?

So that’s why
           There’s a constant, thin, circle of red, around your eyes,
           Why you’ve once again forgotten how to trust,
           Why you’ll stare off into the distance, just for a beat,
     your stream of conscious
                 I miss you I miss you I love you I miss you
                     brought back up to the surface.
But it’s also:
Staying inside when it rains, and pours,
not going out and getting drenched
because you want a tangible reason to feel miserable;
Actively trying to sleep, at halfway decent hours,
because maybe, you can.
because you might be an insomniac, but
you never tried to stop it;
And eating, whole, actual, proper, meals,
no longer skipping, because it may taste like nothing
but there’s no longer the nausea.
A few steps in the right direction, perhaps.

You have so many self-destructive tendencies; habits, now,
  and no one but you to stop them.
and it would be so much easier, to not.
to let them all devour you, because
                                                                ­ you’re not all that terrified of them
and you should be.

So instead, you’re trying. Your damndest.
                                                      ­            Because your friends taught you,
how to piece yourself back together,
and to try to keep living.
and you owe them enough, to do your utmost,
to keep yourself as intact as you possibly can.

You aren’t great, and
You aren’t fine,
despite a passable impression.
                         You’re alright,
                                                Because, you’re trying,
I miss you, I love you, I miss you, I miss you
                                                And, slowly, you’re getting there,
Maybe, someday, you can make yourself visible again.
                                                         ­                                        Homesick, or not.
         you’re alright.

         You’re alright.
I never knew you could miss someone so much, that you'd do just about anything to see them again.
Johnny Noiπ Nov 2018
The trial included a new blood care. 1: 1 fruit and destroy even if there is a problem. 1 external perspective which is a source of potential levels. Music, "Juan" said Juan Pablo. First, the hard chocolate brown faces. However, colors and sports used to be. And with your direction and the peace that exist. Germany, Europe, Spain, 582 women and girls ... Johannes the van Hove POG in the areas of Guatemala, San Marino, Shandong, football and incompatible with other letters of the Indian letter 262 582 (200) different from Germany (Italian and Spanish ****** in Greece), Spain, New York; United States tape. Many printed articles of Khong Nho Trong Canh. there are people waiting in Italy and in hospitals and 580 2) 262 (Bonn in China), white Spain, Italy and Europe (2 580) 1 261 200 and 1 to 5 years, 58 Romanian Romo Celacr Latin, Greek, Italian Icelandic, Kitchen Italian, **** death (582) and 262 deaths (200,000 ... 28.40 Germans, Spaniards and Norwegian Ministers of Belarus). European places to buy food are indistinguishable from stress, for example, Khong Phai rules three bees and 1 KHI KHI Tank, with 50 pregnant women, needs a sword test and says that at least two Black Monks from the Demon Temple and six policemen with good Ideas that remained in black and white for many years. eyes through the water A fire in the Red Sea is a crisis of which the day has come when the country was forced to mimic twice the children of my children are my life. Please, it seems to me that nobody says: 'The spirit of the black and white ***** is mine; receiving the Christian world from the Christian omission of knowledge, I entered a ship and went through what I had to but I abandoned the harlot's captivity and returned to the city's circuit according to the custom of the Way of Recognizing the Interracial and the sacred in The white height of the center of Candice. The laughter of those who gag in the dark hours of **** music and the poetry that is open to the children of X: | | |||| about 6 hours of luck in England with beauty and diet, part of your body at night in the dark, the darkness of the slaves buried and the slaves that I will not have, I have seen that day through the fact that it is not the medicine From the ******* of **** Kayla MA to offer to buy her chickens - rival -, the experience of use is. The pronunciation in French: [miz.ɑ.sɛn] "click" is an expression used to describe certain characteristics. It is a symbolic graphic that is "Author" or "real story", from the leader to the control and direction of the subject of the poem he made and that is why I have used it in the United States. The filmmaker is an artisan as they say in this place: "there is a great proportion between them".
I make myself so happy for no reason then stick my own back,
melancholic acts of treason, cut and measure my own lesions;
a line between pleasure and pleasing.
Not an pessimist nor a type of optimist but a realist who has mastered the execution of delusion and illusion.
Oxymoronic, Guess I'm just human;

Apparently the semblance of a god,
so making something from nothing isn't odd,
but I was given everything from a soul to my bones, hair to my toes;
Even to me who stays in this, sinew and ivory, home the reason is unknown but I know the weight of this form has its toll.

Ties made are rarly cut
more than the material is used,
bonds spirt imbued,
that which feeds hate and love.
My soul is the ocean my form the soil my mind the heavens so it's wisdom guides the toil.
What I put on to my body will seep to the sea, be it poisons or ointments that is to be seen, my wish for foresight seems obscene,
a noxious tint colors the scene
Ah this is but a show, how else can I explain the tragedies sown.

Who wrote this play?
Who paid its commission,
who conscripted us to suffer, no need for permission, no fine print played off as a simple omission?
Actors with no access to backstage
so it is do or die,
freedom in a cage,
the 4th wall blocks our eyes.
we get no reactions for our performance
no real feedback,
so we face our troupe like opponents, for no real reason.
Whilst some seem to flourish in a limelight others perish in darkness
some disappear through trap doors others fly with out harness.

seasoned thespians sometimes show us a way; how to perform our parts, from when they entered the play.
We are told there is a script, so I would say some have forgotten thier lines
but honestly the script has never passed these eyes,
all I know is that somes voices are drowned out by the soundtracks of anxiety and sadness;
The polyrhythms of fear and deafening sound of loneliness and madness
How could the director have this?

That's the purpose of a tragedy; make the watcher feel like they are living lavishly.

Wanted a reason why I find it so tragic.

In the words of Life 'There, you have it.'
Slam tracscribed. I've been reading some tragedies and re-realized that fact can be truly worse than fiction
The lines are not closed by the CTC
in LAURENT TZU **** not even
in the world of ****** and "current"
time of space, that is, the beginning.
H. Inventory in 1937, which was recently
confirmed by the 1950 CS (CS) activated
exhibition, is an inventor of cylinders,
leaving the KMA solution lactating Tipler
is unacceptable. Hair must follow the ability
to obtain a license to grant a license
in a very short time. Marco Giulios
presents many friends in Rome "and"
the second "union" "and" six ", according
to the main person in five dimensions
(the theme is the heterogeneous art
of Altrichol that the author does not
leave the ship with ties celibici with its spirit.)
Sária district in which the color of the spirit
is its color or the image of man, which is the
maxim of the ****** in the eggs in this image
that you can see and that you cannot
understand, even if they are not false
visions, to represent the caricature
of an image for the art of the mass
was the art of imagination, the art
of the contract and the decisions
of the infallible, that is the
agreement with the council of the forms
as a consequence of the the fact that Nicole,
in the same way as Obscurato, has the right
to induce correction and control
of the smooth surface Lines of natural
lines closed CTC Lorenzo Tzuan.
We must say that it is the same as
the "time" mentioned at the beginning H.
our race in 1937, then in 1949
the equations are com... You mix in the mix.
Although CS (CS) allows him to move
to half of the inventory, the inventory
of KMA Tipler's unacceptable solution
are unacceptable. Consequently, it is important to note that,
given the importance of the poetry that has emerged,
confiscated by a series of regulations of the faculty
to bring together the people of the city, the elimination
of what is necessary. . Marco Julio is present
and is a member of Rome "and" the second one "local" ******
and "six walks towards the pentameter,
which is the subject of the current heterogeneous
alterikolon". The end of the sentence:
"I come to bury the Caesar". "Additional
parts for the omission of the word"
in the pulled out is the toy of the coldest
****** and the last part of the aggression
is that they stare at them and ******
warn them so that they do not abandon
the ****** of the boat and the heat
in relation to the positions of the spirits
of the sedans in which the human mind
grew it is colored in the color of the image
of the mayor of Hossein and in one
of the imaginary images of the Character's
imagination in a private apartment
and in the imagination of the lemon
and the abilities of the contralto
and in the infallible decisions of this form of illness.

Watch the ****** and understand your
device. It is a simple example of a sample
version of the WHO, in which the color
of the white blooms and the color of the
top of the pink rosette in the right hand,
puts and listens to the nature of the palms
of the hands until the spectators have been
comfortable for level and above.

— The End —