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Claire Elizabeth Jun 2013
I am anorexic
Not that you see that or anything
Not yet
I look healthy
You think that all the problems stopped after
You took
Tumblr away from me
It didn't
If anything things got worse
Progressively Slowly
But steady and sure
So here I am
Weaning my stomach and mind
Off of the food I
Gorged on previously
And I have found myself
Not losing weight
Which is depressing
And sad
Especially to me
Because more extreme measures
Are going to be taken
Measures that you won't know about either
But as long as I can see my hips
Then I am happy
howard brace Oct 2012
Stood rigidly to attention either side of the hearth, the two bronze fire-dogs had been struggling to maintain that British stiff upper lipidness, which up until earlier that evening had best befitted their station in life... indeed, for the last half hour at least had become brothers in arms to the dying embers filtering through the bars of the cast-iron grate, passing from the present here and now, having lost every thermal attribute necessary to sustain any further vestige of life... to the shortly forthcoming and being at oneness with the Universe... only to fall foul of the overflowing ash-pan below.  This premature cashing in of the coal fire's chips could only be attributed to the recent and prolonged thrashing from the Baronial poker... and a distinct lack of enthusiasm from the family retainer, whom it appeared, required spurring along in a like manner... and while unseen mechanisms were heard to be engaging, then resonating deep within the Hall... that unless summoned... and quickly, the housekeeper had little intention of making an appearance of her own choosing and re-stoke the Study fire while the BBC Home Service were airing 'Your 100 Best Tunes' on the wireless, leaving the heavily tarnished pendulum to continue measuring the hour.

     An indistinct mutter and snap of a closing door latch sounded in the immediate distance as the unhurried shuffle of domestic footsteps... not too dissimilar from those of Jacob Marley's spectral visitation to Scrooge... echoed ever closer along the ancient, oak panelled hallway without.  Their sudden cessation, allowing the housekeeper ingress to  the book lined Study, was by way of sporadic groans from unoiled hinges, door furniture that voiced the same overwhelming lack of attention as that of the fire-grate set in the wall opposite and presumably, from the same overwhelming lack of domestic servitude.
     "Had his Lordship rang...?" the Housekeeper wailed dolefully, giving her employer what might casually pass for a courteous bob... and in lieu no doubt, of Marley's rattling chains, padlocks and dusty ledgers... "and would there be anything further his Lordship required..." before she took her leave for the evening.  The notion of a sticky mint humbug warming the cockles of his ancient, aristocratic heart gave her pause for thought as she rummaged through her pinafore pockets, then thought better of it, after all, confectionary didn't grow on trees...  In bobbing a second time she noticed the malnourished, yet strangely twinkling coal-scuttle lounging over by the hearth, whose insubstantial contents had taken on an ethereal quality earlier that evening and had now transferred its undivided attention to the recently summoned Housekeeper, who was quite prepared to offer up a candle in supplication come next Evensong were she mistaken, but the coal-scuttle's twinkle bore every intimation of giving what appeared to be a very suggestive 'come-on' in return... and had been doing so since she first entered the room... 'and did she have any plans of her own that particular evening', the coal-scuttle twinkled suavely, 'perchance a leisurely stroll down by the old coal cellar steps...'  Now perhaps it was the lateness of the hour which had caused the Housekeeper's confusion that evening, or perhaps an over stretched imagination, brought on through domestic inactivity, but it wouldn't take a great deal to hazard that a lingering fondness for Gin and tonic played no small part towards her next curtsey, which she did, albeit unwittingly, in the unerring direction of the winking coal-scuttle.

     With the household keys as her badge-of-office, jangling defiantly from the chain around her waist, the housekeeper began inching back the same way she came, back towards the study door and freedom... and back into the welcoming arms of her 1/4 lb. bag of peppermint humbugs and the pint of best London Gin she'd had to relinquish prior to 'Songs of Praise...' and which was now to be found... should you happen to be an inquisitive fly on a particular piece of floral wallpaper... half-cut, locked arm in arm with the bottle of Indian tonic water and in the final, intoxicating throws of William Blake's, 'Jerusalem...' hic.

     "Ha-arrumph..." the elderly gentleman cleared his throat... "ah Gabby" he said, lowering his book and placing it face down upon the occasional table set beside him.  The flatulent groan of tired leather upholstery made itself heard above the steady monotony of the mantle-piece clock as he stood and chaffed his hands in the direction of the bereft fire, "Oh! I'm sorry your Lordship, then there was something...?" as she maintained her steady but relentless backwards retreat unabated, the double-barrelled bunch of keys taking up a strong rear-guard action and away from the well disposed coal scuttle... "and was his Lordship quite certain that he required the fire stoking at such a late hour..." she dared, "perhaps a nice warming glass of port and brandy instead" gesturing towards the salver, long since tarnished by the half hearted attentions of a proprietary metal polish... "and would he care for..." then thought better of offering to plump the chair cushions herself, having discovered Mort, the household mouser in the final stages of claiming them as his own, deftly rearranging the Victorian Plush with far more than any noble airs or graces.

     "Poor Mrs Alabaster, you will recall Sir, I'm sure..." a pained expression crossed the Housekeepers face as she collided with a corner of the Georgian writing bureau and bringing her to an abrupt halt... "her late Ladyships lady" she continued, indiscreetly rubbing her derriere, "whose services your Lordship dispensed with at the onset of last Winter, shortly after the funeral, God rest her late Ladyship... when you made her redundant... and how she's been unable to find a new situation ever since on account of her lumbago flaring up again, seeing as how it's been the coldest January in living memory", which in all likelihood meant since records began... "and SHE didn't have any coal either... or a roof over her head for all anyone cared... begging yer' pardon, yer' Lordship", letting her tongue slip as she attempted yet one more curtsey... "and it's wicked-cruel outside this time of year Sir, you wouldn't turn a dog out in it..." and how ordering the coal used to be Mrs Alabaster's responsibility...

     "Oh no, Sir", as she unsuccessfully stifled a hiccup...she would be only too delighted to rouse the Cook, especially after that dodgy piece of scrag-end they'd all had to suffer during Epiphany, but it was only last week that the Doctor had confined Cookie to bed with the croup... "as I'm sure your Lordship will recall..." as she attempted a double curtsey for effect, the despondent coal-scuttle now all but forgotten, "that below-stairs had been dining on pottage since a week Friday gone... and it tends to get a little moribund after almost a fortnight your Honour... and that Mrs Cotswold's rheumatism was still showing no signs of improvement either by the looks of things... and was having to visit the Chiropodist every fortnight for her bunions scraping... and how she's been advised to keep taking the embrocation as required".

     As a young woman, any disposition her grandmother may have had towards sobriety or moral virtue had quickly been prevailed upon by the former Master's son taking intimacy to the next level with the saucy Parlour Maid's good nature.   Shortly thereafter, having been obliged to marry the first available Gardener that came along, she was often heard to say "a bun in the oven's worth two in the bush" for it was with stories 'of such goings-on'  that made it abundantly clear to the Housekeeper, that it was far more than old age creeping up... and that if she didn't keep her wits wrapped tightly about her, as she threw a sideways glance at the winking philanderer... then who would.

     As for the Gardener, "well... he couldn't possibly manage the cellar steps at this late hour, yer' Lordship, wot' with the weather being the way it is right now Sir, seasonal... and him with his broken caliper... and bronchitis playing him up at every turn, even though his own ailing missus swore by a freshly grown rhubarb poultice first thing each morning", but oddly enough, "how it always seemed to work better if the young barmaid down in the village rubbed it on, especially around opening time..." even his brother, Mr Potts Senior, ever since their Dad passed away... "God rest his eternal soul", as she whirled, twice in as many seconds, a mystical finger in the air... had said how surprised he'd been to discover that it could be used as a ground mulch for seed-cucumbers... it was truly amazing how The Good Lord provided for the righteous... and even as she spoke, was working in mysterious ways, His Wonders to Behold... "Praised-Be-The-Lord".

     And how the entire household, with the possible exception of Mrs Alabaster, her late Ladyships lady, who doggedly refused to be evicted from her 'Grace n' Favour cottage...' the one with pretty red roses growing around the door, that despite a string of eviction notices from the apoplectic Estate manager... had noticed what a fine upstanding Gentleman his Lordship had steadfastly remained since her late Ladyships sudden demise... "God-rest-her-immortal-soul..." and may she allow herself to say, "how refreshing it was to have such a progressively minded and discerning employer such as his Lordship at the helm, one filled with patient understanding and commitment towards the entire household..." much like herself...

     Fearing an uncontrollable attack of the ague, which invariably took the form of a selfless and unstinting dereliction to duty and always flared up at the slightest suggestion of having to roll her sleeves up and do something... which incidentally, was the first mutual attraction by common consent to which her parents, some forty years earlier had discovered they both held in tandem... and "would his Lordship take exception..." feigning a sudden relapse as she gestured towards the nearest chair, were she to take the weight off her feet... she plonked herself solidly upon the Chippendale before his Lordship could decline... "perhaps a recuperative drop of brandy" she volunteered, "just for medicinal purposes", she swept her feet onto the footstool, then crossed them with a flourish that would have caused Cyrano de Bergerac to hang up his sword... "the good stuff, if his Lordship would be so kind, in the lead-crystal decanter... over in the corner by the potted plant", she caught sight of the adjacent cigarette box, also tarnished... "just to keep body and soul together, may it please 'Him upon High'..." and just long enough to brave the coal cellar steps and refill the amorous scuttle... "if only it were a little less chilly", she gave an affected cough... on account of her diphtheria acting up again, she felt sure that his Lordship understood...  Moving over to one of the book lined alcoves, the elderly Gentleman lifted several tomes from the shelves... 'My Life in Anthracite', an illustrated compendium' "to begin with, I think... followed by... hmm!" 'The History of Fossil-Fuels, a comprehensive study in twelve breath taking volumes' "and we'll take it from there" as he threw the first on the barely smouldering embers...

                                                      ­     ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                         1859
Gita Ashok Oct 2011
A widespread condition
related to nutrition
is lactose intolerance
that is in essence
the inability to digest and assimilate
the milk sugar-lactose-the substrate
that is acted upon by lactase-
the specific enzyme
over a period of time.
This may happen suddenly
and generally
at any age most unexpectedly.

Lactose intolerance
is caused by the absence
of the enzyme lactase
that breaks down lactose
to the simple sugars-
glucose and galactose.
The condition may be
secondary,  congenital,
or developmental.

Secondary lactose intolerance
invariably has its occurrence
related to a gastrointestinal infection
and its disappearance
is linked to the causative factor’s correction.
This type of intolerance-
(certainly a nuisance)
is reversible
if we are a bit careful.

Congenital lactose intolerance,
an inherited form of intolerance,
is a rare genetic  abnormality
that one can unearth
soon after an infant’s birth.
This need not cause any fear
as it lasts only half a year.

Developmental lactose intolerance
also known as primary  intolerance
is one wherein the enzyme synthesis
is progressively less
during childhood
and this persists into adulthood.

Gita Ashok
24/10/2011, 2 pm
Circa 1994 Jan 2013
It’s the way colors would taste if you could eat them. White would taste of contentment, yellow of happiness, purple of infatuation, red of passion, and pink would taste of endearment. Pick your poison; they’ll all be the death of you in the end.
It’s the way it smells when it first begins to rain. Its aroma lingers like vanilla, fresh linen, or an open flame that’s sparks kiss your fingertips. It clings to your clothes and in your hair to be smelled by others around you. To some, this scent may be too strong.
It sounds like complete silence amidst a roaring thunder. It’s at a frequency only you can hear and comprehend. It’s a ringing in your ears that leaves them throbbing or the echo of voices when you’re submerged in water --- starting loud and progressively fading away with the sunlight that rests on the water’s horizon.
It’s the way butterfly kisses feel, faintly tickling your cheeks when they’re damp with fresh tears. Or the way your body shudders at the touch of a cold hand and your temperature elevates, leaving a numbness where fingers traced over your skin.
It’s the way a sea of grass looks when you’re crawling on your hands and knees. It’s the sight of two hands clasped with fingers intertwined. It’s what causes your eyes to widen when you see the expression that lingers on her face when she thinks you’re not looking. The look that says all that can’t be spoken with words.
It’s all the power that lies within that four letter, one syllable word. The word that redefines every one of your five senses. ..
Love may be like a lot of things, but it’s not like falling. I never fully understood the expression “falling in love” --- probably because it isn’t accurate, and doesn’t make sense. Falling is what people do on a daily basis --- love is when someone catches you.
EOni Nov 2012
Where am I?
I don’t recognize this dark place,
Where cold arms have embraced me,
Clutching at my heart. My body’s inner-most core.
I have issues breathing,
This simple action I did without thought before has now become a painful challenge.
It feels as though I am drowning, being pulled deeper and deeper, where the water just gets progressively colder.
My chest is tight, my lungs are straining.
Once things were so simple.
Where have I been brought to?
I don’t remember heading for this place,
Nor even have the slightest memory of wanting to travel here.
No, not the smallest fleeting memory.
Tears are a constant threat now.
Always there, ready to burst free from their bleary prison.
My throat, being squeezed from some unknown source,
Gives me hardship when I attempt to speak.
To say out loud what it is that ails me.
Instead, I am unable to,
I refuse,
To allow someone in.
The fear of being ridiculed at the tip of my mind,
While forbidden thoughts and longings are stored in the back.
There are no words, can be no words,
To express this immense confusion.
This lack of direction…
Where…am I?
Sarah Richardson May 2014
The surrounding tunnel gnaws at my eyes
The sliver of light progressively smaller
Progressively dim
I lose my way in the labyrinth of a straight path
Blinded by an unadorned world,
There's no up down sideways or backwards there just is.
Pushed along by gentle metallic hands that scream lullabies at me
Deafening my thoughts
Murdering them with distractions,
Disguising nothingness with false purpose.
I've lost the ability to move my own feet, I don't belong to me
I'm just riding through the tunnel
I am no longer sure that there was ever an exit,
The light at the end has gone out.
They've turned it off.
Nat Nov 2012
In a far away forest there was a bear who felt very blue.
She simply could not snap out of it, and didn’t know what to do.
There was no reason for this sadness, her life was going well,
But at random times in every day, tears would start to swell
This feeling kind of scared her, but even more than that,
It made her feel embarrassed, like some sort of selfish brat
I don’t know why I’m like this, she constantly thought to herself.
I have no reason to feel this way, I have my legs, my sight, my health
There are bears in other places who have lost their homes to fires,
And baby bears in situations that are absolutely dire.
But these thoughts did not allieviate her internal pain,
In fact they only made it worse, topping sadness off with shame.
While she wanted to go talk to someone, to find out what was wrong
She settled for self-medicating, taking hits off of a ****
This helped her out a little bit, at least for a short while
But it was not a real fix, to say so was denial
So this went on for months and months, getting progressively worse,
And the bear learned to carry the weight of it, bending to this curse
She became her toughest critic, her own worst enemy
An ugly, unlovable idiot is what she thought herself to be.
I can’t tell you what happened to her, I simply do not know
Maybe she’s still out there somewhere, just putting on a show.
Annie May 2013
We had recovering drug addicts come in
Talking to us with their sunken
Ashy eyes
And sweaty palms
You could tell they were nervous by the
Way they carried themselves
Cinder blocks and
Broken piano parts
And their pasts
All clinging to them,
For life support
They talked about how easy
It was to let gravity eat you alive
As you are falling into a black pit
You can’t stop the falling
Their wings were bound to
Pseudo lovers who
Gave them bruised arms
And blue fingers.
If you are lucky enough to
Escape the clenched hands of
The rest of your life will
Be a walking tightrope act
Trapeze dancers
One slip and you are falling
Even faster
Harder than before.
And your family, friends,
Everyone you have ever known is
In the audience watching you
Fall into your premature grave
And there is nothing they can do
But tell you to fly
But you cant
Because you just love your
Mistress too much
To ever let her go.
And they warned us about
How hard it might be to say no
To not let the circus come into
Town, but if you do
Only you can pack up the
Lions, clowns,
Colorful balloons.
Someone asked them if they
Believe drugs should be legalized
And he responded with
If I walk into a gas station
And see drugs for sale I will
Not be able to hold myself
But I also do not want a government
Establishment to tell me what I can
And cannot ingest into my body,
So I don’t know.
Newton’s First Law of Motion
States that something will keep moving
Unless some force acts upon it.
And once you start drugs
Or gambling
Or skipping meals
it will progressively
Worsen in time.
Festering in bloodstreams
Until you decide to stop it.
I want to love you progressively
Loving you more and more when it hurts
Sticking right besides you
And not dare raise a fist aggressively
I want to be there for you through the worst
Step by step me and you
Always remind you no matter the circumstance
My baby you still the best

Embrace your perfect imperfections
Show you whats strong is our real love and connection

I want to love you progressively
wash your pain away with my kisses
Steadily,looking forward to all the good times
meaning sticking by your side through the worst times

Progressing with a liberal cause, with no thought or even a pause
For my love is what i have in you
Progressively loving you
Progressing with a liberal cause, with no thought or even a pause
For you babeh
Anderson M Oct 2013
Soft underbellies of corruption, impropriety and moral decay
Blatantly masquerade as societal bulwarks to aggression and disintegration
Minions fine-tuned to dance to the tune
Of godfather functionaries champion  
Progressively retrogressive causes that follow
The course of destruction.
Is there light at the end of the tunnel?
Reason and logic persuade otherwise
It’s thus “safe” to conclude that
A compassion filled individual
Quintessentially embodies a positively radicalized individual
Wielding immense unbridled power
To impact society in ways unfathomable
Whilst in complete understanding of the fact that
“Absolute power corrupts absolutely”
Are you that compassion filled individual??
Society's dynamic...a conglomerate of mismatches literally baying for each other's blood
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
Thursday, October 25, 2018
1:33 PM History records my state of mind:

Pure thought projects zoom in and out of focus,
Political integrity, personal honesty, good medicine, bad medicine

Whose hell imagined itself transfigured int-energ-
emagically into
the set of NULL?

Imagine that. Pure thought experiment, unjudgeable, fret not.

Puritans lack the pineal insight to see the light in the forest.
Horus eye in the middle of the brain?
I just saw that, too. Pineal reality.

The light in the forest?

The man in black lingered there, according Hawthorne,

or did old Nate mock the man in black and laugh at the idea of

good medicine, bad medicine, goody two-shoes
holds it in her holy socks. She's a witch.

That was a McLuhanwaderyadoin joke. You don't have to laugh.
We no longer know of his work.
Have to is a stupid saying.
say waht it means, spellt out have, et to.
I have
blood, spit, eyes, ears et cetera

but to, have to, what? can to having have meaning with no do:
to what end have I any thingable thought to what?
Stupid language, nothing is ever clear.

Ought we explore our relationship, you and me, I mean,
when I say we. We are intimate, dear reader.
As close as two minds may be, with permission, assumed.
My insane, in your brain, is not my insane in mine.
A little like leaven, if you ever bake.

No con querity con cerns us here, we filtered those before.
CERN's discerning of the matter making
thing, bosonic tonic device,
that led us to line our tinfoil hat with lead,
just in case Higgs ups happen and stutters start.

Hold your breath. We both have one to hold, but not for long.
And so it goes, I do enjoy a vintage Vonnegut thought
floating by on a breeze.

Imagine me a Virginia Wolfe trust fund child gone wild,
un gentled, sent down t' Tobbacca Road
in a hot rod Lincoln,
t' find a bride.

Some said something in the water, flouride, petrafied
pineal glands and blinded a generation,
to the sins of their father's
legions of liars,

hired to progressively teach us to work in factories
which vanished
right before

the beans vanished from our ears and we heard the rush
of the rolling tide lifting boats big and small.

Remember being accused, in your mind, of only wanting to be on the side that's winning?

That hot rod Lincoln, Thunderword road, remember the environ?
Moonshine, melts that petrafied flouride away,

a whole generation o' peasants
turned on.
Holler Hi dee **, burns the tummy, doncha know but

epigenetic application of pure moonshine in the ac-company-ment,
companion, accuse amigo,
same bread, same leaven,
com panion we be

Jesuits, that was the idea,
formed in Xavier's fever wracked brain
as his medievally medicated flesh fought for every
Heroic. Hagiographic. Stale, smoke filled acacia incense maybe

We have gone to havings
whence such bread is said to become the an-ointed, magi know, knew, expected, fore told for if ever forever begins,
as far as mortal peasants may be concerned with such high mindedness.

The leader is a liar and the people feel free to follow him.
When the twisted rule the ruled twist, too.

Solomonic wisdom, that is. Oil on the water. Pass the torch.

This was 2018, Donald Trump was President.
how come this to be
to have to be
Who still,
can imagine war?

No reflection,
lack of humility,
proud noble rare-ified re-ified de-ified

Charming fellow, though, can't you admit
his charm is a luring, tempting thing, temporary testing,
is he
an enemy,
donchaluvem? Life is the test. It is that simple. Right, Mr. Perot?

No distraction action condemns a man here, we have none.
Condemnation, none of that here. My reality, you know.

Tempests in teapots, fersher. Command zed, eh.
Fold it up, put it away. New idea. New everything.

People and political servants. No more leaders, no more war.
imagine that.
People and servants serving to govern the emerging
as time rolls out the barrel with the single rotten apple,

and we, the people, feed that rotten apple to the pigs,

who were addicted to pearls,
during the confusion
as mankind lost its mind

we never doubted the need for men to be born.
again, we knew not what we believed born again may be.

Taste, good medicine is bitter more oft than not,

Sugar blues on a global level, those never justify the cost,
of making the medicine go down.

Sweet desire deprived, that is poison.
Dainty appetizers, served in the rich man circus,
stolen by servants racked with guilt,

shame and blame arise,

emergency action, a reason, why are those dainty meats so alluring,

ask the fisherman. Watch for his hook.
Someday, I don't want anyone to gues where I stood concerning Donald, I never met the man and never liked the mask.
Victoria Kiely Jan 2014
It was midday in London on an afternoon of early spring. The streets were flooded with equal parts rainwater and people as everybody rushed through their busy lives. People easily forgot to look up, and often failed to notice the change in scenery as the bus sped along.
He occupied two seats on a lonely street car travelling down Aberdeen. One seat held him tightly to the window that was to his left, the other was taken by his various possessions. With him, he carried his black, customary briefcase, his dripping umbrella that tied just below the halfway point, and the large tan trunk he had collected from the antique shop. They sat stacked on top of one another with the trunk serving as a base for the structure. Each time the street car emitted the gentle thud that accompanied the many bumps from the *** holes, he felt tense as he readied himself to catch the old umbrella.
His hair hung down to the side, dripping slowly from the rain into his eyes, and progressively further down his face. Hands shaking, lips blue, he looked down at his shoes. The holes were visible but unnoticeable. Slicks of water formed as he pressed his feet further down off of the seat. He had known for months now that these shoes were about finished, but he couldn’t seem to find the money to replace them. He had been late to pay the rent to his small apartment for the past three months.
“I just need another month,” he would begin. “Just another month, I swear. I have interviews with a few guys this week, they seem promising.” But there were truly very few interviews at all; in fact, he had found himself without work or word for months now.  Still he insisted that he would be able to find something, anything, to satisfy the rent for the coming month.
He had been a stock broker all his life. He had worked for companies varying in legality and prestige, all of which he had done well in. Throughout his twenties and thirties, he had maintained these jobs with fewer problems than he had had in any other area of his life. Until the stock market crash, he had been successful in all aspects. After the crash, however, nobody trusted stocks or stock brokers. He had found himself without business within days.
Although he had grown to loath the occupation over time because of all of the lying, the indecency and the equivocation, he loathed his financial state more with each passing day. He was used to fine linen, tall ceilings and silver spoons. None of that had followed him to his new lifestyle. He could hardly afford the food that required the spoon now, anyway.
He looked out the window to the greying day littered with clouds. People milled about, blocking the rain with their arms. The street car came to a halt beside an old cinema.
A woman and her child emerged from the black awning that draped over the entrance of the theater. She held a newspaper over her daughters’ head, taking care to cover her so as not to get her wet. The mother laughed visibly and crossed in front of the street car holding her daughters hand. They boarded.
“How much for one ride each?” She asked the driver with a kind, simple voice that reminded the man of his mother.
“It’s three dollars for your ride, and I’ll let her on for free since it’s raining” The driver replied.
She looked down and smiled. “Thank you very much.”
She trailed her daughter along and sat a few rows ahead of him. She sat her daughter down first next to the window, and then continued to slid in next to her, taking the aisle seat. She pointed out the window and whispered something inaudible to her daughter – she giggled lightly. She continued, her smile growing, her daughters face mirroring her own. Finally, they each erupted in laughter. He had not heard one word they had said.
It was true that they seemed, in every sense, underprivileged, but it was just as clear that they were not poor. Neither felt sorry for themselves, neither seemed to care that they too had holes in their shoes, or that they hadn’t had the money for an umbrella. They laughed and smiled as though they were the ones who had had the fine linen, tall ceilings, or silver spoons.
At first glance, he had felt sorry for them – their ripped and wet clothing, their makeshift umbrella. It seemed now though, that the longer he looked at them, the more he seemed to realize the sad truth. It was he who had been poor his whole life, not the lowly people he once watched walking down the street through his office window, the type who sat in front of him on this very train.
He had never been married, as he was too busy with his work and ambitions. He had never known the joy of a child. He had missed so many opportunities to find the happiness that he saw in the woman before him. He also knew that he had never wondered about any of those people’s stories. He had never cared to.
His stop came and went, and still he watched the woman and her child. The woman sang nursery rhymes to the girl, squealing with joy and amazement, as the street car carried on. Finally, the woman pushed the button to signal the driver to stop. She stood and collected the few things she had brought with her, including a coat and the newspaper she had used previously. She took her daughters hand and exited the doors that hesitated, then shut tightly behind her.
Again the pavement began to pass beside him as he looked out the window. His eyes stirred, then focused on something resembling paper that had fallen to the ground recently; the edges were hardly damp on the soaked floor.
He slid into the seat kin to him, bent over, and picked up the slip of paper. He unfolded it and found it to be a picture of the woman and her child from moments before.
In the picture, the woman is sitting in a field with tall blades of grass that look as though they had not been cut for years. The light is dim, the sun is rising. Her teeth are showing in a brilliant smile, her face young and carefree. Her daughter, who must not have been more than two in this picture, sits in her lap, laughing at something that can’t be seen in the photograph. The mother is pointing to it, and the daughters eyes follow. In many ways, it looked like the scene he had just witnessed.
On the back of the photo in long, curled writing, he read her handwriting: “It is always darkest before dawn”.  With those six words, he knew that he had wasted much of his life in dedication to tangible riches, when the real treasures were those that you could not necessarily count or produce. By way of strangers in a lonely street car, one poor man had discovered value in things that do not hold worth.
There once was a boy, slightly altered, possessed by greed, and terrified of failure. His mother and father seemed to only care about one thing. After he was born, his parents became possessed by wealth. His eyes were the colors of the sky when darkness would fall, the color only the devil would welcome. The vermillion circle stretched to the outskirts of the violet black horizon. The violet black seemed to hesitantly corrupt the vermillion as they intertwine through the abyss of the newborn darkness within his soul. Where his mother and father saw a demon. And from then on they were taken by his nonexistence, and slowly their love began to fade. This boy had a name, a name his parents soon forgotten, Dracoleon.
Dracoleon's mind always averted to wealth. The only time his parents communicated was when taxes were to come. They spoke solely about coins, gold, and work. Draco was soon consumed by it. He was then always busy, always working, counting money, he had nothing get in his way, He never seemed to see the scared, suspicious, and disgusted faces that walked by him, the dream of wealth consumed his entire universe.
It was one day, the king was said to be roaming about town. His parents would talk about the king often, father would say that he wished to be as rich as the king, or be the king himself.  But he would shake his head and continue. The boy wandered about the town indifferently as he searched for his father’s idol. It was once he turned a corner, he saw him. He ran toward the crowd and progressively landed in front. The king road in a chariot, the glistening white horses carried ropes dragging the golden chariot behind, As the silver knights followed. Across the street he saw his parents seek in awe of the glorious presence the king beheld. Then saw them grasp hands as if they were grasping a chance of hope as the king road by. In Dracoleon's eyes the king seemed narcissistic, he looked to be bathing in the jealously, the awe, and crushed hopes around him.
Then, suddenly, the king stopped in front of him. Then strode out of the chariot and stood, twenty feet away, then pointed directly at him; “Come my child!” he said. Impulsively,  he walked then stopped in confusion. “Come; kneel before me!” he yelled. Quickly he snapped and continued towards the king. He knelt three feet away. The king knelt down and looked into his violet eyes and whispered in his ear: “You’re different from the rest.” Suddenly he gasped, quickly stood and started humming a melody as if he was hypnotized; Dracoleon saw a slight gleam in his eye. A few moments later, he stopped and stood awkward and confused, then said “you’re going to be excellent.” At that he spun around, entered the chariot and continued on his way.
The boy stood dazed by the king’s presence. The villagers were glaring at him for minutes till he finally came out of  his hypnopompic trance. It was then he saw a man, just about thirty, wearing a cloak, carrying an odd looking box. No one seemed to notice him. As the people continued on their lives, he decided to wander to the mysterious man that caught his interest. It didn’t take long for the old man to notice the boy stalking him. He confronted the boy. “Hello” He said. “I must ask, why are you following me?” The boy froze in his steps, “w-what’s in the box?” he whispered. The man chuckled, “would you like to find out?” The boy managed to nod…. The man took the boy, not by force, not by manipulation, but by the man simply walking away, as the boy follows.

The wizard and the boy traveled in his single horse wagon in Europe for many years. The wizard showed him a whole new world, and left Draco's behind. The wizard filled his mind with adventure, and fed him excitement the boy had a purpose, but the wizard had rules, ones that cannot be broken. The wizard taught him his ways. And slowly, the boy became a wizard.

Six years later, the wizard was fading, he told him a story, a story about the great wizards long ago, The world was approaching something non existent, the wizards couldn’t escape, he was the only one who wasn’t taken by the darkness, and he watched as the rest of the great wizards, imploded and were trapped by the void. Silence, infinity, timelessness, nothing, it was hell. The great wizard gave him a puppet, it looked like the wizard. “Its the story of our past, a past not to be forgotten” He had whispered and he slowly faded away, joining the great wizards in the void.

It was then Dracoleon became the last wizard in the world. All of the wizards power, all the rules, and all the memories, his, And his alone. Dracoleon only had one thing to do, the only thing that will carry the wizards memories, becoming a puppet master.

The wizards shows became well known, He would come into town and there would be a few people going in and out of the wagon, watching the puppet shows. It was then a strange man came into the wagon, tall, pale, a dark presence around him. He asked to stay after the show.  He walked Beside and ran his thin pale fingers along the small stage the puppets played on. “You're different from the rest.” He said in a death toned voice. Draco froze, and suddenly his past flashed before his eyes, his parents, the money, the king. The king said he was different too. “ You're going to be excellent.” He whispered. “what if I told you, I could make you excellent, forever? Nothing absolutely nothing would get in the way.” Draco was mesmerized by the corruption of his past seeking out through his mind, and setting around him. The money, the greed, he forgot how great it was, to be in power, now that he's a wizard, the only wizard, he can do anything, change the rules, take over the world. Then suddenly, he was frightened, He wouldn’t have time, Time to do all theses things, Suddenly the man's words caught up in his mind, “What if I told you, I could make you excellent forever?” Draco then looked up at the odd man, he was smiling. “what do you say?” Draco manged a nod.

Draco was near death. The man turned out to be a vampire, he altered him. But it was all a blur, “ A three day slumber, and a new universe comes at your feet with a path set to follow” The vampire had said. Then he disappeared, and the pain began.  Draco felt his soul leap out of his chest, the intense burning sensation followed throughout his body, And then, nothing. He felt his soul go on a  journey to comeback with a plan, A plan that would make the universe his, forever. Draco opened his eyes....

The puppet maker became very popular, But to Vincent, he was a question, a mystery, Draco The wizard caught his interest when he saw the villagers walk out, excited, happy, and longing for more.  But that’s not what intrigued him, The villagers stepped out of the wagon, with a look of confusion, but only for a slight second, then there eyes, they fogged over and then reverted to normalcy. As they walked, most hummed a melody, A repeating melody that seemed to be engraved in their throats.
Vincent was a magician. One of the greatest, He owned a magic shop in the middle of the town he was curious on what the puppet maker was to do when he brought villagers into the wagon. When the last of the villagers walked out, Vincent quickly got in line.

Dracoleon brought five villagers into the wagon each time, In Vincent's group there was a little girl, her father, a woman, and an old man.  into the wagon they went and  they sat down and he began the show.  Vincent and the others watched the puppet maker bring his puppets into play. They were familiar puppets, ones you would see of people walking in the streets. His voice matched that of the puppet, the personality’s seemed to fit perfectly. It was nothing like they'd ever seen before. Then suddenly the candles went out, and it was dark in the wagon. “ Time to play” Draco whispered. Suddenly, They felt something behind them, Then, the candles flickered on, the puppets were restraining them,  Smiles on their wooden faces. Slowly, Dracoleon pulled out a watch, a small watch, he whispered something into it, and it glowed blue. He walked over to where the little girl was restrained, he took her wrist and with a small blade, he slit it, she tried to scream, you could see the horror in her blue eyes, his lips pressed against her wrist and he began to drink, you could see her rosy cheeks go pale, He left her gasping for life. “the youngest always taste the best.” He laughed. “ The taste of blood so pure.” He whispered. “But shes not a ******.” He looked at the father. “you see, its sick men like you that deserve to die.” The father looked at him in terror. Dracoleon whispered in his ear but he was still to be heard. “but I've something better than that.” A tear ran down the father's face. “Humans are so faulty. So filled with sin, sickness, you should be thanking me. But you may never understand” He looked at Vincent. “And you, you think you can defeat me.” He chuckled. The puppets grip grew tighter. Blood started dripping down each one of their faces, the puppets were slowly attaching themselves to the humans their strings tightening around their neck and the mouths grasping their skulls. The puppet maker continued laughing “ Let the games begin!”  He opened the watch, the humans fell limp and the puppets disappeared into their bodies. The puppet maker began to hum the melody.
Gabriel burnS May 2017
sugar is bad for you
especially sugary thoughts
you cannot afford

like June is majestic
undulating ozone
from cumulus bones
in its flesh of light blue
masquerading airborne
around the skin
that breathes with beats
progressively arrhythmic
high from the feeling

but beware
for June hides its predators
beneath those waves
elating charm, its Siren song;
Because deadlines,
blood thirsty words
like “expiration”,“elapsing”,
and “due in”,
lurk with sharpened teeth
stalking the smallest of joy-fish

And all of this contrast
is masked with such skill
it remains underrated,
only frustrating to Juners,
for they know its extremes
and how smiles
cover anxiety

Drew Vincent Apr 2015
"Oh honey that's terrible. I am so sorry you had to go through that. I promise I will only take it when I have no other option,"
you said to me when I told you about my mother's addiction to Xanax.
"I love the way you kiss me. Every single kiss is just as passionate as the next,"
you said to me after kissing you for the hundredth time.
"I love you more than I have ever loved anyone. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want our days to be just like this,"
you said to me as we laid on your bed in our underwear.

"You're going to have to try for me honey, I'm not some 18 year old boy,"
you said to me while I straddled you and kissed your neck.
"Here honey, maybe this will help,"
you said to me as you sent me an article about how to pleasure a man.
"If you're going to start working out, you can't do anything with your upper arms...If you do that then you'll lose weight in your ******* and make them even more lopsided,"
you said to me when I wanted to get in better shape.

"It would have been better if you called me first instead of your friend,"
you said to me when I called you to tell you my grandfather died.
"Why are you leaving? We had plans! Are you breaking up with me?,"
you said to me when I left to be with my family after my grandfather's death.
"Drew, I am going to **** myself. I can't take this anymore. I'm just going to go driving and not come home,"
you said to me after my grandfather's funeral.

"I can't do this anymore. We need to move on and go our separate ways."

"Can we still be friends?,"
you said to me after trying to put up a fight


"Who are you with?,"
you said to me after I didn't answer your call.
"You're on a date aren't you?,"
you said to me once you figured it out.
"We need to talk. Get out of the car and let's walk."
you said to me after waiting in front of my house to get home.

"You were on a date? Are you kidding me? After telling me you want to be alone? What the actual **** Drew?"
you said to me on our walk.
"I hate you,"
you said to me after yelling at me for an hour and a half.
"You're a monster. You are acting like a *****. You know what? No. You're not acting like a *****. You ARE a *****. You're a ******* *****,"
you said to me after telling me that you will never call me a *****.

I want to **** myself. Leave me, please.

"No, I'm not leaving,"*
you said to me as I cried for an hour.
"Its okay, Drew. You need to breathe. You're going to pass out soon you need to relax,"
you said to me as a panic attack settled in.
"Let's go get you some water and Advil,"
you said after the crying and panicking ceased.

"You're a *****."
you said to me after my emotional breakdown.
"Happy New Year's,"
you said as you kissed me when it hit midnight.
"See you tomorrow,"
you said as you left me even more of an emotional disaster than before.

We can try and be friends again but that's it. Nothing more.

"Drew, I am so glad we could be friends again."
you said to me as we tried this one last time.
"I've missed you."
you said as you straddle me in the backseat of your mom's car.
"I love you,"
you said to me as you planted your lips onto mine.

I think we're toxic for each other. I think we should go our separate ways.

"Toxic? TOXIC? Take me back to Michael's. NOW."
you said to me as your face changed to pure anger.
"You're a ******* monster. A *****,"
you said to me as you slammed the car door shut.
"You're a worthless *******. You're a waste of space,"
you said to me as I drove down that dark, windy road.

"No wonder everyone around you has to pop Xanax. No one ever knows what they'll get from you that day. One day its 'I love you' and the next it's, 'you're toxic,'"
you said to me as your voice progressively got louder and louder.
"I'm going to finally **** myself now. Thank you so much, Drew. For finally giving me the chance to do it. And when I do, you better believe I'll be coming back to make your life a living hell."
you said to me as tears distorted my vision.
"I promise I'm going to **** myself. And I keep my promises,"
you said to me as you squeezed my thigh.

You scare me.

"Oh Drew, I am so sorry."
you said to me, your voice quiet and broken.
"I'll take an anger management class. I am so sorry,"
you said to me as tears flooded your eyes.
"I love you see you tomorrow,"
you said to me as you kissed me goodnight.
vircapio gale Apr 2013
progressively irrelevant, i write.
each strike comes, reverberating chords
in chambers all my history reveals--
voices forge a living thought, steam quietly;
truth is spent confronting hidden dangers
that, when alight between the flicker awe
our fire-starting letters linger still
to question ashen marvels of, phoenixlike
enveloping that subtle being-as
annulled to meaninglessness tolled.
a bare encounter with the void leaves off,
no symbols rally convalescent winds
for shaping form amenable to time--
rather, my lostness leads to this, and dies.
anastasiad Dec 2016
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There's not just about any readily available electronic digital licence products and solutions too big, the asking price of foreign electronic digital permission.

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Very first, the software encryption approach

As mentioned previously, it encrypted sheild technologies are divided into security hardware-based as well as software-based security.

Your hardware-based shield of encryption

Hardware-based encryption shield of encryption locks, many important info, like shield of encryption secrets to vulnerable information, consent paperwork, tailor made sets of rules, etcetera. can be stored in this dongle.

The layer fastener screen variety is split in to 2 kinds of synchronised slot and also Flash interface. This simultaneous port could be the very early technique type, because the propagation troublesome plus clash while using the printer's, and after this has less apply. A lot of builders employ tend to be USB slot dongle.

File encryption hair from the two kinds of CPU form, the microcontroller to get Pc and another with a clever minute card processor for the reason that Pc a microcontroller computer hardware by itself conveniently trouble area or content, therefore an increasing number of high-end file encryption a lock employing a intelligent credit card chips Central processing unit, to stop hardware break. Although a growing number of clever card dongle crack, initially, because processor might be more and even more leading-edge analytic techniques and devices; sensible card program to be written to the chips manufacturing unit to make during this time method may possibly trickle; encrypted sheild tresses of the identical manufacturer your Processor process is the same, merely various designers facts as well as major, in case most of these records are passed out there, you can easily clone.

Dongle features a specific level of security power, but you can also find a number of drawbacks:

One) apply at the regular one-time never ending license, can't assist in the achievements of your trial model along with on-demand invest in

3) the presence of electronics generation, logistics, assembly as well as upkeep charges

Three) is not achieved the issue with Internet-based electronic digital improvements, tracking along with control

Several) Once broke, may be burned huge, it is sometimes complicated to remedy

A pair of software-based encryption

Software-based encrypted sheild, digital acceptance, and certain in addition separated into home equity loans number plate along with licenses document:

In order to register code can be referred to as successive number or consent computer code, acquired using a alteration in the the program end user computer systems along with program facts, possible software and hardware facts, including: Cpu serial number, BIOS sequential amount, greeting card amount, harddisk sequential number, computer system brand, etc. . Completely transform formula made use of your customized protocol or maybe conventional shield of encryption algorithm formula. Customer as well as primary utilisation of the computer software installment practice, you might want to type in the enrollment value to confirm. Following verification, it can be employed typically. The particular strategy has got the good thing about this subscription computer code defense is easy to use, the downside is always that security is not really higher, not able to attain complicated endorsement demands.

Permission submit as well as the signing up code in order to situation the same computers plus software information, simply a registration signal period confines utilization of both software and hardware information, a permission record can use numerous hardware and software info. Also, the actual permission report can contain more info, to help you obtain the difficult agreement demands, and may perhaps retail outlet several customer facts. The average permission report way is to implement the private key in the asymmetric algorithm to hint your certificate data file, while the general public secret is embedded in the application value. Asymmetric shield of encryption plus understanding course of action, the private computer essential consent hosting server exists, it is hard to compromise from the investigation regarding endorsement paperwork.

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Subsequent, it encrypted sheild field advancement status

A single. File encryption curly hair

The main unusual dongle professional SafeNet, Corporation. in the usa in addition to Germany Wibu.

Security head of hair service deeply Supposrr que Luoke and also Feitian. The 2 main organizations due to the affordable prices, the first person to introduce the actual good minute card shield of encryption curly hair nearby perfectly so that you can enjoy some market place in the nation.

A pair of. Electric permission

Unfamiliar company certified merchandise to supply electronic digital Flexera Software and also SafeNet which will, Flexera Software program is focused entirely on the joy of digital permission, the actual device's ease of use along with features are doing superior, though the valuation on the item is additionally quite high.

This home-based electrical authorization goods enterprise a Beijing Biteansuo (BitAnswer), Shenzhen-use this (Euse) Safengine Organization.

There are only a few companies will acquire their very own electronic digital consent structure, even so the builders to cultivate their own plans commonly occur this inquiries:

One particular) the introduction of non-professionals, there are numerous loopholes while in the security

A pair of) is actually difficult to realize accommodating accreditation control, management and also precise functions simple or maybe simply no

Three) are often unveiled to be able to address the particular fast problem connected with short-term method, create far more than predicted in the foreseeable future as a result of protection, balance and also scalability challenges continued to get

Several) can not meet up with sector variations as a result of the modern demands on program certification model

Software program security marketplace movements

The software security field developments is closely connected with the increase development with the computer software marketplace. With the rise in popularity of cloud-computing plus Software, service with application products will be change in the direction of the multilevel plus system. Used in nearly all software programmers, Software items can not only spend less a great deal of hardware and software buy plus servicing charges, you can also get demand from customers, when decreasing the use of possibility, driving program vendors in order to consistently strengthen items plus improve services to be able to sustain consumers.

To the development of system and program improvement can also be a software package encrypted sheild technologies movements. The view around the present-day growth trend, the encryption locking mechanism technologies have designed really develop fully information mill approaching vividness, slower advancement. The actual everyday living and make use of on the equipment practice creates security head of hair are not able to conserve the speed regarding advancement of the Internet period, are going to be substituted with the particular automated certificate.

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May forecast not able to electronic products certified solutions ought to have these most important properties:

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Only two Bendable Certificate: offer the acceptance of the purchaser software as well as the cloud computing product common software package licenses; authorized touch time, the volume of sensible adventures; sanctioned in order to bind your computer software and hardware information and facts, encryption tresses, or by way of a username plus password validation way of agreement.

Simple and easy friendly buyer: in accordance with the WEB, at any place obtain; Users might food acquire, trigger boost the software, you can buy their unique software package to keep abreast of details; software package designers can certainly understand software initial information and facts plus individual data is often synergies through the people in the firm to finish the design of application license, enactment, supervision as well as maintenance operate.

5. Fog up accreditation unit: This is a cloud computing type of software program licensing. Standard application is genuine customer setup, endorsement can also be a buyer. Although cloud-computing could be the craze, although the move difficult for classic software package would be a wonderful way for the particular a higher level cloud computing modification. This definite awareness associated with tips, a common application approved move on the purchaser for the fog up on the endorsement remote computer, to ensure that small adjustments towards the application, but you can certainly instantly experience the great things about cloud computing: higher safety energy require to obtain clouds hard drive . Password Manager
Mahesh Hegde Dec 2013
In a room full of emptiness I was sitting on my bed with my back resting against the wall. All my routine work was completed before time as usual and there I was sitting doing nothing, staring straight ahead on the wall which was colored blue. I had asked them to do so because I loved this color since it always exuded the stress in me, drained off the disturbing thoughts and opened gates for blissful ones. But they never came.

What came to conquer me was lostness. This lostness maybe is productive if one is lost in a good thought, or, in a world of the past or the future, or, in his own created world, creative or perhaps destructive or perhaps peaceful. But I was always lost in a blank world. A world, where nothing existed. A world where no one walked on the streets. A world where no music was played and due to that I couldn't imagine myself dance because of which I couldn't make new dance steps. A world where I couldn't see faces smiling, where colors existed in their pure mixed form, that is White.

But if I give a second thought, I am thinking all this, about what it feels to be blank.! So it shows I just used to think ******* when this beautiful world of blankness came to me where I can create whatever I want and whatever I like, where miracles can happen. Or maybe a world will take birth to be cradled in my thoughts showing me my desires, aims or maybe those facts that are necessary for me. All I needed was Concentration. But I didn't know how to do so. My brain was now an expert, a trained and professional one in being frivolous. And then I felt a pen fidgeting with my hand. Then my hand, with the help of the reflex sent by the brain who, this time, obeyed the conscience inside it, started translating the thoughts into words. Words, they always betrayed me before when I took their shelter. But that was my fault. I only took shelter widout any hint of giving them respect. But now as the two best friends, my hand and pen, were trending together to make history, these words had the tone of pride while residing themselves on paper, and their look was inspiring when read successively. A guilt always resides in me for the precious time I wasted being lost, but the content of overcoming that lag progressively always consoles the insides. Concentration is all you need for anything you want to do or have in your life. Beginner I am, but, I dont want to see the end. I would just like to enhance it as much as possible.
Miko May 2013
eat the anesthetic
you've swallowed the sickness
and digest
the condition is terminal
if you keep on
this prosthetic infection
gone to affection
substantial reality
you're taking wired
and tainted
hollow promises
that fade out
and two time your eyes
that engorge in getting progressively
planting a holocaust within your
that hurts
that stains
that agonizes
the many around you
those few close to you
ripping them up
destroying that one that would do anything
for you
their lives
and yes you too
it doesn't forget
it can't
it takes it all into account
even when you don't
when you can't
it gleefully watches the struggle
the diseased suffering
and you keep on trekking that
self destructive trail
in the midst of a mist
so unsure
and insecure
keeping you grounded
in a life that's actually not
and it's turning those
in sequence
to actually nots
but you don't
or can't
who can tell?
instead of ruining
this real world
live what's actually there
face it
with them
and yourself
as just yourself
even with the little
painsake mistakes
there's a
glistening future ahead
refine time
to be here
nothing else
but you
Shari Forman Apr 2013
When I leave this town of sticks and stones,
And make way through the thick, dense fog,
I will no longer feel anxiety pouring over me,
Will no longer be, a bump on a log.
When I rome free through the wild outdoors,
I will no longr contemplate my past,
The moment I achieve pure happiness,
Wanting the moment to forever last.
When I long to see my boyfriend,
I won't lie there foolishly and cry,
Because life is about diversity,
To progressively advance and try.
When I learn the true meaning of, "I love you,"
I will feel omniscient and strong,
Despite my hardships,
Whether right, or whether wrong.
When Im off to college,
New doors will open up for me,
Such extraodinary opportunities out there,
For such a dedicated, yet small me.
When I'm married to the man I love,
My wasted thoughts will leave my head,
I'll only worry about the choices I made,
The actions I took, and the things I said.
When I achieve my dreams,
Self-actualized, I'll surely be,
Hoping to some day become a legend,
With endless things to see.
When I'm eventually deceased and gone from this world,
I will have looked back and said I tried,
Tried to make use of the life God left me with,
Along such a beautiful, bumpy ride.
Michael DeVoe Dec 2009
She's a tortured soul
In a privileged girl's world
It's hard for me to imagine
Not being able to justify my pain
In a world where there's not supposed to be any problems
That seems to be the problem
I'd be the first to throw a fit
If she ******* about the money she had
But we all forget
All the money in the world
Can't hug empty arms
Or catch a falling heart
She breaks like the rest of us
But fights through the pain
'Cause there's not supposed to be any problems
For a girl with her last name
Like Roger Clemens and his ****** sock
She marches on with a bleeding heart
She puts on fronts
Like little black dresses
It's as far as she can get
From where all the stress is
When she's not being herself
She's being what she is
Rich, white, and beautiful
Nothing wrong with that
Till you go home and turn off your lights
Your shadow can't tell you what color you are
Your 700 thread-count sheets forgot how to add
And your mirror's not working right tonight
All you're left with is the dark
And the pain in your heart
And we all know that's a deadly combination
Whether you live in a box
Or a mansion
Daemons still torture your thoughts
But just like Van Gogh and his missing ear
She marches on with haunted dreams
She tried to shop her way out of this
One progressively lower top at a time
But it doesn't matter how **** you are
Or how many guys are looking at you
If he's not
There's no fooling yourself here
It was all for him to begin with
And so she finds another problem
Her daddy's credit card can't buy her out of
And the burden of her last name
Continues to weigh down her soul
Always working on herself
Learning languages, instruments, diets
Like she's out of Jane Austin's
Demented 1800's stock market
Just trying to raise her profit shares
Like a Kennedy and their legacy
She marches on underachieving royalty
Her therapist wishes he could prescribe her a bottle of wine
Knows sober she'll never give him the whole truth
But a word of warning
Once she starts she won't stop till she comes to
And it doesn't come out in a narrative either
So you have to sift through all the
I'm-fat's, the nobody-likes-me's, and the do-you-think-I'm-pretty's
But if you can do that
You'll get to the good stuff
To the he-hurt-me's, the I'm-lonely's, and the I'm-not-over-him's
The my-parent's-don't-approve's, the I-feel-abandon's, and the I'm-not-over-him's again
And if all that sounds familiar
It's because they're universal
Heart breaks don't check credit scores
Daemons don't need bank statements
You're never too rich to cry
Like Cinderella and her glass slipper
She marches on with a limp
A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
Natalja Handy Mar 2013
I was surrounded by darkness. The kind that’s so pure, you can’t even see your fingers in front of your face, and you’re too disoriented to even know if you’re even holding your hand anywhere near your face. My heart was racing; I could feel the fast thumping of its beating against my chest. My skin was grimy with sweat and dirt and I could feel my hair glued to the back of my head and face. Where the hell had I been? Where the hell was I?
I took a step forward. Or at least I thought it was forward. For all I know it could have been backwards or sideways, or even upside down. I tried to gain my bearings but it was no use, I had lost almost all of my senses and found myself relying solely on touch. Suddenly I kicked something; a rock? I kicked the same area harder and was rewarded with the clinking of a cement stone against a wall. A whole lot of good that did me. So I’m trapped in this arbitrary darkness. Oh, but at least I’ll die with a rock for company! I thought in cheery sarcasm.
Suddenly, I lurched forward, the ground beneath my feet rumbling and seeming to shake its way free from me. The sound of the engine hit my ears just a millisecond after the blinding light. The cold, sickening feeling of fear clawed its way through my body, sending my skin crawling and my blood rushing. Now, I longed for the darkness, for the light to disappear and take along with it this metal monster.
Before I could think I turned and ran, almost falling three times and pushing myself back up with a light touch of my hand. Fatigue nagged at me in the back of my head but I pushed it back and ran as fast as I could, my feet seeming to trip over every possible bump.
The light was getting closer, illuminating the pathway in front of me. A never ending road of wooden slates lay out at my feet. Two metal tracks lined the wood with metal brackets the size of my face keeping it bolted to the ground at intervals. Its cold metal seemed to vibrate as the monster ran across it. The rail ran too close to the wall of the tunnel for me to take refuge behind it so I kept running, knowing that it was only prolonging the inevitable.
I heard the whistle of the train behind me, the sound booming impossibly loud in my head. Tears ran down my face, making it even harder to see in the gloom, and mingled with the streams of blood pouring from my ears. Abruptly, my pant leg caught on something and I fell to the ground, slamming hard against the wooden planks and the broken pieces of concrete between them. I tugged on my leg three times, each time getting progressively more pathetic than the last. What was the point? I’m stuck and even if I did manage to get up, I could never out run a train! I thought ultimately.
The train appeared at the end of my vision in the tunnel, quickly gaining pace towards me. Everything about it overpowered my senses; The intense light blinded my eyes, the powerful reverberating took away the final scraps of any sense of direction I had left, and the whistle grew so loud, it sent a wave of pain crashing over my body, only to leave it behind almost utterly numb. I covered my ears harshly, my fingers slipping and fumbling over the blood, to drown out the cranking of the wheels, the snarl of the exhaust pipe. The train continued towards me until its metal build completely covered the whole of my sight.
Ten seconds. Nine seconds. Eight seconds. I counted down to my death as time seemed to slow. Five seconds. I never quite imagined I would go like this. Three seconds.  I closed my eyes, not strong enough to watch the impact of the train to my body. One second.
Everything turned warm, the sensation a stark difference from the cold, wet despair of only a few seconds before. My arms had crept up to cover my head and the skin of them was touched with warmth. Then the warmth augmented to a blazing heat. I could feel the fire licking at my flesh, shoving away the numbness and replacing it with absolute pain.
I turned around and tried one last attempt to run. I remembered my pant leg at the last second and winced at the unavoidable enlargement of my already unbearable agony. The smell of singed hair burned my nostrils. I screamed as I felt the flames burn into my trapped leg, creeping mercilessly up to my back. I pushed my face into the dirt to spare it the fire and swallowed smoke and pebbles in atonement. A contradicting sensation of tingling and pain racked my body as I felt the skin shrivel from my bones. Flames engulfed me, rushing past my arms as they left their searing marks on them.
Pieces of metal shrapnel flew, clanking against the concrete walls of the tunnel, the monster silence forever. No more cruel whistle, no more speeding dæmon. Pieces of the train, half melted half on fire, fell around me. The vibrations from their collisions with the ground were just vague impressions against the extreme pain. Another shriek ravaged my body as a piece of burning metal landed on my back, smoldering the already burnt skin. The tears didn’t even make it over my eyelid before they were taken away into the atmosphere.
The last morsel of strength was leeched from my body as I relaxed every aching muscle of my battered being across the gravel. The fires had extinguished themselves and I was left in the dark once again. The sick stickiness of blood felt almost pleasurable as it flowed over and cooled my wounds. The thick substance poured down my neck and pooled around my mouth, cutting off air from reaching my shallow gasps. Not having the will to move, I let the liquid overtake me. I closed my eyes and let it bury me in a crimson grave.
Sjr1000 May 2014
In your ship of
white sheets
you set the sail
you leave the shorelines
of consciousness
and begin to drift
from the docks of reality.

First you cast your fantasies
then your visions
in hypnagogic imagery
cast you
as you wait for the winds
to take you
into the currents of unconscious seas.

what do you see?
what do you experience?

Those living memories
other places
other times
other lives
a string of faces
a hotel with many rooms
and no exit signs
as you open doors
on different floors
you find
at different ages
on different stages
familiar terrors
sometimes vivid
make you shutter
falling into
quicksands of blood.

On the roof of this sea
you take flight
and are free
when you hit the heights
you're in your car
with a stranger and me
we give you directions
at each turn progressively lost
panic sets in
late for work and can't find the way
your GPS
keeps pointing to the fact you're here.

Small craft warnings come and go
the lighthouse beckons you back home
to the shoreline and the dock
but first you crawl into the
arms of the sexist soul
you know
as your finger tips touch
this night's
journey is done
your alarm
sings out
The Four Seasons.

Headlong to the shore you ride
your breath is taken away
you throw your rope to the dock
of reality
and have that moment
of longing and wonder
when dreams can be life
life can be dreams.

A big sigh.

You've bought your ticket
tomorrow night's voyage
where it will go
you just don't know
when you get there please let us know.

You get out of that
cozy warm white sheet ship
put on clothes
with the sunrise
the half cut moon
your traveling companions
your awakening.
Radwan Jun 2010
The road marched on,
beside a beach it ran.
Hailing the sea and heeding its groan.
Walking along, I came into view.
Welcoming the sea with a smirk.
The rising sun gently pushed down the red's blue.
Blessing the world with a yellow tint it lit up the view.
Much closer than the sun, another glimmer grew.
Down on the beach and off the road was where my feet then flew.
Getting closer, slowly I advanced through the sand.
Still it glimmered, though its glimmer was but a con.
A bottle lay ahead of me, flirting playfully with the sea, as he caressed her gently with his waves.
She beckoned to my curious hands.
"Come forth and grab me like I was yours."
A cork and a paper were in the bottle.
You've already been used, filled and plugged; you come with a catch. I am to receive a message!
Hastily I scratched the cork off as my fingers took it out.
Now for the message, unrolling, my eyes caught sight of the first lines..

[I write to you from the shores of pessimism:
These shores are dark and dreary.
The waves here are slow and drowsy
The water is turbid and murky
Enthusiasm is a scarcity
and optimism was long ago banished from the land.
Pessimism and depression reign supreme and none can avoid their grip.
These shores have been the end of many a happy soul's journey.
This is where they all came to know the meaning of surrender.
And the satisfaction of despair.
All flames were put out and all their torches were thrown into the waters.
You won't be needing them anymore, they were told.
The reason for that is quite obvious, torches bring light and light mediates hope.
In a place where all hope must be extinguished and remain so.
No, your torches won't be needed here.
Here is where you wallow, in darkness and despair.
Where you sit is where you sink
Slowly the sands will drag you under.
After entering, the caretakers tie one's right ankle to a rock.
The pitiful lump of obsidian shall be your home. The caretakers stand you beside your rock and explain the rules to you.
"The rope is not forged of metal, thread or leather.
Its length is not fixed but it never breaks. If ever you tug on it, back on your rock is where it'll take you. Affixed to your rock it remains. On these shores only a pair of absolutes are recognized.. Darkness and negativity.
All else are subject to fate's scrutiny.
You came to us of your own will. and by coming here you shall realize your destiny.
If one exists for a soul such as yours.
If you wish not to sink in the sand, then stay on your rock or go for a swim.
Here you will remain, on these shores, this place shall be your prison and your safety net.
Departure is not an option until your destiny is realized, but we can't guarantee such an occurrence."
Having finished with the mandatory formalities, they take their leave of you and return to their posts.

On my first day, I noted that curiosity has very little power over the minds of the shore's inhabitants.
That no inhabitant may use another's rock without permission.
That the rope expands limitlessly and that moving lightly helps prevent sinking in the accursed sands.
Allowing me to roam far and wide, yet ensuring that I will always be roaming, belonging only in these shores, on my rock, amongst my shadowy brethren.
These shores have no real boundaries... An inhabitant may choose to stay and ponder or wander off and roam the land.
There are no secrets here.
All knowledge is readily provided by the caretakers, who say that very few ever choose to stay and ever fewer choose to combine the two.
Though time and time again they are dragged back to the rocks after having tugged on their ropes, they always choose to resume their roaming.
Expectations have no place here.
Ambition was long ago thrown off the pier.
Crucified and drowned in Poseidon's terrible dear.
The caretakers offered to read me tales from the shores' diary. They found my patience and lack of affect fitting.
On these shores I remained, listening to their tales for a time, sitting on my obsidian chair for a time, gliding on the sands and at times surrendering to their grip.
To all my fellow inhabitants I spoke in whispers and respect I paid in full to all the rules of the shores.
Then it was time to wander the land.
As I departed, knowing that I would return, I felt like crawling back into the pits of my soul but I also felt the shores' hold over my humanity fading, fading down to the feel of the rope's fabric around my ankle. A constant reminder that only I can see.
A constant reminder of where I belong, of the dreariness of my home and the darkness that always lies in wait for my return.

After leaving the shores, I wandered around the northern lowlands for sometime. Of course in such a state of mind time has no meaning for the wanderer. As time's passing loses its significance when all events are perceived as irrelevant and utterly meaningless. Thus I wandered the land, moving from village to town and from forest to desert. My journey was interrupted time and time again by the rope's influence, for sometimes I would grow weary of my surroundings and choose to retreat to my rock, there the darkness and despair provide safety. Observing then became the only promising investment of my attention, and throughout my roaming I would observe my surroundings, be they humans, critters, rocks or even machines. I resolved that empirical knowledge and logical analysis were the only relevant fields of reasoning.
In retrospect, I believe these were the only perspectives my dulled affect and cold impartial existence allowed at the time, but they were fields nonetheless, new areas that interested me, progress from the aimlessness. For now, I could say "I am here to observe. I do not belong, but that doesn't matter."
The times I spent back at the shores were getting progressively intense, though the emptiness soothed my longing, it seemed the more I saw, the deeper I would sink in the shores' sands before my rope would pull me back.
It seemed the more I observed and learned, the darker my rock became. It seems knowledge has its weight on these shores.
This isn't the time for simplification. The only way out of this rut is analysis, complexities and deduction. The way of the mind, for the sake of truth and meaning. If objectivity ever meant anything to you, you would not simplify, you would indulge in your eccentricities and gorge on analytical absurdity. Feed your hunger for details and complications.
Now the shores are far behind and I've gotten the hang of this accursed rope. I won't be dragged back there anytime soon. I may now keep record of whatever I wish.
This is but a mere transcript of my quest, my voyage, my journey, my pursuit of transcendence and my search for enlightenment, for enlightenment is my holy grail. My residence at the shores of pessimism mustn't last too long, for my light can lie dormant for only so long.
The stronger my thirst grows out here, the darker my lump of obsidian gets and the heavier my feet become on the shores sands. What's really curious though is how calm the sea has been since I started my journeys.

Silence now, enough has been said, recounting the details eventually becomes a bore rather than a bonus.
It is now time for the message to be sealed and sent off on its questionable journey, to a surely unexpecting reader. I wonder if it even holds any real meaning. Let this not be warning, but a minor eye opener. May it open someone's eyes to depression's grip on us.]

And it was there that the message ended. I raised my eyes from that piece of paper and looked to the sea, a storm was brewing on the horizon.


What the F. is this anyway?
Is it a test ?
a game ?
an empty picture frame ?
Curious since birth. Now drowning in knowledge of birth...
What's next ?
Why do I always have to wait and see ?
Whatever happened to flying free ?
Why can't I just flee ?
Forged of the earth and baked in the fire of God's oven.
Infused with God's divine breath.
If I've learned anything from my time on this pitiful lump of water and rock, it is that there is no plan, there is no grand scheme, there is no justice. Humanity's behavior will always be chaotic and unintelligible.
If there is a God, then that God has chosen to be a spectator. For this day and age, God has chosen to let the world sort itself out for a change. There shall be no more miracles, only human deeds and natural disasters.

Back again to where it all started.
What do I do now ? Focus!
Find myself ? Know myself ? Control myself ?
What good would that do ?
Who do you think I am ?
Do you think what I want is really relevant ?
Do you think you would like what I want ?
Born beautiful ? Good hearted ?
Not all are born beautiful and not all are good hearted.
Not everybody has an adequately functioning mind.
What's an adequately functioning mind anyway ?
If I've learned anything from medicine, it is that the study of human life holds the key to all our relevant questions. It is that details always matter. It is that in the real world, the only thing that truly matters is to be right.

We are born beautiful, untainted and simple. Though helpless and in desperate need of our supporters, it is actually these very providers who shape us. They complicate us and teach us their ways, they contaminate our minds with their view of reality, whether knowingly or ignorantly, they lead us astray from the simple truth, just like they were led astray.
And that's not to say that parents are evil or anything of that sort.
If that's what my words meant to you, then you're an idiot who shouldn't be reading this in the first place, so get the **** out!

We tend to think of being lost as a bad thing, reasons have become a necessity for our kind and rational explanations have become our psyche's sole sustenance.
We as a species have proved our relentlessness, our strong-headedness, our ignorance and our stupidity.
Humanity is *******. Collectively, we would be regarded as the galaxy's idiot child. The down's syndrome stricken kid our galaxy had after several failed attempts when she got over 45.
So what the **** is this ?
The lay of the land ?
What's the reason for this verbal bombardment ?
Are these knowledge bombs ? Are they supposed to be words of wisdom ? Can any of the above be put to any use ?
Hah! I believe not, and I apologize if that's what I've led you to believe.
I don't think I'm special, no more than you are. I don't believe I know much.
And I sure as hell am not here to tell you how to live your life or to provide you with a lot of answers that you may or may not have been seeking.

I have but one small request however. I request an apology, I want an apology from our parents. I believe we all do, they brought us into this world against our will. Then lied to us about how terrible the world and the people in it are. Named us good people and gave us hope. Then planted ambition in our scalps and fertilized it with warmth and faith in our promise, while they played the game and knew the real deal.
If there is a grand scheme, then we are not part of it. If there is a plan, then we're simply going along for the ride, our deeds only affect us and we can never change the ride's course.
We were never part of the plan.
If enlightenment is what you seek, then the only hope for the success of such a quest is for us to know and accept our weakness, our irrelevance.
I like working my noodle
My hands love to doodle
and every question I google
As much as the next poodle.
Xan Abyss Jul 2014
**** humans.
**** animals.
**** political parties.
**** anarchism.
**** art.
**** science.
**** religion, faith and spirituality.
**** music.
**** noise.
**** sports.
**** nerdy ****.
**** drugs, **** and alcohol.
**** sobriety.
**** vegetarianism&veganism.;
**** the meat industry and hunters.
**** feminism.
**** patriarchy.
**** the War.
**** pacifism.
**** your body type.
**** junk food.
**** fitness.
**** nationalism.
******* if you hate your homeland.
**** your belief.
**** your non-belief.
**** your pseudo-belief.
**** your job and **** everyone without a job.
All of us are wrong and do not deserve to live.
But then why does it matter?
It doesn't.
Nothing does.
I, we, all of us and everything spinning away in this perpetually expanding universe,
100% is equally worthless in the scheme of existence.
The infinite gaping void of time will swallow it all and destroy it inevitably.
That is entropy.
Everything will eventually cease to be.
Our jobs, families, lives, and our entire history not just as a species, but as an entire solar system, will eventually mean zilch forever.
Nothing matters, it never really has and it is never really going to.
But we're all here, aren't we?
So what are we gonna do?
Because it's the only thing that matters? Nothing?
Why does it have to matter?
If everything is equally worthless and insignifcant in the grand, cosmically entropic scheme of this progressively more and more infinite universe,
Then who the **** cares what we care about?
If nothing matters, why does it matter?
It doesn't.
Nothing does.
So are we going to sit around and waste away because we know nothing will last forever?
Deny ourselves of the (albeit completely worthless and unimportant) experiences that this universe has to offer?
**** ***?
**** love?
**** music?
**** art?
**** cinema?
**** great food, cooked who by people who love to cook great food?
**** writing, and poetry?
**** sports, the thrill of the game, the roar of the crowd when the underdog scores a goal for their country?
**** culture?
**** trying new things and going new places?
**** creating new life? Raising a family?
Seeing your children graduate?
Who cares that it makes you happy, right?
That you exist in a realm where you are able to feel joy?
Or euphoria?
Or ecstasy?
How about,
**** that negative *******?
The universe is the most incredible thing in existence -
Because it IS existence.
There is nothing worse, and nothing greater, there is only what is.
And what is, is beautiful,
and Terrifying,
and Magical,
and completely,
Reality is infinitely fascinating, wonderful, divine, tangible, wicked, dangerous, and intoxicating.
And human beings are all too lost with their heads to the ground
Or the sky,
Peering into cracks and shadows,
Chasing dragons and vices and dreams,
Searching for perhaps the only thing in existence,
Which truly does not exist:
to see it.
Being crushed and destroyed and surrendering their hope, and faith and love in the universe once they do not find it.
Humanity, and perhaps all intelligent life,
(though we may never find out)
Is distracted by the questions,
"Why am I here?"
"What is the meaning of life?"
And thus hindered from ever finding it
in their own
Caitie Mar 2014
every thing about this world is angry.
the way it progressively
hurts and tears its people
and the way we all take it
get used to it
value this hurt.
or the way we get choked up in love.
and caressed by its sharp-clawed intentions.
when we get excited
really excited.
and no one else is there
cheering us on.
or if they are
they care more about
their own victory.
people impress others
to fit in,
or to try and prove something.
but the only thing they prove
is how much of a ****** person
they have become.
this world is full of it.
vile thoughts
and we're trapped.
there is no way out.
not even death can take us away.
so we stay.
and we deal.
and destruct
because that's what the world wants us to do.
I honestly just feel as if there are no good intentions on this planet anymore. everything that comes out of anything involves hurt or deceptiveness and its quite unnerving.
Mariya Timkovsky Jun 2012
Like the percussive beat of a drum
“Dumb as a post,” she says.
“Doesn’t know when to take her shoes off,” she says.
Because what are you doing, tracking dirt in my house
Under my roof
Unlike your friend who knew
When it was time to behave himself?
“You filthy slob.”
And I think, “What about Bob?”
A ******’ ****** who was just so gosh-****
And even if you haven’t seen that movie
You would know
That it’s the ones who can’t stand still
And who stick their hands in flames
And who grind their brains
For answers
Who make the world go round.
And round and round
She spun her snippy little tongue
Without even a break for air.
But who needs air when you’ve got sand
Filling up your lungs
In the arid desert.
They call it Death Valley for a reason.
I’ve never been
But I heard in the summer months
The temperature maintains a balmy 120 degrees.

I’ve been absorbing the heat ever since I could
Make heads and tails of her
So here we are at round two.
She says it’s preferable to be sitting in one place
Because the jabbering jaw is where all the exercise comes from.
And the winner will be declared when there is no more *******
Coming out of the other person’s mouth.
Well that’s *******.
I’m not sitting around waiting for you
To throw blades at my head
And expect me to just take it.
I also can’t fake it.
I need to get out of here, don’t you understand?
Your hand has abandoned the idea of holding mine
Long ago, I know.
It serves a more physical purpose now:
To make me regret
Standing up for myself.

She’s still going at it!
Not hard to believe,
Since she’s gotten half a life time of practice with it.
It’s gotten progressively less steady.
No longer the even pulse that I was able to
Drown out earlier.
There she goes putting emphasis
On things that don’t matter.
I’ll be heading towards the door now…
Let me just –
Can you move please?
I’ll take that as a “no.”
I sigh. Not yet at the point of resignation somehow.
I've been watching more spoken word videos lately and was inspired to try another piece in this style.
Also, if you've never heard of the movie "What About Bob?" you should watch it, it's a fantastic film!
“I’d rather be a novelist than a filmmaker.”
“The novel’s dead.”
“Well then I’d rather be dead.” The man said.
“Do you mean that?” asked the woman.
The woman stared blankly. She didn’t want to, but she cringed a bit, and then the man’s face softened up a bit.
“Well, but I suppose I can’t be dead right now, so I’ll just have to be a filmmaker, right?”
The woman smiled.
“Right.” And then she served herself another drink. As she sat back onto the couch, she turned her body so that it faced the man again, and brought her legs up so they rested comfortably beside her waistline. “So tell me, Mr. Famous Director, what’s your next movie going to be about?”
The man finished his whiskey. A dead novelist, he thought. “I don’t know yet.” He said out loud.
In the morning, the man woke up, and the woman was already awake, cooking them both eggs for breakfast. She was also doing work, and had her instrument strapped to her back. The man stood up and walked over.
“Don’t make mine scrambled.” He said. “I hate scrambled eggs.”
The woman turned.
“I’ll make another batch.” She offered.
“Never mind, scrambled will do.”
The woman stopped and thought for a second, and then she swung her guitar back to the front of her body and played a few chords on it. She hummed a tune, and the man ate his eggs, and when she was done humming, she ran to her room and scribbled something onto a small notebook.
“Watch the stove for me.” She warned the man, and he stood up and moved the pan a bit. He turned the gas down and opened the fridge, and took a swig from a carton of orange juice he saw, but there wasn’t much juice left in it, so he finished the carton and threw it out. That night, he would want something to drink besides water, and he would regret that decision, but at the moment, as he saw it, it was the right decision to make.
“When is your next show?” The man asked.
“That’s the night of the premiere.”
The woman stopped her playing and scribbling, and she came over and sat down.
“Oh my god. I forgot.”
“Never mind, I don’t have to go.”
The woman giggled, and got up again.
“That’s silly, of course you’ll go. And I’ll go with you. Besides, I’ll just be at a little coffee shop, and you’ll be at a world premiere! I’ve never been to a world premiere for a film before.”
“You’ve been for something else?”
“No. But I’ve always wanted to go to a premiere.” The woman stopped. The man looked at her, and then picked up the paper, which was on the table, and turned to the sports section. The Knicks had lost again, but the Yankees were on a roll.
“I’ll call to cancel my show now.” The paper came down.
“Don’t do that yet.”
“Why not?”
“Trust me.” The man said. “I might rather go see you.”
The woman smiled because she thought that meant he loved her.

In the afternoon the man went to the bookstore, and he bought himself two novels, a book of poems, and some coffee. After, he walked around Union Square for a while, and looked at all the people on their way to and from work. There was a musician by the statue of George Washington that played guitar and sang like Jimi Hendrix, and he sat down and listened to him for a while. He’d seen him before, and he liked how he played, but since he was shy, he never spoke to the musician, who he called Moonman in his mind (because of a big pair of boots the musician wore, and also because of the way his eyes were – one always facing the earth, and one always facing the sky). The man dropped some money in Moonman’s guitar case, and he walked back to his home on the lower West side of Manhattan. He took the scenic route, because it took longer, and he took his time, because he wanted to.

“It’s going to be big!” raved Ned, the man’s friend and producer. “Real big, man, probably the biggest premiere that we’ve had yet, if you’ll buy it!”
“I buy it. Why not.” The man responded.
“Do you realize what you are doing here?”
“What’s that?”
“You’re blowing up, man!” Ned was ecstatic. “We’ll be rich! Maybe win awards! Who knows man, aren’t you excited?”
The man looked around at the room he was in. He was excited, it was true, but this excitement was buried under a blanket of other emotions. He was morose, he was nervous, and he was overwhelmed, most of all, with a feeling of nothingness. So he had finished a movie, so it was premiering on Thursday, so it was getting good reviews, so he might make some extra money—so what? He thought. Time to move on now, isn’t it?
“Sure.” The man responded. “I’m excited.”
“Well of course you are!” Ned answered. “So are you bringing that chick to the premiere? The brunette, the one that sings?”
“Maybe. She has a show to play that day.”
“Well, so what, tell her to come anyway. She can postpone, can’t she?”
“She could.”
“Good. Unless you’d rather bring somebody else?”
The man stared.
“No, I like her.”
“Good, then!”
“Good. Yes.”

The woman came to visit again, around noon the next day. She brought her instrument, like she always did, and brought some food in a bag also.
“I knew you wouldn’t have eaten.” She said, and she proceeded to take all of the food out, and she was right, thought the man, so he got plates out and had lunch with her. They watched TV and he explained all of the shows to her, because she didn’t have a set herself, and so she didn’t know the plotlines, and after some few hours of watching, the woman played some of her new songs for him. They were beautiful, but more importantly, the man could tell she cared about them. The woman stopped after one song, and she turned the page in her booklet.
“What’s wrong?” The man asked.
“Nothing.” She said. “I just feel weird.”
“Weird about what?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
“Is it a song?” asked the man.
“Yeah. Sort of.”
“Well can I hear it?”
“Sure, why not.”
The woman played for the man then, and she played beautifully, and though she never said it, and he never asked, the man was taken by a feeling that the song was really about him. He turned red when he heard it, but he was quiet and never took his gaze off of the woman. She sang timidly, and the man wanted to hug her, but she was protective with her voice, so he sat and listened only. When she was done, she turned away, so that her hair kept him from looking at her eyes, but he reached out, and he brushed it away, and then he kissed her, and didn’t say anything. They went into his room, and they made love, and they came out, and when the man sat down and turned the TV back on, the woman was not offended, but instead sat next to him, and dug her head into the soft patch that stretched between his shoulder and the middle of his rib cage.
“You should play that song at the premiere.” The man suggested.
“I have my show.” The woman retorted. Then, “You told me not to cancel it.”
“I did.”
“Well then.” The man lit a cigarette. “I guess it’s too late now.”
“Do you want me to try?”
“No. It’s okay.”
“Lend me a cigarette?”
The man lent a cigarette to the woman, and lit it for her, and they stopped speaking for a while, until it was time for the man to explain the TV shows again, and he did, even when the woman fell asleep and wasn’t listening anymore.

On the morning of the premiere, the man realized that he had to go, and that he didn’t want to go unless the woman came with him. So he called her up and asked her to cancel her show, and when she told him that she couldn’t, he asked to go over to her place. He found her sitting on her bed, playing guitar and eating carrots. He begged her to go with him, but in the way that people who know each other well beg, which doesn’t look like begging at all, but more like reaffirming things that both parties already know to be true, as if their truth can change and become a new truth through this process.
“So it’s too late, huh? You can’t come with me?”
“I asked you so many times! Now it’s the morning of!”
“You’re right. It’s too late, then, I guess.”
The man was good.
“Don’t do this.”
“What?” the man asked. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be selfish.”
“But you are, and you know that it’s working.”
“Never mind. I’m sorry. If it’s too late then it’s too late.”
The woman laughed now, and she dropped her head, so that he hair covered her face up and made a tent, where she was safe from him. She brushed a strand back and looked through the space this created, and then she let the strand of hair fall back and seal her up once more. The man lay down.
“I really can’t.” said the woman.
“I’m sorry.” Sighed the man. She kissed him, and he let her, but then he pulled back and closed his eyes. “I don’t really want to go.” He said.
The woman leaned over the man, and this time decided to include him in her tent. She pressed her forehead against his, and when he tried to move, she held him.
“Why are you like this?” She asked him, but he had no answer.
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you hate yourself so much?”
The man pushed the woman’s shoulders back, and released himself from her tent. He wanted to respond, and bite back, but instead he laughed. He started laughing hard, so that he could barely control himself, and after a while, the woman began laughing too. She didn’t know what was going on, but she laughed freely, and when he started to kiss her, she let him, and when he moved to take her clothes off, she only stopped him in the beginning, to make him feel like he had to try. He kissed her all over her body and he looked at her with a look that was mostly grateful, as if she had given him some compliment, but while they made love, and he held her ****, they never spoke even a single word. Afterwards, the man held her, and they both fell asleep on top of the covers.
When he awoke, the man was sweating. It was six o’clock, and he knew he had forgotten to call Ned, but instead of calling, he lay there a bit longer, staring at the ceiling and pretending to still be asleep. The woman woke up too, and she reminded him of the things he had allowed himself to forget, and as she got ready for her show, he put his pants on and made some phone calls.
He called Ned, and set up how he would get to the premiere, and he called his mother to make sure that she and dad had their tickets. He called his sister across the country, and he chatted freely about everything with her, and then he called his best friend Matt to brag about the things that he was doing. Finally, the man got dressed, and left the woman’s place, and when he did, he called Francesca, a girl he’d met a few weeks earlier, and a girl that he was hoping would be able to go to the premiere with him.
Of course, Francesca was, and though she had “nothing to wear”, the man picked her up at nine, and she looked stunning in her dress, though the man barely let her know it. They drove to the premiere, and when they got there, the man was very distant.
“Lighten up, you look miserable.” Commented Ned off to the side. Then, “Where’s the other girl, I thought you liked her.”
“She couldn’t come.” Replied the man.
As the night progressed, the man started to look progressively more miserable. He went from talking only rarely to hardly communicating with anyone at all, and at the end of the screening he got up and left before all the applause had ended. At the after party, he was worse, and though Francesca tried to coax him out to the dance floor for a tune with her, he glumly sat alone at his reserved seat, and drank more.
It didn’t take long for the man to get drunk that way. After his fifth scotch and soda he began to realize how he was acting, but by that time it was too late, and even when he tried to cheer up, it didn’t work. Francesca sat on his lap and made him kiss her and he did, and when she suggested that the two of them go back to the car, he complied; but even then he felt that sting in his stomach that he had been feeling all night. The man said his goodbyes and he went back to the car, and for Francesca’s sake he kissed her, and when they were done, he said he wanted to go home. She offered to come home with him, but he told her that he would rather sleep alone that night. Francesca was upset, but she said she understood.
When the man dropped her off at her house that night, Francesca tried to kiss him one more time. She wanted him to come inside with her, but though he kissed her back for a moment, he pulled away quickly, and asked her to leave. How strange, Francesca thought as she walked back to her house, but for some reason, she was attracted to this peculiarity, and before she went to bed that night she thought how much she would like to figure out that man.

The coffee shop was closed when the man showed up, and though he had the woman’s number, he decided not to call it, and instead go have another drink. He stepped into a bar by Union Square, but decided not to drink there because it was too bright and he could see all of the furniture’s imperfections far too clearly. Instead, he decided, he would buy a bottle by his apartment, and drink at home, where nobody could bother him.
The man asked the car to go back to the premiere, and to drop him off where he was, because he wanted to walk. He stopped at a grocery store to buy some cigarettes, and he smoked his Luckies one after the other, and when he was halfway to the Village, he decided to take a subway the rest of the way, even if it would be only two stops.
In the subway station, the man put out his cigarette, and as he sat down he realized that there was a man playing music next to him. It was Moonman, and he was happy to see him, and when he put some money in Moonman’s guitar case, the man was greeted by a “Thank you.” Which he took as an obvious conversational invitation.
“Are you happy?” The man asked, to Moonman’s surprise.
“How do you mean that?”
“You know. Are you happy?” he asked again.
The Moonman put his guitar down and sat next to it. His eyes still floated independently of each other, but the man could feel that they were looking at him.
“No, but how do you mean that?” asked Moonman once more. “Happy is relative, and it’s judged differently by different people.”
“I want to know how you judge it.” Replied the man.
“Well then, I guess so.” Moonman shot back. Then, “Why do you ask, man? Why do you care if I’m happy?”
The man thought about it for a second.
“I want to know how you do it.”
Moonman stared at him, as if he were waiting for him to say more, as if this answer had not been enough for him, and then he sighed.
“Man, you must be crazy.” He laughed. “What are you asking me for?”
The man was silent.
“Look at me man, I’m playing music in the subway. I’m wearing boots I don’t know who wore before me, and I’ve got an eye problem. What would a guy like you possibly want to know from a guy like me? Ain’t you happy on your own?”
The man shook his head.
“Well there’s the problem then. What do you do man?”
“I’m a filmmaker.”
“And you’re not happy?”
Moonman grabbed his guitar and started playing.
“Well, then I guess you better do something else.” He said and smiled. The man turned to look at him. “Hey man, listen. I got my problems just like you do. But I’ve got something here most people don’t have. I do what I want, and what I do is make people happy. It works for me. May not work for you, but it works for me.”
“I wish I could do that.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Me. That’s the problem.”
The two were silent for a bit. The Moonman laughed. The man looked at him, but then he started laughing too. They laughed until the man’s face hurt, and until his eyes started to tear. Moonman was crying when the subway came, and when the man got up so did he, still crying. The man stood as the train rushed to a stop, and he looked over at Moonman and stuck his hand out to be shaken.
“Man, you do you, ok? You’ll be alright.” Moonman said loudly, and both men shook hands and the man got on the train and he left for his apartment.

When he got home, the man realized that he’d forgotten to buy himself that bottle, so he stopped by Barrow’s Pub to have another drink before he slept. When he walked in, the bar was empty, and there was music from the jukebox playing some country western ballad. He sat down at the bar and ordered a beer, and he asked for a napkin that he could write on while he drank. On the napkin he wrote his thoughts, and was surprised to find how very few of them there were. He only knew that he had them, but he had great trouble articulating them, even on paper, which had always been his specialty.
An original short story by Andoni Elias Nava 2010
SB Stokes May 2015
at the bottom of a stagnant lake
lived a dead forest
black trunks standing
knuckle deep in muck
branches simply armature
for a fluttering array
of gray scarves
blowing in the watery wind
molds and aquatic plant life
growing quieter in near darkness
the forest laid down years ago
gave up the sun and the breezes
the same arguments from the same birds
slid back toward the sandy edge
then gradually leaned over
one after another they followed
under the forgiving cover
of progressively longer nights
a very slow migration
the stars really weren’t watching
eventual full immersion
nothing left uncovered
but the land around the lake
the gray water always present
became all any tree could remember
oxygenating the murk for a while
the contradictions grew
in place of leaves
instead of hopeful young twigs
stanchions indicating nothing
huddled together under the surface
standing sunken in an air more dense
a different kind of time passing
light arriving but
only in soft whispers
K Balachandran Jan 2012
party pooper hijacked the heart throb,
the party progressively got rotten-
till the day break.
Connor Thomas Feb 2013
When I look at pictures of you
I get jealous of all the people you like.

The moments I thought were special:
When I knelt on your hair,
The moment your pants came off,
The moment mine came off,
The moment you came,
When the blood started to flow,
When your screams reached high-pitched status
When you came the second time,
Your border collie barking from downstairs,
The loud aggressive creaking,
The third time you came,
The several hours of all the above,
Getting progressively more aggressive
And increasingly louder.

When I look at pictures of you
I think about those moments I thought were special
Shari Forman Nov 2013
He texted me last night saying he really misses me.
This was probably after work, but I don't know for sure.
I haven't contacted him in two weeks.
He hurt me and found pleasure in teasing me.
But I'm just confused because he's (ex-boyfriend) still contacting me,
Not like an ex-boyfriend should.
*I'm still going to ignore him because I'm progressively moving on...
I find myself in a reality thoroughly mired;
Hard wired to this dire strait of a habit: to remain inactive;
Actively, though, I find myself being rendered blunt,
Thoroughly ineffective.
Effectively seeing my being contorted into shapes ignoble;
Progressively rendered moot,
Thwarted by my avante garde a la feeble.

And as I face that reality, really all I want to do is
Relay these reverberations that
Go thump! thump! whenever we meet;
Convey these fizzles that turn my stomach outside and in
Whenever we share an embrace to greet.
Can I rely on my grammar to share my emotions?
Or are her stories old news now?
I guess what I'm saying is:
Can I speak?

Can I, nay, may I deliver my formal interjection?
That my emotion towards you is still a subject;
That I'm hoping in my heart that the idea of "us" does not
Come across as abject;
Or imitate a noun and become an idea that is abstract?
Because what I'm going for here is for our souls to find contact;
And as I fill these blank spaces with hope;
What I hope most for,
Is that my sincerity really comes to the fore;
That you understand that I'm not here selling dreams and lifestyles;
But rather that I want to bring them to life before your eyes.

So can I speak?
Can I tell you of the hope you carry?
Can I tell you of the joy you bring?
Can I speak? Tell you everything?
If not, can I at least tell you
How crazy you drive this thing? (point to heart)
Christian Danner Sep 2012
When did society make its change
Around the time the good gave up the reins  
Before the egotistical corrupted its veins
And the storm even had a chance to break
That was our downfall
Ease and lax living became the dream for many
But lax living is simply  contradictory 
Life has no ease, only moments of liberation
Moments that if you contemplated them
You can grow
But no one likes change if it's not planned
Growth they can't contain 
It's like an earthquake that does more than shakes
It rumbles, it breaks
Not to destroy but to make way for growth
Stability is an illusion that dates back to the old
It's not true 
The best way to control change is to adapt
Catch the wave and ride it through
Waves aren't stable 
You have to be willing to drown in the process
If your not you'll be left swimming in the ocean
And you will drown in the process
Again this is where we went wrong
We don't catch the wave
We doggy paddle in shark infested waters while the rich and prosperous ride strong 
If you want change then you must catch the wave and ride on
You must observe your surroundings while readying for the storm
Then embrace it
You cannot fear change, you cannot hate it 
You must let it mold you into a person wiser than you were yesterday
And then aim to do it progressively
Do not let yourself get blinded by the golden glare of life and living 
Rather learn from the bad, wallow in the better, and live a life worth living
softcomponent Oct 2013
Anya is lying next to me like a dormant sheet. The bed wears her as unassorted dress and I sit perked to her right, righting?


What I'm writing about is better left unsaid for the darling teens afraid of themselves and unable to psychoanalyze through their fancied word. I guess I am a little afraid of myself but I'm not afraid to admit it and, if you ask the state, I'm an adult now. No ******* darling teen so you can tag your assumptions at the front door.

Anya slept over here last night and it's almost like the last 2 days are some ecstatic, beautiful blur. I can prove to you my state of disbelief by describing my Freudian revelation of a dream.

We were all down at the theatre. There was some strange minor citadel at the top of good old 1913 where some slightly chubby early-20's daughter-of-a-railroad-man watched these strangely Shakespearean woes on the street below. A little bleak and depressing.

I assume we were here for a movie. It was me, Anya, Felicia, and Chris. I could tell Anya liked me but I wasn't sure how to present my VCR of a heart to her and ask for the chance. So I didn't say a word. Instead I tossed boomerang smiles as the daughter-of-a-railroad-man gawked at my progressively punctured lung 2-stories up. I started trying to talk to Felicia because she seemed familiar and more likely, but she was taking photos of smoke-stacks and materializing groups of people so she had no time to listen, and I woefully backed off with an 'I'll tell you later, I guess.'

Things moved quickly at that point and it was like jogging through a Philip K. **** novel. I'd waited too long and Chris had his arm around Anya. I then backed off assuming the worst and as soon as I woke up I realized the dream had revealed a legion of my insecurities all out on a drill away from the main barracks, ready to march closer-to or away from my field of battle *** it was a question of Ghandi or God now.

A battle on open fields? Or non-violent resistance?

The funnier part of waking up was that my dream had been profoundly upsetting and darkly self-fulfilling, but this time it was a dream and what I woke up to wasn't the neutral dune of the everyday life of distraction, but one of those profoundly holy literature’s of the past 2000 years.

I suppose the biggest revelation the dream gave was the observation of my never asserting myself, nor in pursuit. Just the head-tilt mope of a poet with a bleeding heart that not only denies the need for bandage, but keeps double checking the hole is big enough to bleed but small enough not to **** me.

Have you ever seen those kinds of cars that look like they have teeth and eyes and noses?
/ancient history\

/pseudonyms applied\
Peter Hall Oct 2015
My future wife, my future life
Walks with me to the car,
Hand in hand, women and man
Under Aussie summer stars.

What now ?. Dunno how
This will all turn out,
My first love, her first love
Thinking of all the doubts.

Open her door, but before
She can get in the car,
Beating fast, faster and faster
Two innocent ****** hearts.

I hold her close, closer and closer
A moment not to miss,
Emotions fond, then respond
In a mutual life sealing kiss.

Mutual hug, emotions tug
Two lives changed forever,
Emotions feel, our lips are sealed
Going back to yesterday never.

Relationship trait, forever mates
That started with a kiss emotional,
Progressively shows, progressively grows
Into lives that are based on the spiritual.

All these years, all these fears
Have grown a greater love,
Not to be missed, was that first kiss
But the source of our life is God.
A trues story....33 years ago

— The End —