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RAJ NANDY Jun 2017
Dear Poet Friends, this poem was composed as a tribute and praise
to the Creator of heaven and earth way back in the year 2008, & was posted on ‘Poemhunter.com’. The Creator’s handiwork has inspired Poets, Artists, and Humans alike since the dawn of our
civilisation, and shall continue to do so for our future generations! Hope you like this poetic composition. I will be grateful if you comment only after having read the entire poem.  Thanks, - Raj

VISIONS OF THE VAST BLUE EMPYREAN
                * BY RAJ NANDY*

       '’The heavens declare the glory of the Lord,
        The sky proclaim His divine handiwork!’’
                                                   - Psalm of David.

(I)
The SKY is a multidimensional manifestation of God's
creation,
A translucent blue canopy above all and one.
The sky has inspired humans for centuries to aspire
and dream, -
To seek His blessings and guidance from above;
And shall continue to do so for centuries to come!
The sky beckons and lures with its mystical spell;
Making humans with leaping aspirations to try out
and reach, -
Those frontiers where the sky is the unlimited limit of
all our hopes, aspirations and dreams!
The sky, lush, luring, luminous, and sweet, -
Invites, entice, and fills us with a sense of wonder!
How God-like in appearance, and almost human in
its expressions!
The sky has remained as a silent witness to the birth
of our planet,
Since God created the firmament and the heavens,
before creating the Earth.
The sky, a silent spectator since eons past,
Shall continue to see the fading away of old stars;
And formation of baby galaxies in a cosmic drama of
His creation,
Lying beyond the comprehension of Mankind!
While we try to delve His secrets with our space probes,
Which we can neither fully comprehend nor unravel;
And shall only continue to wonder and marvel!

(II)
The blue sky continues to inspire and even melts,
While its blue translucence silently seep into the
Poet's heart,
As he sits to reflect and shape his thoughts,
And the vast expanse of the ethereal sky,
Stretching his mind with future dreams and
visions!
While the azure blue begins to flow through his
veins, and gets transmitted through his pen, -
To convey his exalted thoughts and deepest feelings,
in poetic lines and verse, -
Which becomes the Poet's sole mission.
And at night when the Poet meditates, he catches a
falling star,
And writes a poem on it and keeps it in his pocket, -
Saving it for a rainy day!
And during the silence of the night, when the hours
grow dark and deep,
And the sky gently droops and drips;
The poet wakes up to write, and writes to sleep!

(III)
The sky flows on to the canvas of the Painter,
As he tries to depict its varied complexions and moods,
With his limited colours, shades and hues,
Flashing and spilling his canvas with touches of tints
and tones,
To captivate the capricious, transient and fanciful moods,
which the sky adorns!
The deep blue empyrean is at times blissful and sublime,
Changing from a radiant, opulent, and iridescent, -
To threatening, cruel, and violent;
Both devastating and destructive as the sweeping
tornado or a hurricane!
Yet when God decides to paint the Aurora Borealis those
magical Northern Lights, -
Those glowing diaphanous curtains of waving, swirling
streamers of lights,
With its red, green, blue, violet, and luminescent spell-
binding shades;
How can any artist foolishly dare to compete or replicate
His celestial art?
For the Auroras are a reflection of His live real time
handiwork, -
Which shall never diminish or fade!

(IV)
The crystal blue arch of heaven, a glorious canopy
cover over our head,
Blesses us with the much needed shade;
From the tormenting and scorching rays of the
relentless Summer's sun.
With its varying layers of passing clouds, -
As the sun completes its diurnal rounds!
Those high cheerful cirrus and cirro-stratus clouds
of the Winter sky,
The meditating alto-cumulus and alto-stratus clouds
of medium heights;
And those upward swelling, ambitious clouds of
cumulonimbus, -
Carrying the thunder bolts and lightning of the great
Zeus do confound us!
And finally those low sheets of stratus clouds of the
rumbling monsoon sky;
Bringing incessant rain and lightning darts, -
Flashing like a whip lash across the sky and the earth!
With the speed of sound always lagging behind that
of light, -
Thus thunder bolts always follow those blinding flashing
darts of dazzling blue lights!
While the good Earth absorbs it all like some suffering
soul,
And forever regenerates itself to transcend its
tormenting plight!

(V)
The clouds floating like fluffy wool of cotton and
the downs of white goose feathers,
Adds dimensions, visual depth, definition and a sense
of perception;
For the human mind to behold and meditate, -
Those vast measureless depths of the infinite space!
The clouds with its varying forms and shapes,
At times like the ice cream cones with vanilla
tops and wisps of cream;
Keep floating across the cerulean blue, forming
and melting, -
From one nothingness into another,  below the
arched vault of the heavens!
And at times the clouds coalesce to dissipate as
gentle rain,
With rhythmic beats, or follow some wild musical note,
Lashing against the earth like a dancer in trance!
While it brings down the cool aqua, the very elixir of
life to earth.

(VI)
The sky is held captive by its own void of eternal
silence.
As nature's mirror, it reflects and also shows us a
glimpse of the infinite!
While the night sky by itself exhibits a wondrous
sight,
With the sentinel stars shining like a living hymn
written in light!
And the ebony treasure vault of heavens hold the
sparkling and glittering countless gems;
Of pearls of lily white, rubies with red sheen,
And galaxies shimmering like hyacinth of purple
light!
The sky envelopes the earth all around in an elusive
embrace of unconsummated love!
But each night, in hope and expectations the Sky
adorns itself, -
With diamond necklace and pearls of milky white,
Woven round its dark black flowing stresses;
Casting longing looks towards the beloved Earth,
To whom she is attracted from her very birth!

(VII)
The sky despite its wide range of colourful
spectrum and moods,
Forever retains its pristine colour of azure blue,
behind its gray and somber clouds.
Each morning the sky presents us with a clean
blue slate,
Where nothing ever remains written or etched!
Inspiring humans to make a new beginning,
Before time runs out and it becomes too late!
Yet the sky never forgets to reflect the arched
rainbow over its brow,
Once the thunder clouds and storms dissipate!
Keeping our hopes and aspirations forever alive;
And impelling us to strive in all our endeavours
and to excel!

(VIII)
The sky remains as a revelation of God's immaculate
handiwork.
The blue welkin, God's treasure trove, with its
capricious moods,
Sometimes furious, sometimes iridescent, but by nature
divinely sublime!
The sky a recurrence of happenings, with its speckled dance, -
Of colours, cadence, and of light and shade,
Giving us a taste, smell and feel of eternity, -
Which appears as real, though illusory and ephemeral!
Transcending all our scientific formulas, speculations
and intricate *******-up logic;
Since many mystical and unknown energy forms exist in
our sky and space,
Beyond the realms of Quantum Physics , String Theory,
the Higgs Field and Relativity!  * ( see Notes below)
And forces can even be made to emanate from the human
mind and soul and to transcend, -
To blend with those vibrations in the celestial spheres of
the Divine!

(IX)
The sky shall forever remain a source of exhilaration
and exhortation for mankind, -
And as an exaltation of God's divine and lofty thoughts!
The sky also remains as our ultimate frontier, -
Stretching the dimensions of human consciousness,
Till our consciousness learns to merge with the Divine;
To become one and to blend, under the blue vault of
our blissful Empyrean!
                                                       -  by RAJ NANDY, NEW DELHI

(*NOTES: The five different versions of the String Theories know as the 'The M- Theory' of Quantum Physics, which tries to explain the origin of all things through the vibrations of nano strings. The latest discovery of the Higgs Field, which is said to add mass to subatomic particles; are our humble and insufficient efforts to understand God’s mysterious creation of the universe and space!)
      (ALL COPY RIGHT ARE WITH THE AUTHOR ONLY)
Samantha Dec 2013
I’m not a talkative person
In fact I have sewn my mouth shut
To keep my thoughts
From spilling out
With the force of a fire hydrant
When I do talk
It’s in mumbles and murmurs
I let my words run together
I don’t even remember the last time
I finished a real sentence

Poetry runs through my veins
Every night I unzip my forearms
And let my blood
Spill out onto paper
I’m sorry I can’t bleed for you

I’m selfish
I take, take, take, and take
I buy myself Christmas presents
Birthday presents
Because I ******* deserve it presents

Grace never came easy to me
I stumble over my shoelaces
Like I stumble over my words
Thank god none of you have a pet fish
Because I would probably
Break the bowl

Cigarettes
I don’t smoke them
But **** do I find them attractive

I think bruises are beautiful
Purple, blue, and black splotches
On pale skin
Soreness when you press your fingers
Into them
Give me bruises
And I’ll give you kisses

Your eardrums can and will shatter
Under my screeches of rage
I don’t always scream
But when I do
I turn into a ******* demon

I wear granny ******* casually
Because being comfortable
Is more important
Than being ****

Every bouquet you give me
I will keep
Until they are petal-less
And brown
They will sit in a vase
And decay
And I will use the scent
As perfume

I have a skinny waist
But fat thighs
I’m a size nine
Please don’t buy me size three jeans

Most people’s voices change
With puberty
My voice changes depending
On who I’m with
When I’m with you
My voice is deep with a sarcastic tint
When I’m with your parents
I sound like a ten year old boy

I have a cranberry juice addiction
That’s getting out of hand

Sometimes I break under
Magnifying glasses
My heart drums behind my ribs
There’s a reason why
They call it a cage

I’ve read Catcher in the Rye
Five times and I still
Hate Holden Caulfield

A good day for me
Is finding socks
Without holes in them

I don’t plan on being
A mother
I can’t give you
An heir

My heart explodes
Regenerates
Explodes
Regenerates
Explodes
Explodes
Explodes
Regenerates

I love myself more
Than I could ever love anyone else
And I’ve yet to find someone
Who understands that
Luna Lexi Mar 2014
silver flute sits in the case
Studio awaits, soul suppress
Space slammed

silver flute rests on the stand
Insecurity of melody
Gasping for air
Trembling, closed off

silver flute plays a sweet song once, yesterday
For Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, & for Uriel
Resonance, chord floating,
pure revelation

last song of hope, courage
last wild witch prayer
Last organic sound, unplugged

silver flute sits in the case
Great Open Outdoors awaits, soul regenerates
Have we arrived to the sacred tree?
Silver flute will play Naked, wild, free!

All ears wide open
Open eyes, Open hearts, Open minds
True human connection returns
CODA
Silver flute floats in my heart & hand
Emily Pidduck Dec 2013
Rocks and trees
are no match for bees
they are too similar
there is no controversy
neither is worthy of the other
                  why...?

the world needs spray
from the crashing waves
to pound against the rocks
and warn off the flocks
of birds battling survival
               are the birds always so reckless?

everything holds danger
to bring out the braver-
for the souls who are lost
too afraid of the cost
but the gravity
of depravity
is unbreakable
                but you've said the chains are heavy, not tight...?

then, unbearable
but that's why there is two
so while one holds the weight
the other regenerates
but neither has the strength to move along
and this goes on
                 but there must be a loop in every cycle?

that's the struggle
but why rise up
when the sky is black
and just that
             can't they see the stars?

aye, but those lights
are part of the night
that never reaches daybreak
in the stillness of late
                       then later, they will resurface?

                                                    ­I stare long and hard at her.
                                                    So simple and innocent
                                                    and persistent
                                                    
 ­                                            She's reached the age of twelve
                                             and the universe is her limit
                                             and she dives in with suggestions
                                             to questions
                                             that I have faced
                                             and crushed
                                             while my reasoning
                                             has imprisoned me

Alright, your turn
I can't answer that last one
I'm still sunk under
these waters

Let's see
if you can bring clarity

                                                        ­   Normally, my pessimistic side
                                                           would shoot down positivity
                                                      ­     and I don't believe
                                                         ­  that she could know
                                                           the words to break my cold

Well, my words aren't as big
but I think simplicity
is the path towards
enlightening

                                           ­     ~giggles/chuckles~
                                                ~our eyes meet~
                                                 Reeeaaallllly?

Yeess, but you've got it wrong
right from the kickoff
so I'll have to start
with rocks

Rocks are the bottom
so trees will grow on
and bees feel safe
'cause the trees are strong
and this composite
of opposite
makes it worth
having both

and the spray of the waves
leaves intervals
so the gulls
can find hide-holes
in the cliffs
while awaiting the fish
see? - survival
...of the fishest


                                                      A­s I wait out her cackle-fest  
                                                      I am uncomfortable
                                                   ­   the simplistic
                                                      ­seems realistic
                                                      w­hich means I was only pessimistic...

And certainly the danger
makes people braver
but it can't be so unbreakable
if you think hard
there can't be such a high cost -
if people are braver
'cause then the danger
just isn't as dangerous

and if there are two people in chains
don't they stand side by side?
i'm sure if you do the math
upholding each other
makes each one strong
and the time they withstand
is twice as long

and if struggling
seems hopeless
when you can't see the sun
can't you feel grateful
that night
hides the demons

eyes can see
only angels fly
with wings that shine
in a darkened sky

                                                                ­                  My brain is scattered
                                                       ­                           as my thoughts are rattled
                                                         ­                         because right now
                                                                ­                  my shadows seem so friendly

It's not hard to resurface
if you know this
and I promise
your scars will heal
because time is the boss
and love is the cost -
and the easiest to pay
'cause each day
it regenerates
until it's all okay


                                                          ­                          I smile at her ending
                                                          ­                          maybe simple, but what I wanted
                                                          ­                          and as she traces the scars on my wrists
                                                          ­                          i'm thinking golly goodness
                                                        ­                            I am a vast pit of empty knowledge
                                                       ­                             I wonder how long she's listened to me
                                                              ­                      and how long she's known I's wrong
                                                           ­                         and I ponder what I know from me

Okay, that seems believable
Ah, crap, you can say it
or, I suppose I should...
altogether you were, completely, entirely, 100% thoroughly and perfectly right
and I
quite...
wasn't

sigh
                                       ­              ~lays head in my hands~


sigh
I'm lost

All I know
is rocks and trees
and trees and rocks
and bees
                                          ~ she giggles~    ~grabs my hand~
There's one more thing
*It's me
I tried to combine poetry and story while keeping both very obviously, so I hope you like it :)
Also, this is between an older brother and his little sister, I pictured him around 16.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2020
~dedicated to the old poets here~

the addictive pairing of certain words, a line,
a lyric, slap-snapping you to full attention,
unfailing decades of instant recognition,
an adrenaline + caffeine shot that powers

a chance, a tensile injection that causes

the lips to commence a new choreography,
the fingers to tap, a jumbled, hurried, embattled
disorderly mess that regenerates, reformulates,
concords into agreement, a harmonic consistency

a geometry of many differing angles that equate

a hard physical, a soft mentality in a singled work,
coexisting in a sacred state of singed confluence,
though imperfect, satisfies mathematical boundaries
of a random outpouring, crowning the stripe inspiring

the spark that finally satisfyingly silences an ignited

filament a-glowing for years, that holy happens
to cross your antennae, fulfilling the need to honor,
the sacred geometry of chance, the honor to need,
the joy of saying, at last, this unwritten debt, paid!


————————————————————————-
(1) a favorite of many years, a lyric from “The Shape of My Heart” by Sting

(2) Dec 3 2020 2:53pm  NYC
M'thew Jan 2012
What is the meaning of Life?

Does that not state there is in fact a meaning to our lives? Are we not conceived with a blank slate and let our actions be guided by the environment we have become accustomed to or is there a true predestined meaning to our lives? Is it neither?  We are nothing more than what we are and nothing less than what we are not.

What is my purpose?

Purposelessness.

What is God?

God is what leads me in the direction that I am heading and keeps me away from where I have not gone. God is not in the endless skies watching my every action. God does not know me. I don’t know God. God is not a being. God is not energy. God is not matter; God is not made of protons, neutrons, electrons or photons. God exists. We made God exist. We also made God disappear.
What is reality?

The tangible and physical perceptions that we have keep in our memories. As soon as we forget, reality disintegrates. When we remember, reality regenerates. Reality is not constant.

Why am I here?

Spontaneity

How did I get here?

I managed to avoid every other place than where I am. If I averted where I am now I would be someplace else. I would be any place else. Am I happy? Yes. Am I upset? Yes. This experience is beautiful yet full of dismay and I experience comfort but sorrow for only being able to experience a small sliver of the universe. But this is my sliver of the universe. I love this sliver of the universe and I would fight to the death to save this tiny space for anybody else to experience existence the way I do.

Who and What am I?

I am human, **** sapient, ****, hominine, hominid, primate, Mammalia, Chordate, and Animal. I am an Earthling from the Milky Way. I am what I am labeled, by others and by myself. I am defined by everything I am not and I change every day. I am not constant.

What will happen when I die?

Transcendence from existence; Appearance into eternal rest. My body will provide nutrients to the world, my memories will be lost. I will no longer be, except in the minds of those who knew me and in the evidence I leave behind. I’ll be lost forever, the evidence will soon disappear. I will be over, the universe will go on. That’s all I could ever ask for.
What i wanna say today….
....Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever....
....i have an urge to write these words today, i thank you so very much for reading, ………with love from Sylvia….


The Bible? Of course, i read it, but not every day,
seriously, not as a research book,
but as The Holy Scriptures, my basis for my faith and to pray.

It has the Old and the New Testament,
i'm oft inspired by the Word of God in every segment.

Authoritative, in faith i hold the Bible,
to be inerrant in the originals God-breathed, infallible.

i assure you to read it, bit by bit,
for your faith and practice, please read the complete hit,
and final authority, perfectly guided by the Holy Spirit.

i believe in the only God, He is the Creator of all,
He is also known as the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,

revealed by God Himself, as ONE in being, in essence, and glory.

God is the One and Only Almighty, omnipresent, omnipotent He,
and unchanging. He is holy, just and righteous,
He is love, merciful, good and gracious.

i believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ,
the expressed image of the Father is grandest.

Who was born to become an ordinary man,
in order that He could tell us who God really is,
and provide the means of salvation for humanity and all the bliss.

Jesus Christ of the Holy Spirit’s conception,
and, born of the ****** Mary, only she, without a man,
Jesus is truly God, and fully man, without a sin,
His birth occurred only by His Mother, still a ******.

He lived a perfect, sinless life, His teachings are all true.
Jesus Christ died on the cross just for me and for all of you,

He died for all humanity as a substitutionary sacrifice,
we hold that His death is sufficient to provide salvation, the price,
for all who receive Him as their Saviour.

That our justification is grounded in His blood shed,
that it is attested by His literal, physical resurrection from the dead.

Jesus Christ ascended to Heaven in His glorified body,
He is now seated at the right hand of God, as our High Priest and Advocate,

i believe in the divinity and personality of the Holy Spirit,
He regenerates sinners, and He indwells believers.

He is the agent by whom Christ baptizes all believers into His body,
He is the seal by whom the Father guarantees the salvation of believers
unto the day of redemption.

He is the Divine Teacher who illumines
believers’ hearts and honest minds,
as they study the Word of God,
each on their own relaxing spot.

The Holy Spirit is ultimately sovereign,
in the distribution of spiritual gifts to the obedient man.

The miraculous gifts of the Spirit, as they were known
in those times in ancient Efeze,
while by no means outside of the Spirit’s ability to empower,
no longer function to the same degrees,
they did in the early development of the church in Efeze.

The reality and personality of angels do exist,
God created the angels to be His servants and messengers.

i believe every word i have read in the Bible and its translations,
thus also in the existence and personality of the devil and its demons,
this devil’s name is Satan is the heaviest enemy God ever met,
as evil rebellions against His Almighty power, too sad,
i read this in the Bible in Isaiah 14:12-17 and in Ezekiel 28:12-15 at my spot,

he is the great enemy of God and man, condemned by the Lord,
he and his evil company were sent away for good from the holy place,
i read this in the Bible in Matthew, and in Revelations, i reckon,

my belief, based upon reading, deep thinking and my greatest Faith in God,
that we can defeat these evilish appearances right on the spot.
By praying and asking for more strength in our belief,
so that we can conquer and be freed from this devilish thief !!

All these words were ranting me to jump out of my mind,
but i took paper and pencil to hasten the posting like this kind….

Then, my dear Poetfreak friends, and today my HePo friends
i bow to you all, humbly and with great honesty, i say the deepest Amen….


© Sylvia Frances Chan
Copyright Protected
On Sunday the 3rd April 2016 – 13.28 hrs.p.m. Published on Poetfreak. Too beautiful sunny day….Spring is here! (de Lente, Dutch)....TODAY it is SUNDAY the 12th of November 2017 @ 7.17 hrs AM W.E.Time and I wish to say my Sincerest CONGRATULATIONS to my dear niece in JAKARTA, Indonesia, MONA, who is celebrating her BirthDAY. GOD's Blessings in Abundance. Remember that God loves you always....
Danielle Shorr May 2014
The human body
Regenerates completely new skin cells
Approximately every
27 days
I say this knowing
That I am someone
Your hands have never gotten to know
My skin has mourned the loss of your touch
Grieved for the freckles that never got to know your warmth
No memorization of the path your fingertips took while
Tracing the lines of my skin
I am a whole new person
Since you've last held me
My body
Is not the only thing that has changed
Crazy how
So much can differ
From the last time
You knew me
But today
You don't
It only took 27 days for me to become someone else
I am someone else now
My limbs can attest to that
They no longer crave to be cradled by your arms
You do not know me
And it only took 27 days for me to realize
That I
Never really knew you
At all.
Theia Gwen May 2016
I ate too much for breakfast today
And lunch was spent wondering if I should slip away
Wondering if I should go back for seconds
**** it, why not?
My feet jiggled nervously under the table
Trying to think of an excuse to leave
Trying to figure out how much the barbeque chicken pizza would hurt on the way back up
Trying to figure out how much I’d regret it
Trying to figure out if my body was okay
My self esteem balloons up and down
Somedays I look in the mirror and like what I see,
Think I look cute and quirky in my glasses and skirt,
Think my body is almost okay
And then like black crossing over to white, like a light switch flipped on
No inbetween
All of the sudden I am ugly
My body takes up too much space
Loving myself, loving this body seem like an impossible feat
The little critic in my head is back
And he wants to move back in,
I’m not cured
Recovery is not about loving your body
Recovery is accepting it
I’m still working on that
The calculator in my head wakes up,
Regenerates every time I’m around  food
My hands still hover over the diet soda before forcing myself to pick something that scares me more
I still have to bargain in my brain
Eat a salad so I can eat ice cream and cookies
Skip lunch so I can have a big dinner
Strip naked in front of a full mirror,
Watch my body standing up, bending over, sitting
Grabbing, pinching, prodding, poking
Surveying this piece of meat
This thing
This body
That I know I need to be kind to
I weighed myself for the first time in almost a year
My toe lingered over the cold surface of a scale
Like a child about to dip his feet into water
I knew standing on that scale could drag me under
And I did it anyway
Loving myself is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done
When self hatred has been tamped into my soul
When my eating disorder was the only thing I good at
This secret lover, the most attentive one you could have
Took my hand and showed me how an empty stomach could feel like love
My eating disorder was my best friend,
The abusive relationship I kept going back to,
The most interesting thing about me,
The thing that was killing me
Having an eating disorder is easy;
Allowing yourself to slip into a disease out of your control
Having someone else make all your decisions
Your life reduces itself to the numbers on the scale
The slipping numbers on the scale assure me that everything is alright
But I can’t live like that
Having an eating disorder is easy;
Recovery is hard
Max Hale Dec 2017
Can this be the time once more
Of utter giving up of our control
The simple folliwing of commercial madness
Our desire for the day when food and wine
Have to be gathered about us like the defences of yore
Headlong we run from mid-summer until
We are exhausted in body, spirit or credit
The desperate worry of what to buy whom
Or when to order the especially fattened bird for your table
The ridiculous overspending on presents
When time could be the finest present you could give

Yule tide is a special period for Druids and all pagans alike,
The wonder of simplicity of reflection of our past year
The elements of sleep as mother earth regenerates herself
Resting often under the warmth of a blanket of snow
Gathering of families and loved ones
Blessings of the solstice as the wheel of the year turns
Once more into the light as the sun begins it's journey
Returning to the northern hemisphere
Our birds and native animals preparing for the winter
Storing their food, digging deep as they look for vitals

Likewise the land is resting,
The soil teems with dormant life, every insect and worm
Every root, form and bulb
Slowing right down as the degrees fall to freezing
The frosty and rime ridden mornings giving the flora
A lift of white dusting and sparkling light reflecting
The weak, beautiful winter sun
Heaves itself onto the low glancing position
Just making it to the tree tops before retiring once more to sleep
Leaving glorious swathes of orange and red
Painting the sky as it falls and rises.

Yule tide comes as all seasons, times and periods
But once a year in our short lives
The earthy sounds, the images and emotion
The smell of the newly fallen snow and woodsmoke
The foraging birds and squirrels
The warbling and tuneful song of the blackbird
And the tut tut of Mr Robin resplendent in his
Bright red waistcoat bobbing around in the crisp frost
Our lifetime of Yules is a wonder to enjoy,
I know as I look from my window where my heart is
As the distant tree bare in it's winter shroud speaks
To me as a friend and anchor within this beautiful planet.
K Balachandran May 2017
I was a dense forest of wild desires
love engulfed it as a sudden wild fire,
lit by a spark your kohl rimmed eye emitted,
Never do I want to put it out, not in  this life,
as burning for what you've kindled within me
is pure bliss,I realize, mon amie
The embers are alive, giving warmth
while the forest of desires regenerates
at a speed I  haven't known ever before.
                         *
നീ പകര്‍ന്ന പ്രണയച്ചൂടില്‍എരിയുകയാണ് ഞാനിപ്പോഴും.

ഞാന്‍ വന്യകാമനകളുടെ സാന്ദ്ര,നിബിഡവനം,
നിന്‍മഷിക്കണ്ണിലെ  തീപ്പൊരി തെറിച്ച്
പെട്ടന്നതില്‍ പടര്‍ന്ന കാട്ടുതീയാണീപ്രണയം.
അത്കെടുത്താന്‍ എനിക്കീ ജന്മമില്ല,മോഹം.
നീപകര്‍ന്നു തന്നതിനായ് എരിയുവതേ എന്‍
പ്രിയ കാമിനി, നിര്‍വൃതി യെന്നറിവൂ ഞാന്‍.

കനലുകളുടെസുഖോഷ്മളത ഉള്ളില്‍പ്പടരവേ,
ഇതുവരെഞാനറിയാത്തൊരു തീവ്ര മാംത്വരയോടെ
വികാരമഹാവിപിനം വീണ്ടുമിതാ ഉണരുകയാണിവിടെ.
(In Malayalam translation)
JJ Hutton Jun 2016
I.

I lay beside the canals in Esmeralda, city of water.
For hours a shadow and an oar and a boat approach,
and in the distance unseen girls hum a melody,
a melody not wholly unlike the sound of the lapping waves.
The sun rises and sets in a matter of moments.
My skin crinkles, molts, regenerates as fresh
as a babe's. I think of father, of mother, the words
not the people. My hands move now on their own.
The left points to the Saint Cloud Bridge and I say,
Saint Cloud. I'm in my body but outside it. A little god.
A deliberate historian. I record everything.
I think I always did. My right hand waves
to an acrobat on a clothesline. Behind
the acrobat a small stucco home crumbles
and rebuilds itself. My right palm
covers my mouth and I kiss it.
The veins running down my arms
appear to be filled with different colored inks,
reds, blues, greens. A shadow and an oar and
a boat approach, closer, closer.
A single swallow flies above the water, dipping down,
wetting the tips of its wings, climbing upwards over the
balconies, the rooftops, the sun setting, the sun rising,
blessing its flight. My right hand traces my uneven
and ever shifting face. What did I look like as a boy?
Did I have many friends?

II.

The shadow offers his hand, eases me aboard
his small boat. We push off back the way he came.
He says a few words to me, the
only words exchanged on our long journey:
I used to live in the city, he says. It nearly
drove me mad. I moved to the country.
I cultivated a garden. I installed a wood stove.
This was healthy.

III.

A small delight, to watch the shadow
command the oar, the grace in it.
I think of a woman's dress. I think
of the word rustle. I feel the word rustle.
My left hand points to the shoreline.
Spanish moss hangs from a bald cypress.
I say the word, Fire, and the Spanish moss becomes
engulfed. I say, Stop, and everything
stops, even the sun. Its position makes
me think the phrase six o'clock. While
Esmeralda, the city entire, is locked
in my rule, I step out onto the water.
I find I can walk across it. I know the
city's name, but I'm not sure I ever lived
here. The blades of grass feel foreign
on the soles of my feet.

IV.

Four has always been my favorite number,
I think. A lightning bug emits a flash of green.
It is the only creature unstuck and I follow it.
It leads me through a snow covered valley,
through a yellowed wheat field, through
a suspended dust storm. I brush away the particles
and they drop to the cracked earth.
I'm in a desert now. A woman sits with her legs
crossed. I sit with her. I feel the urge to tell her
a joke. It's apparent. She feels the same urge.
We both try to get the words out, but we keep
laughing, our minds rushing to the punchline.
Before we finish our jokes, we die. We decompose.
We turn to skeletons, our bony mouths full of ash.
We're born again, our joy and humor now with a depth centuries old.
We laugh, death much easier than we'd expected.
We try to tell the jokes again. The cycle beings and ends and begins.
The lightning bug insists that we move on.

I'm led to a gate. Guarding the gate is a girl
with a red ribbon in her yellow hair.
I ask if I can call her maiden.

I can almost see through the girl.
Rolling hills and a crystal stream
serve as her backdrop just beyond
the gate. She summons me with
a gentle wave of her hand.
I lean down. She kisses me.

You're my first kiss, she says.

I hope I'm not your last.

She takes my hand and insists we walk backwards.
The ground is uneven, my feet unsure.

There's an old saying I'm sure you know, she says.
The definition of madness is doing the same thing
and expecting a different result. This applies to more
than recurring bad decisions. It applies to death.

What are you saying? I've been expecting a different death?

You've been expecting a different consequence of death,
but you keep dying the same way, the girl says. Watch me.
Be curious. But say no more. Don't diffuse death of its
wild alchemy.

We walk backwards through the gate.
I want a secret, something
the girl doesn't know about me, one
dark moment to add dimension. But
the thought lurks that she knows
more about me than me. Time speeds
up. Day turns to night. Snow feathers
down. Backwards we walk into empty
homes, into dry riverbeds, into the unknown.
We begin to fall. From what, I'm not sure.
To where, I'm not sure.
The girl grips my hand tightly.

When will I know that I've died?

Shhh, she says. No words. Only wonder.
Paul Butters Apr 2016
Being the softy that I am,
I feel sympathy for all those prisoners
On Death Row,
No matter what they’ve done.

But then I reflect that every one of us
Is also on Death Row.
Unless perhaps you are an ancient tree,
Or one of those jellyfish
Who regenerates like Doctor Who.

For Death is inevitable
The moment we are conceived.
I look for ways around this
And only see
An ocean
Of Religious and Spiritual
Speculation.

Paul Butters
A recurring thought...
Sarah Jun 2014
Keeping myself awake until I'm too tired to think of you.
Because when I'm thinking, I'm not dreaming.
And all I've wanted to do lately is join as two.
There's this ache behind my rib cage, and a burning behind my eyes.
These sheets don't smell like you anymore, and I'm sleeping on your side.
This bed is my own again, but I can't seem to forget the way your feet cradled mine, telling me that everything would be alright.
They told me that skin regenerates every twenty eight days.
I still have twenty seven until I'm new, proving to be much more difficult, being without you.
amanda cooper Mar 2012
he pressed himself into me and whispered, "just the tip."
at the time, i wasn't sure what to think. i wasn't sure if i was able to think at all.
i felt something hard press into my back, but not what i was expecting.
no, this, this was cold even in the summer's air.
my mouth was sewn shut by the press of your hand, but maybe it was the drinks i'd consumed.
and it hurt, what came after. what led to this.
when you called out to me, this was the last thing i expected.
but i was naive, and i was innocent, but you took care of that.
the threat of violence hung heavy in the air, the tip of your weapon cradling my spine.
and i could smell the metal, faint over the smell of the dirt and leaves you'd shoved my face into.
and when the violence was over, and the questions began running through my mind
[white text on a blank slate,
wiped clean with new memories and a loss
of something i never knew i had],
it was over with a flippant wave of your hand and a flick of your sweat-matted hair.
a figurative, "see you later."
an au revoir to your ***** laundry, like it's not worth dumping in the wash.
but we both know i'll scrub myself clean later.
clean, but not fresh.
and you're not afraid, not yet.
no, you're not the one that will cower
in fear in corners of beds
in corners of rooms and closets,
all mirrors turned around.
you'll be able to look people in the eye.
but you're not the one that will recover. and you're not the one that will change.
no, you'll always be a monster, a beast of brutality and, eventually, regret.
but skin cells die and the body regenerates, and wounds,
well, they heal.
and i'm not there yet, but one day i will be.
first, i have to remember how to stand up.
not my story, but i'm sure this story belongs to someone and it's deserved to be said.
3/2/12.
Down the memory lane
The journey of my identity, my life
unfolded in a broad spectrum of events
Of how I reacted to life’s happenings.
Sometimes proactive, most times reactive.
Other times, I succumbed to the world,
My dreams hung in balance
Almost letting go,
especially my being."


Along that memory lane,
My faith builds on my ego,
Hope regenerates within my being,
Perseverance grows strong,
And self esteem heightens,
I hold on,
the portion of my being,

Beyond the memory lane
a new journey of my life
where the modern life
challenges my tradition beliefs,
no anticipation of overnight change,
but vivid imagination of  good life beyond today
when tradition and modernity blend well
in my being.
air invisible
heart vulnerable
Love indivisible
fear perpetuates
peace regenerates
A friend suggested writing a 10w poem in this format.
mel May 2015
lately it's been a mix of cold hellos and trying to drown out the unnerving voices inside my head telling me it's the perfect day to ******* and die. mostly, it's the latter. my teacher taught me that every 10 years our skeletal system regenerates itself and we, in the literal sense, become new people again. it's been eleven since you left and i still can't get the scent of you off my skin. how long does it take for a person to forget someone who made them feel like the neon lights that led to home? the answer is twenty bottles of ***** and a stranger's body to kiss, maybe even to hold afterwards. breakup ***, makeup ***, **** me til i pass out ***, it doesn't even feel the same without you ***, just come back i miss you so much i don't know who this person is please come back ***. my hands are weak and my body is shaking as if the tremors that quaked california five days ago were suddenly reincarnating as the sobs in my head. twenty bottles, eleven years, i'm still counting, still counting, still counting, still counting. i don't know what i'm waiting for.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Jan 2023
I just finished watching the movie LEAN ON ME (1989).

I graduated from Andover often considered the best high school in America. But the school I just watched in the movie is better than Andover. The school is Eastside High School in Paterson, NJ.

Morgan Freeman, who I consider the best actor ever, stars in the movie. If you have never seen the movie, see it now. If you have already seen it, see it again.

The story of the movie is a microcosm of the state of Earth. The new principal of Eastside, Joe Clark, played by Freeman, saves the high school and the lives of all associated with it--students, parents, teachers--through his love and the love he regenerates in all of them.

As I have said before, only love can save Earth, the love of all 8,000,000,000 of us.

Lean on all others.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Star BG May 2017
Love captures smiles
deep within eyes,
within hearts

reflections spiral
as mirrors expand views.

Sparrow sing
as footsteps dance
at doorways ajar.  

love dictates
in breeze as bells toll

in steno-like heartbeats
eyelids fluttering in drumroll
in moments unfold like wind.

Love inside dreamscape
regenerates, awakens
Oneness is realized.
As I keep on crying my heart is still dying
Even though I hate lying to myself
I just need to endure the pain
When ever I think of him my memory regenerates as my heart begs to make it real again
The locket in my chest will break whenever I finally forget
So far my locket is still stowed in the place it will stay forever.
Number 4 in the "story"
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Feb 2023
I just finished watching the movie LEAN ON ME (1989).

I graduated from Andover often considered the best high school in America. But the school I just watched in the movie is better than Andover. The school is Eastside High School in Paterson, NJ.

Morgan Freeman, who I consider the best actor ever, stars in the movie. If you have never seen the movie, see it now. If you have already seen it, see it again.

The story of the movie is a microcosm of the state of Earth. The new principal of Eastside, Joe Clark, played by Freeman, saves the high school and the lives of all associated with it--students, parents, teachers--through his love and the love he regenerates in all of them.

As I have said before, only love can save Earth, the love of all 8,000,000,000 of us.

Lean on all others.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Deeba Nov 2014
In the midst of a bright day
when sky gets covered up with dark clouds
it jeopardizes the well beings
of daily nuances.

But they fail to realize
that until you don't witness the darkness
you don't tend to appreciate
the beauty of the bright rays
peeping from behind the dark clouds

The mesmerizing rays
touches the soul skin deep
refreshes the senses
reclaims the victory of life
regenerates the novelty
and preserves the energy
to face another dark phase
Deeba Sep 2014
It started with an instant 'Yes',
Because the love in her heart never ends.
The proposal which was longing for years,
Has happened in an unexpected spheres.
But, Within seconds, thought processing started,
affecting the heart which was darted,
and the excitement in his heart suffered.
I know the night which could have been much more special,
But, was laid back in a thinking tussle.
The thought was not about the acceptance,
It was about to get out of the painful depression,
It was about to recreate the magic of essence.

But the mistakes of the past,
which are now years old,
Still play a spoil sport.
Love gets overshadowed with
negativity,
faults,
reality.

Can True love ever end?
If it regenerates, in 20 days does it descend?

Perhaps, that was not love,
It was only the need of reality thereof.

Only almighty knows what prevails in our fate,
I so badly long to be in his arms till the last date,
Just trying to bring back my soul from an emotional abate.
K Balachandran May 2017
I was a forest of wild desires
love engulfed it as wild fire,
lit by a spark from your eyes.
Never did I want to put it out,as
burning for what you gave me
was pure bliss,I realize.
The embers are alive, giving warmth
while the forest of desires regenerates
at a speed I  haven't known ever before.
Jamie Horridge Aug 2013
Idk
I think way too much
and I know I should stop
cause it's bad for me
But something tells me not to
and somehow
it's like it regenerates me
like I don't need a battery
I just need some of my brains energy
And I could stay up for eternity
And I'm telling you
              
                   **it's hurting me
beansprout Sep 2013
I love waking up with you next to me.
When I open my eyes and the first thing I see is you
I feel my love regenerates its self for you from your soft face, smooth voice and horrible morning breath.
I never loose the feelings that's you've helped me build for you.
It never decreases, only grows.
I am finding myself infatuated.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
i only have a limited budget of expenses,
most i prescribe on the stimulant tobacco,
the rest goes into alcohol that i
use to make sleeping pills effective
(they're not effective otherwise,
adding some generic painkiller to increase
the potency of the two, that makes three);
always the interesting articles in the Saturday
newspapers - a privatisation of a branch
of the N.H.S., concerning mental health:
after all, there's so much thinking you can do,
so many measurements of nano-metre disparities
you can take before you get to see
a gorilla spanking its Johnny -
look too much into an ape's *** and you'll
start thinking science was only there
to enforce subtle dogmatism into you -
nothing deviating mandatory scruples to argue drunk,
precisely non-deviating mandates to
then feel scruples for drinking, the hungover's:
i don't remember... write something before
the K.O., i'm sure writing something at the end
of the night will give you something resembling
hallucinogenic flashbacks, i get them,
i end the day by writing looking at sound
encoding and get an arnold schwarzenegger
action movie upon waking: do i remember what
i last thought, what i last ate, or... why did i put
that alarm clock in the fridge? i never said i was
abducted by aliens, i can tell you i saw a u.f.o.,
and a lightning strike without subsequent thunder,
i guess i overcame the sons of thunders
(loud mouth mobs that desecrated the Library of
Alexandria with their crucifix), to only find that
father thunder was blind... thunderous voice
on the mount of olives but hardly any illumination,
seen more illumination fro Buddha curbing thinking
and simply being, the reverse grammatical timing
of the same statement - by not thinking, simply being.
so as you know sleep regenerates the connectivity
of brain cells, not dreaming does even more miracles,
it doesn't exhaust the imagination, in honesty
the imagination gets lost, along with telepathy and
telekinetic susceptibility that ~needs proof -
or as one might say: write something so incomprehensible
that even if someone attempted plagiarism
they'd sound like some market stall seller of fish
or bananas... i forgot when the ditto meant as above
or as inherited, if not simply: that's ambiguity, that is.
but sometimes i get a sober night, and pause,
watch a few x-files (latter part of season 4, what a bomb!)
and pretend until 2 in the afternoon that i'm
not tired, then i experiment in shallow-grave somnia -
and when i dream, interjecting Saturday football results
and music by my uncles who do not share my
generation's woes, or those in the realm of Hades,
oddly enough, never utopia, once all the physical
ailments are cured, the mental ones comes,
primarily thanks to the atheist argument about
how we're all destroyed at the end of things, and
nothing about us is indestructible... well... fancy
remembering St. Augustine in the 21st century,
with all its sensibility, all its hoaxes, all its pride,
all of its immunity to the future... well... i'd
believe Fukuyama if his first name wasn't Francis,
but a Gaku or a Hironiri would still be worried
about perfecting his green tea brew or eating enough
nocturnally to become a sumo wrestler... not some
******* Francis birdie-talker of Assisi.
so yeah, i have my nights when the sleeping pills
and the alcohol isn't drank... i end up going beyond
the threshold of the waking hours, stretch the rubber
band and write a cascade...
we're living in terms where we have to sorta stop
idealising the mythical travels of Don Née χ Xi **,
and stick to our little scrap of Konigsberg land -
or as i thought it out, give my first volume
would be entitled (lovely vanity narrative, what the hell,
what do you think cognitive behavioural therapy
is that it isn't a walk in a zoo? they flip out cards
with words: happy, sad, nauseated, irritated...
and they don't even bother to teach you crosswords
to rebuild your cognitive narrative, for you still
have it as a manuscript, and not the script actors might
read... don't worry, they won't... manuscript short
of mono, enveloped in alone... and a thought for
good company) - πoη (pi omicron eta -
the polish word for poet is: poeta -
so you do some plastic surgery as to how and why we
age gracefully or disgracefully, like we appropriate spelling
of words, when already given spelling to sounds,
why π has an iota added to it, why it ***** off and
omicron comes along, while the micron ***** off,
and then comes fully **** η: πoη / poeta (never mind the silent
H... it gets a rebound with the other twin whenever you
hark or hiccup).
The feeling when I relapse
As though I have to start over again
Right back to the beginning
When I was so much closer to the end
Depression is like fighting a demon
That regenerates every time
Sometimes it takes longer
I start to think everything is fine
As I get stronger, it also gets stronger
But then I fail to catch up
So then when it gets stronger
Whatever I do doesn't seem enough
The demon then consumes me
So I submit to gather my strength
Through tears and mental perseverance
I escape to battle it again
Sometimes we don't understand what a Christian life is all about and what exactly it mean. How can somebody just live without knowing what he or she is living for? Its pity isn't it. Can you just walk the road without knowing where you are going and where you are from. We all need to know our purpose and the reason for everything that we do.

There is a battle between the flesh and the spirit. Some people choose not to understand what they see simply because they think ignorance is the only way to escape the battle. We all know about it and we all feel that but some of us choose not to stand the battle. The fact is that anytime you act like you don't know you are giving a chance for anything whether bad or good and even the bible say the time you lack wisdom, wisdom just to realize you will perish. Knowledge is a key to everything and once you choose it you will win in everything and even the battles of your innermost will be won unto your will.
I always loved to give this example of the two dogs fighting within. One is mean and evil and the other one is good, they fight we all know that but the truth is anytime we get a fight there is a winner and a looser, its natural. We all know the survival of the fittest and the one that you feed the most will be the fittest and it will surely take the belt.
What are you feeding the most, your flesh or your spirit? Some spiritual battles can not be fought by the flesh but nevertheless can the spirit fail to solve physical matters. The life we are living is supernatural, metaphysical and it takes the heart of the spirit to open up the undiscovered doors of the supernatural hidden in  the whelms of the spirit and gives the faith to the body for them to manifest in the physical. But this can only be done when the spirit has control to your everything. It knows already what you want but it will be waiting for the authority.

How can you give authority to the spirit? You need to fight this battle. Fight the common reasoning of the mind that covers a way to your sense of realization. Feed your spirit everyday that it will be fit enough to stand every battle. Humble your heart and make your body believe that the spirit can do it. Trust and have faith in your plans, have faith in what you haven't discovered. Open your eyes in the dark and see light all over and make it happen. The power of creation regenerates from your inner being, stop overshadowing it from creating. Then you will understand that this is the battle worthy fighting for.
fight believe hope
John McCafferty Jun 2020
Step through the clouded mist
Reflect upon the silver pane
Assist and improve to renew
the lesser side of you

As the body regenerates
in kind so can the mind
Rectify verbal constructs
There's still time to grow
in matching your actions

Stretch between your
panic and comfort zones
Observe parity with clarity
Lessons in self awareness are key
as you can't always be told what to be
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
In my most quiet of moments
I stir my heart.
The mixture it generates swells
Throughout my extremities coalescing
In this page, another finger painted start.
It contradicts that which is allways of mind.
It conjures up something yet defined.
Splattered words on the kettle’s crest
They fill the void with more or less.
Tinkering on a balance beam,
The right words jostle to be redeemed.

I could say they were me – my own gentle art -
But are they? Or are they just mine to take the part?
For they come from where I cannot see
And sometimes they go to where I cannot be.
They drive me around in an uncovered plea
Straight up to the heart of me.
Yet it is here in these pages that I belong
Found between the lines – how could I be wrong?
If I were to dismantle my heart here before your eyes
Would you understand its dissected replies?
I think I surely would if I thought that you could
Trace the lines inside of me – all the way to understood.

In this one place I take leave of myself
Pulling out everything from off the shelf.
Scattered on the floor – oh what is left?
With my hand I pick up another piece of myself.
Placing it here, covertly from right to left.
Could you ever know of such a scattered line?
If you could it would be the real me defined.
Yes, in my most quiet of moments
I stir my heart.
In the mix it regenerates me -
The real me -
**eeS oT uoY roF
Words are nothing more than symbols or signs. Many do not know this. They hold out the wrong sign all the time and then wonder why things happen the way that they do. In this piece by reversing just 4 little insignificant words I make the reader focus on what it is that they are seeing.
d Apr 2016
Last night I cut a hole along my hips
to try and remove the 10-year-old-stain.
Your skin regenerates every 27 days.
What a comfort that has been.
Yet your touch has seeped through the surface
and has sprouted roots inside my body.
Like a cancer, it grows.
Stretching and grabbing.
Devouring and swallowing up
the only thing I can call my own.
A sacred place, an area less than.

I cut a hole along my chest and opened up my ribcage.
Another place you left your mark.
Remove the point of disease and the disease will cease to exist.
I ripped and tore and thrashed away.
The muscle left weak but still beating.
Breathless and shaking I realized,
your roots continued to grow.

I cut a hole along the palm of my hand.
The hand I used to grab yours.
The hand I entrusted to you.
The hand that failed me.
The hand that saved me.
And what a sick irony that has been.
I separated the tendons, the ligaments from the muscle.
I looked for you between my fingers and under my nails.
The entire thing was tainted black.
Useless to me now, without former or future purpose.

I cut a hole along my neck.
The voice that abandoned my resides here.
I made a small puncture and drained it out.
But the infection wouldn't stop flowing.
It was no longer my voice, but yours that spilled from me.
It was endless, deep, thick and violent.
It felt warm like you.
And then cold again.

Defeated, last night, I cut holes.
Hannah Jan 2016
Friday night:
Time is a nonentity now.
Days last longer than the hairs I find scattered around my bedroom floor;
Weeks go so quickly that I can't remember
when I last heard myself think.

Saturday morning:
The world is still.
I open my window to feel the breeze of crying skies
as if they knew
but I didn’t listen.

Saturday night:
I come back stumbling
the night wind still in my hair
I grab your leg, you touch my mouth
It’s been hours since I tasted the *** and ***** but my tongue still tingles
And my fingertips echo the feeling along your hairline
I remember thinking “I’ll have to deal with this in the morning.”
But I’ve been known to procrastinate.

Sunday morning:
You kiss me on the way out
I don’t sleep.
Every time i close my eyes I can still feel hands on my skin
I have bruises in places I didn’t know existed
My lip swells slightly, and I tiptoe down the hall
wondering who knows my secret
I can’t bring myself to pick up the pile of black lace on my floor
a mark of reality

Monday:
They say your skin regenerates every seven months— I don’t want to have to wait that long.
I know I sealed my lips but i need to scream
so I do it in semi-private whispers

Tuesday:
We reverse roles as I realize I don’t feel
this is new but it seems natural
no– ordinary
I thought I’d have an awakening but instead I’m apathetic
and awkward.

Wednesday:
I confront the ox sitting on our tongues.
I prepared for every possibility, every answer, every worst-case-nuclear-situation
except
this one.
And for the first time all week I feel violated and vulnerable
with all my clothes on I am naked in front of you again
and I step back as a door closes in my face
Huddled in the corner of my room
I wonder if mimicking my mother’s womb could recreate the safety I felt
before you told me.

Thursday:
I thought I wanted numb, but this is worse.

Friday:
How many words can I come up with for being shunned?
I give up.
I’ve started going to the bathroom on my own now, no more bodyguards.


Saturday:
I’m fine.
No, really.
I’m more fine than you and yours
and that in and of itself makes my blood boil

Sunday:
I smile, and you flatten yourself against a wall to avoid me.
You don’t remember me cleaning up your drunk mess last night
for a moment I almost thought we were back to–
but no.
you are too detached
and too hurt
to find any sort of perspective in this mess

Monday:
He talks to me again, and I feel okay, finally.
There are pauses,
like our fumbling fingers in the dark,
but this time I have back up.
And even though everything is wrong, everything goes right.
From rock bottom, there is nowhere to go but up.
The story of my first kiss and the ensuing tumblr fiasco

— The End —