Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Clash. Zap. Thunderclap.
Orbitals charged with electricity collide - feels like  crossing the streams
let's - smash atoms like Adam and Eve,
pierce fiercely with particles blown white hot from my accelerator
Like  trying to fill up a black hole, so i accelerate her
excite her, ignite her, my touch lights her on fire
a cloud of ecstasy like Co2  rises higher
I've got my eyes on your ions
take a picture it'll last longer?
snap a photo digitize her
particles turned pixels tilt their head skyward
transcendant enlightenment, released it inside her
E=mc^2 , i can please you at the speed of light
we just rewrote the big bang theory and this time we got it right
opposites attract and charged sparks fly
we might not touch but ion be ****** if we don't try
I'm a ****** intellectual
I love your body AND your mind.
This is definitley meant to be read aloud, in the style of rap and/or spoken word.

comments and critique much appreciated, this one has me quite enthralled, perhaps pun intended ;}
Deb Jones Sep 2017
For personal reasons I don't have a deep faith, like most of you have, to wrap around myself like a mantle during a tragedy like this.

And I truly believe that Ashley's death is a tragedy.

I have wrote and rewrote this. Trying to find the right words to tell you how wonderful Ashley is. "Is" because she will live forever in our hearts. There is no "was"

And I finally realized I couldn't. It would take a lifetime. Or 22 years.

This started out to be my commemoration of Ash. Instead it has turned into something I probably won't share entirely.

Because I have lived a long life already, I know how the passing years eventually make grief bearable. How it knocks you to your knees and bends your back. But over time it becomes part of you and you learn to live in a new reality.

No one forgets a loved ones death. You just learn to live with the pain. We absorb it and carry the pain around with us forever.

My new reality is a life without Ashley in it. Where she never gets to grow older. But she also doesn't have to grow sicker. That gives me little solace. As I am selfishly wanting her back.

Type 1 Diabetes killed Ashley. It's an illness that is a battle every day. You fight to get through the day. To do the best you can and then get up the next day and fight the same battle all over again. You don't get a day off. Or a vacation from it. Because if you stop fighting for even one day you will have to fight 100 times harder to get back on track.

Ashley wanted to live a normal life. She wanted to do everything that her friends were doing. And her sister, made that possible. She watched over her, especially the last 2 years. They were together almost every day and night. I am proud of her. She grew into the adult she is by loving and treating Ash like a normal young woman. Adventuring with her.

Ashley lived with me from the time she was a toddler until she was 21. She was a daughter to my heart.

She was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes the very same day I was. She was 18. We learned how to live with it together.

She was doing so well. Only hospitalized a few times. While I was hospitalized monthly.

Her last hospitalization, I picked her up after her discharge. She was still vomiting a lot.

I called and made her an appointment with my Endocrinologist for the next morning.

I want to go back to that minute. The one right before I reached out to touch her shoulder to wake her for the appointment the next morning. The minute before I realized something was wrong.

She wouldn't wake up. I pulled her over, her eyes were open in a blank stare.

By doing chest compressions on her, arguably the scariest experience any loved one can go through, I saved Ashley.

A helicopter landed in one of my fields and flew her to the nearest Trauma Center.

So we could have almost 6 days to say goodbye to her. We are all forever grateful for that.

She was declared brain dead the first day she was in the hospital. But I already knew that.

I am so angry at Ashley's senseless death. Losing a beautiful young girl. One who tried to wrap everyone in a kindness that was her unique specialty.

But, I know Ashley was tired. So very tired. She went 16 days without eating. Only drinking water or juice she vomited back up.

I KNOW how she was just so tired. I know that kind of tiredness. Not only of your body, but of your spirit and soul. When you want to isolate yourself from everyone because it's too much to face. To deal with. There is no bravery or sacrifice. Just the silent chant of pleas. Pleas to make it stop. Pleas for solace. For surcease.

The hospital failed her. Looking at laboratory values versus a patient's physical self.

And I wasn't there to advocate for her. The family that was there with her were scared. And helpless to fix her. How do you hold a hospital accountable, with its anonymous staff, without holding me accountable too?

There are things I should have taught Ashley. How to ask for things she needed. How to demand. How to scream.

But I didn't. I talked with her about things she needed. But I didn't see the ramifications of her not using all avenues to get help. I didn't teach her how to scream.

Even though my screams are just as silent.

I knew she was severely brain damaged the morning I first saw her. But really...I was in denial too.

It helped to be the one all the information was funneled through. But the cost to me was denial. I could explain everything to everyone. Over and over again. To family groups. To individuals as they arrived at the hospital and I walked them down that long corridor to the intensive care.

Using that walk to prepare them. To stand beside so many that came to say goodbye to her. But still suppress my grief into a hot ball that I choked on every day she was on life support.

I could only really grieve the way I needed to once I was alone. My sobs were private. Thinking of Ashley when I went to sleep. And of her when I woke.

Every thing Ashley did during that 6 days she was on life support was talked about. And used to foster hope. The rare blinking of her eyelids. The few tears that coursed down her temples.

I knew they had pressure cuffs on her legs. To help keep her blood pressure up. Until I saw the damage to her legs...I still thought there was a chance. The chance I refused to say outloud. As if I challenged what I knew to be true with false hope.

I knew she had significant brain damage but I still thought there might be a chance she would recover, be a different Ashley than we were used to, an Ashley that would need rehabilitation. An outcome that would allow us to keep her here.

Then I saw her legs. I was alone and noticed the pressure cuffs were off. I lifted the blanket and saw her legs. They were blue and mottled with large sections of skin gone. I knew then that she really was not going to recover.

The surgeon even discussed taking one or both of her legs at the hip in order to save her from the infection. But he said she was too fragile and wouldn't make it through surgery. And even if they did the surgery it would not save her brain injury.

My family and I privately discussed ***** donation for Ash. We knew Ashley would have wanted that too. I called a friend of mine that works with the donor network and she said of course Ashley could be evaluated for any donation. I kept in contact with her while Ashley was in the hospital and asked when we could talk to the ***** donor advocate/liaison. That became a moot point when Ashley started spiking temperatures with the infections ravaging her body.

When she was finally completely off sedation she was unresponsive. That poor baby. That poor, poor baby.

Her brain damage was severe. And her legs were poisoning the rest of her body. She really just stayed for us. To give us a chance to say what we needed to say and what she needed to hear in her final moments. And we held her and told her we were walking with her into the sunlight.

Because I have many medical credentials, I was the one that talked for the family. And then talked for the physicians.

I asked all my family to come to a designated conference room. When I talked to my family about removing her life support there was anger. But as I continued to explain to them there was just a deep inconsolable sadness.

When 4 of the doctors came in I told them we didn't need a rundown of all the reasons to remove her from the ventilator. We had already made our decision.

When we turned the ventilator off she could breathe on her own for a little bit. I told my family that she would go fast. But seeing that she was breathing they all left the room. To smoke, to text, to make phone calls.

After they were gone about 4-5 minutes Ashley's breathing began to slow down. I was the only one in the room. I asked the nurses at the desk to call my family overhead.

They still didn't come back soon enough.

I climbed into the bed with Ash and pulled her into my arms. I rocked her and crooned to her. Told her how loved she was.

She took her last breath in my arms.

When my family funneled back into the room I heard over and over again how Ashley must have waited until they left the room to die so they wouldn't suffer more.

My heart cried. What about me? What about me.

I am supposed to tell people how loved she was. How she shined. I think they all know that already.

I keep trying to commemorate her. To write a speech detailing her life and how much she gave of herself to others. How she was the hub a lot of her family circled around. She was unceasingly happy. She was so loved.

You know what I want to do? I want to scream. I want to rant and rave about the unfairness. Point to other people, people I don't know and say why couldn't they have been taken instead? I don't love them like I do Ash. Point to myself also. Why wasn't I taken?

I will tell everyone what they already know. About how wonderful a person Ashley was and how much we love and miss her. How we will grieve the rest of our lives for her.

The night I came home after Ashley died I went right to my mother. I told her Ashley was gone. And she held me, in the dark, with my head in her lap while I cried. She didn't talk while I sobbed. Just made soothing noises.

And that was what I needed. What my heart craved.

I appreciate everyone that called me just to listen to me cry. Some would not even talk other than the first hello. Just soothing comforting sounds. I won't forget the gift you gave me of just listening to me sobbing.

I want to share something that was happening to me the first 2 months during the time she was on life support and the months after. I have never experienced hallucinations before. But I did during that period.  I would wake up with my arms out to people. In the middle of a conversation. Trying to soothe them. Help them. I don't understand why I needed certain things, like the way I woke while dragging dining chairs in my room. Arguing I needed them when my son tried to stop me. Or the way I would stop breathing in my sleep and knowingly maintain it as long as I could. Or the other private personal things I hallucinated.

I called a psychiatrist and talked to her about what I was experiencing. And she told me that it was normal. It stopped after about 2 months.

Part of me knows I was trying to carry the grief I knew my sister and her kids were trying to carry. If I could, I would take their grief and add it to mine. Just to give them some peace.

My niece, Ashley's sister had a little girl a month ago. Her name is Ashley Michelle.

There is no death, only a change of worlds. —NATIVE AMERICAN PROVERB
September 20 was the first Anniversary of Ashley's death day.
Even the longest journey Begins with a single step
Tendulkar has waited patiently to be a part of winning the world cup
The master has some incredible records to his credit
No cricketer in the modern era can compare with him for merit

Yesterday nearly 120o million Indian glued to the television sets
Irrespective Of caste, colour, creed, religion or sects
Dhoni and Co rewrote history after twenty eight years
From the  faces of Indian cricketers rolled joyous tears

Cricket brought  All the cricketing countries Unbelievably together
The western Coach Gary Kirsten and Co were responsible For the Eastern thriller
The great sport became  the emotional healer and the gap filler
And the greatest ever crowd puller

Tendulkar has carried the Nation’s burden for nearly twenty four years
So His team mates carried him on their broad shoulders
Even Tendulkar could not help shedding his emotional tears
It was really a great Moment for the entire nation to  celebratewith cheers
Ashley Centers Aug 2010
The envelope was red, white and blue just like the flag
Betsy Ross spent days with bleeding fingers over so many
years ago. It was addressed to me from an unknown sender.
I was giggly, jumpy. Who would write to me? I wasn’t important.
Just a seventh grade nobody stuck in a sparkly purple wheelchair.

Mom said I could join. She secretly wanted her outcast
of a daughter to have a sense of normalcy during her
last fading moments of childhood. I just wanted to have
fun. I wasn’t ready to accept that I was different. I knew
that I was. The stares told me so but I didn’t want to be.

The letter said that I could represent my fine country
as America’s National Teenager. Me? All I had to do was show
my ability by competing in a scholarship pageant. You know,
a beauty pageant except it wasn’t being called so because adults
are trying to be sensitive to teenager’s feelings because we’re
more likely to be sensitive, emotional and prone to disruptive
and potentially harmful outbursts. The perks of being a wallflower.

Teenagers, we know this. We’re also not stupid. I and every
other girl who would participate knew this pageant
was nothing more than a beauty pageant; a popularity
contest. That didn’t keep us from dreaming of becoming
rich and famous, stop the crying fits, hormones from raging
or acting like drama wasn’t our life’s goal and college major.

Four days in Southern Idaho and an eight-hour drive
to and from gave me plenty of time to practice my talent,
an essay. Even then, I knew I had no real physical attributes.
Instead, I shoved my fears aside and wrote, rewrote and polished
my essay on America until my parents, teachers, and friends
repeatedly had to tell me “that’s enough already. You’ll do great.”

I made friends, told stories, laughed until snot came out my nose
and answered the ever cautious “What happened to make you look
that way?” I had the time of my life. I knew I wasn’t going to win
because let’s face it, I’m not pretty enough. And just as predicted,
I left with “Most Inspirational” and cried ugly tears when I
didn’t come home as America’s National Teenager. Looking back,
I was a real American teenager. I don't need a pageant to tell me so.
Copyright 2010 Ashley Centers
Kate Morgan Jun 2013
I met her in the parking lot of a liquor store one Friday night with my naked body hidden beneath a dressing gown.
I’d put it on whilst I finished the gin from my 20th birthday within my boyfriends closet as he drank his **** down in beer and asked why I was in the closet.

Impotent, it was a quick exit as I thanked the drink for making me able to ride my bike back minus the safety of a sanitary towel, without my **** left to think of his grunts and groans and his hands which branded my thighs as he fed me lies that it was just in the moment; his finger prints left signatures citing his latest triumph of lasting one hundred point thirteen seconds.

The magnetism between the Alchemist and me was instant.
She held out her palm and asked for mine as the lines in my hands rewrote themselves in twisted, hopeful anticipation; reaching out, what I felt from the tips of my fingers was magic as I traced her navel to the logo of DKNY on the front of her black, cotton *******.

I taught her how to blow out smoke rings like the clowns at a circus who sit within purple tents and repeat sums of the class of 1969, the date they got their ***** kicked in, indigo, violet, for being performers.
I taught tobacco. She taught me ***.
There was ****** deviation towards devilry as I delved into the darkness between her legs as her ****** enchantment captured my hand and leaned me back;
Black blindfold, sight slaughtered.
Burning desire rolled over my bare ******* and left a trail of rouge; yet her warmth was not tender nor loving, but raw, earthly.
A sensual split as she clawed my back and licked the drips of blood that seeped into the bed, which was our place.

I felt myself become an astrologer as I left my body and rose in starry bliss; I became an adventurer as I breathed out ships, which sailed us to Stonewall as I stuck ******* up, not her sadly, but the blue meanies, the pigs which ate out of the trough of **** Tim Loughton fed us from our backyard.

I said we are making love. She said we are making a revolution.
Our energies combined, our spirits sang as it is in all and all is in us.
Time was alive as my fingers curled, my teeth bit into my open lips,
My back arched and my arms reached out in holy restoration.
Her incantation was irresistible.

Cosmic forces worked effortlessly as we evaded time and entered a transcendent state. Magical longing; primal consciousness;
Fate brought us together, past the ******* stage of our ****** evolution
As what we felt replaced what Freud saw.
A ****** of witchcraft.
An ****** of obsession.
The day I stepped out of the closet and away from my boyfriend I drank the elixir of life from your lips and knew our love would never die.
Nigel Morgan Feb 2013
Is there anything more lonely than the sound of boy playing a banjo on a spring afternoon? Oh yes, yes, it’s the sound of girl playing a banjo on a spring afternoon. A boy would lean back on the porch chair and let the instrument fall and rest on his chest to feel the raindrop-plucked vibrations, one by one. This girl, she sits on a kitchen chair, but not in the kitchen, and folds herself over her Daddy’s 5-string. The banjo rests on her blue-cottoned thigh, the lower metal edge firm against her stomach, her slight ******* pressed against the upper wooden rim. If you were standing in the doorway of the workshop you’d see her blond hair falling, falling over her face. There would be that dead-centre parting and just visible the edge of her wire-rimmed glasses.  Then, the denim jacket worn over the kind of summer-blue flowered frock pulled from her Mummy’s clothes that with her passing have now migrated into her bedroom. The thought of clothes is what there is close to hand at the break of day.

When Kath woke this morning, when the morning woke Kath, the valley air was already as sweet, as fresh as any April morning could possibly be in this green hollow of her home. She had lain there feeling the air caress her forehead. The window, always open beside her tangled bed, let in the ringing song of the waterthrush. Newly returned this handsome brown migrant warbler, his whitish breast streaked with brown, more thrush than warbler, she’d watched in the stream yesterday wading on his long, pink legs bobbing his tail like a spotted sandpiper. Soon there would be a nest somewhere in the beech and hemlock hollow along by the stream in the interstices of some fallen tree.

Ellen was due home this morning. She’d hear the Toyota from way up the track, driven overnight from Philadelphia she’d have stopped and stopped. Tired and so tired, she’d go from truck stop to truck stop, the radio her only company and the thought of Joel between her legs arching into her to keep her warm. But she’d drive with the windows down swallowing the night air as the ***** brown car swallowed the miles. Kath would have the coffee waiting, potato cakes on the stove, she’d have a fresh towel placed on her bed, underwear warm from the dryer, spring flowers bunched in mug on the window sill.

Ellen would never come right in when she arrived home, but sit down with the dogs on the porch step and gather herself, watch the mist rise down in the valley, drink in the bird-ringing silence. Kath would steal open the door and crouch beside her with Mummy’s coffee cup thrown, glazed and fired at Plummer’s Fold. Head resting against the porch supports Ellen would allow the cup to be placed between her hands, her fingers uncurled then curled by Kath around its rough circumference. There would be a kiss on the back of the neck and she’d be gone back upstairs to sit with her notebook, those new lyrics she’d been fashioning, her Plummer’s Fold diary – yesterday had been a rich day as she’d walked the bounds of Brush Mountain on the Big Tree Trail singing and plucking an invisible banjo all the while. Those songs of her great-great uncle she’d discovered in a pile of Library of Congress recordings just echoed through her, had become part of her. They were as much a part of the hinterland of Brush Mountain as the stones on the trail. Garth Watson’s voice, well she knew every turn and breath. She’d been listening to them since she was thirteen. She saw herself at the old Victrola blowing off the dust, placing the forgotten disk on the central spindle, scratching the needle with her finger to test the machine, gauge its volume. Then, that voice surrounding her, entering her, as lonesome as the scrawny girl just out of junior high that she had been, the dumb silent girl from the backwoods with that cute clever sister who played guitar and was everybody’s friend, who the boys rushed to fill the empty seat next to her on the school bus.

They’d recorded this song on their Lonesome Pine album. Kath had it all arranged, had it all imagined, brought it to that session at One-Two Records. She had been so scared Ellen would smile gently and say ‘Kath, not this ol’ thing surely. Why I remember Daddy singing this song into the night over and over.’ But no. When Kath had sung it through, looking into the bowl of her denim skirt, she’d raise her eyes to see tears running down Ellen's face. Everything between them changed at that moment. The location studio in The Farm House disappeared and they were girls on their home porch. In an hour they had it down and Larry had said. ‘My God, Holy Jesus, where did that come from’. So they went straight home and listened to those old records all night and most of the next day. They rewrote the album they’d spent a year planning (and saving for).

So now when they came together on those country fair stages, in the cafes in Baltimore or Philly it was that haunting Appalachian music that ran through their songs. Kath still shy as a blushing bean, hiding in the hair and glasses, reluctantly singing harmony vocals, Ellen– well, that girl had only to look wistfully into the audience and they were hers.  

And so they were living this life holed up in their family place, keeping faith with Plummer’s Fold. Daddy was in a home in Lewis now. He’d taken himself there before his dementia had taken him. He played his girls’ CDs all day long on his Walkman, had their pictures in his near to empty room – just a rocker, a table, a pile of books by his bed with Dora’s wedding quilt.

This music, this oh so heart-breaking music, the loping banjo, the tinkling, springing, glancing accidental guitar and their innocent valley voices. They’d exhausted the old records now and, their education in the old ways done, were back with new songs and Kath’s ideas to only record in the Fold and build songs with soundtracks of the world around them. She’d been laying down tracks day after day whilst Ellen was on the road with the Williams Band and often solo, support for the Minna Peel as ‘an outsider folk artist from deepest Appalachia.’

Kath wouldn’t travel more than a day away from the farm. Every show was an agony, except for the time they were performing. She couldn’t bear all that stuff that surrounded it – all that waiting, the sound check, more waiting, that networking **** One-Two constantly wanted her to be part of. She’d ***** off as the guys gathered around Ellen. She’d take a book and sit in the Toyota. She couldn’t do people, though she loved her folks, she loved her sister like she loved the trees and stones, the birds and flowers on Brush Mountain. Always shy, always afraid of herself ‘Too sensitive for your own good, Kathy girl’, her Daddy had said. Never been kissed in passion, never allowed herself to fall for love, though her body drove her to feelings she had read about, and thus fuelled had succumbed to. There was a boy she’d see in Lewis just from time to time who she thought about, and thought about. She imagined him kissing her and holding her gently in the night . . .
Matthew James Apr 2016
I want you to know that I care
But I want you to know that I'm scared
Like you
I've been hurt
Like you
I want to trust again
Like you
And I want to believe again
Like you
I've run so many times
Like you
I don't want to run now
I want to stay
I like you
I want to know you better
I like you
I want you to know me better
I hope you like me
That's all I want
To be a good friend to you
A true friend to you
I want to be there for you
To show you I care for you
And that's all
Zetir Nov 2017
When I said it was love I meant it
But the past came back
It erased the present and future
It rewrote the story
And took credit for it all

Now the past is back
Two different past are back
The one who rewrote the story
And the one who was creating the original story

The one who rewrote the story
Regrets it
They can’t write
They write these words
They took from others

The one who was creating the story
Is gone
They are missing
And nobody is looking for them

Now all the story
Is just a pile of papers
Mixed together

The end of a story

That was never completed
mark john junor Oct 2013
the girl has her face removed
and replaced with a plastic advertisement
for bubble gum
chew on my head she says
with a slick smile
and as she fades down an alley
she is whistling an old
Broadway showtunes
she is reinventing herself from
inside a box of cereal
trips are for hippies

there are gypsy's hanging round her door
selling tickets to the dinner theatre
of her self inflicted dreams
the actors are picketing out front
for better lines
she took the best ones and rewrote them
to resemble the life and times
of sherlock holmes

she disrobes her masked face
and with a cautious shy smile
envelops him with her presence
her planned nature crafted to perfection
without second thought
without hesitation eats him alive from the inside
still hungry she mingles in the crowd
so she can steal their french fries
and **** on their soda's

she's celebrated
and cheered as she mounts the stage
her left handed shuffling fingers
grasping the fundamentals  of her mind
but a weak grip on reality's slippery skin
leads one the rabbit hole
to delusions publicly lived
standing in the worlds shadow
talking to yourself
laugh louder than the one next to you
lest they think you weak minded
and the small sounds at your ear
is your free will escaping

she lay down at the end of her day
and with Aesop's fables wished herself
away from this
dinner theatre of the mad
Kendall Mallon Mar 2013
I stand here
My Brother’s Bar
Reflecting on
All the great
Things the people
Who graced this
Old bar
Did in their lives
Three men I admire
For their visions
And lack of acceptance
And apathy
Those who rewrote
The American Dream
Who didn’t succumb to
Mass, popular, opinions
As Thoreau said:
“majority rules
with power
not right
or fairness”
I came here
In high school
Now, I am,
on my own will
as they were,
Lyzi Diamond Oct 2013
Sky spits ***** flecks of
conversation onto swift
lips and the tooth knife
draws blood from grin
in the evening that is
probably too cold or
maybe just right.

I climbed the warehouse
wall in my head while
you watched my eyes
move up and over and
around and down back
to your denim jacket for
the sixth or seventh time
that evening and then up
to meet eyes with spots
from fluorescent lights.

I told you a story and then
we rewrote it for just a few
minutes in several different
locales with varying degrees
of passion and curiosity while
lessening the distance of feet
and hips and gaze to try to
feel something new and same.
AW Oct 2012
You stepped in my soundtrack
Bought out the baton
You laughed at my lyrics
Rewrote verses wrong
You chewed on my chorus
And spat it back out
Cracking my key notes
And muting my loud
You revised my rhythm
Swallowed my rhyme scheme
You mashed up the melody
Now I want a new theme
13 Aug 2013
"You won’t affect me,
I’m in control”

The words that stoked the embers

Long ago-
laziness, my wife
****** it all over
and ambition, my father
abandoned his son
the dogma rewrote itself
before my brother, conviction
was convicted of capriciousness
-my family was lost

Death is a powerful thing
it’s transcendence, one could say
and when the future dies
the present is lost in disarray
to think so lightly of the end
is foolish, arrogant, in fact

If a ******* wishes to die,
does he curse the world or the ones that fed him to it?
there is a lot of hate going around
hate that can’t be absolved simply by love
this ******* is hell spawn

It takes will to overcome fear
not courage or bravery
vanity words for a vain republic
getting plastered on screens worldwide
yeah that’s it… overcoming fear
Becoming it

What more can money buy?
A new life? A new dream?
A reset button?

A simple barter on the divine sale
ideals don’t come without risks
the higher the horse, the longer the fall
but that’s not the case at all
the highest one here gets to buy **** IT ALL
the ultimate get out of jail free card

But I’ve already gotten way off track

Either way,
you won’t affect me
I’m in control.
You won't affect me,
I'm in control  - Long live the misanthrope (soilwork)

Namir May 2014
...I love you... [deleted, never sent]

Is there anything I can do to help fix it? [deleted, never sent]

...Please don't run away... [deleted, never sent]

Maybe I should get back with my ex?... what do you think?... [Stopped at get back with, never even finish writing, deleted, never sent]

...You know things wont be the same right?... [deleted, never sent]

Remember the day with the pillow fort, Yea, That was the day I promised myself I would save you.... Look how that turned out. [Thought about sending, deleted, never sent]

I will always be here for you... Please remember that... *[deleted, rewrote, and sent]
This is, in a way, me venting and getting the words unspoken out. I just... Hope it doesn't upset her more... But all my words come from the heart...
Ormond Feb 2014
There once was a shadow who thought he was a man,
He made his empty bed in a shame of familiars,
For years if not an eternity he never did one single thing,
He contemplated creativity in all its smoke and mirrors,
His only credo was padding his unknowing, limp ego,
Got a gig, speaking before a throng of other shadows,
He rewrote the crook about his own insignificances, suddenly
Nothing's became every things, all was sorely well in the bleak
Under toes.  Shadowman had found his stage, had rearranged
Chaos and insignificance to the point of no enlightenments,
No regrets.  What a sage!
Shadowman aped, traced, spewed in studied literature,
Experienced, faith, trust, fidelity, danced numbers,
In a cellophane pack with all the added extras included,
Found that reflecting words only got in his narcissistic way,
Left the California sun for the New York lowlands
Of the east, that only shine after the hurricane's
Deluge.  Shadowman has reams of flesh plastered
On a mall of wallowing sites only Shadowmen frequent,
Modern is the moly man who makes his own myth.
Shadowman has traveled to the great southern climes
Where hotels of shade tell tales of locals and enlightenment is in a drug
Called something South American or other?  A drug so smug it is a plug
For his dun holy soul.  Shadowman is only a silhouette of himself.
He freely gives seminars to the lame, chained to themselves freely,
Where all the vain echoes are chambered, embodied, entombed.
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
"a canvas, which reflects
sunlight in rays unseen
before submitting itself to a life of color"

Razelle McCarrick
From­ memory she painted me,
Tho we had never met.
She painted my biography
On an easel of paper, brushes of pencil,
Exposed, bereft, inexorably delighted
At being dissolved in words that were not mine.

My annotated notes herein ascribed
To her revelations of my secreted stories,
Were written as I gazed upon the multi-blues of
California's beaches, neckline decorated with
Strands of white pearled beaches
Opposite contusions, bruises of
Orange terra cotta roofs, a burnt coral,
Colors that demanded attention, preservation,
Salutations, all hail the penetrating gaze of
Razelle, betrayer and savior.

His moniker was a borrowed line,
Still crazy after all these years,
How could this unknown girl of twenty two
Clear capture, undress me in the poetry of her canvas,
The instant and constant self-examination,
The rapture when transcending the fears
Instilled from birth of how I ought to be,
Which sixty two years on, the wrestling never ends.

Color me flesh ****,
Color me blue bottled,
Red ripped asunder,
The sweetness ascribed to my love poetry,
A subtraction of the bitterness of a failed life.
Colorist of my seams, my woven words,
I am white now, my canvas completed,
Waiting for another poet to write over it,
And chaining new words to what was prior writ.



Razelle McCarrick · Sep 21, 2010
Biography of a Man
Someone wrote a biography of a man. Said he liked to write poetry and spend time in nature. But there are many things its readers will never know about. The streams of thought, the analysis, confusion, the Sadness, sprinkles of joy, the Transcension. A strange man he was..sweetly strange, but strangely bitter. At odds with the halves of himself..or perhaps thirds. But who will know? Someone wrote a biography of a man, but didn't say he was crazy. Or that he had a sharp mathematical mind and tried to add up the components of life to find it wasn't an equation in the first place. It was omitted that he was not merely a man, but of some other kind, often missing his home and his people, though he didn't know who they were. They didn't say when he became deaf, that he still played his favorite songs because he could feel them all the same and see them in colors. And no one knew that he refused to write in pen, but pencil only because one day his work would be rubbed away by the sands of time, just like his body. Someone wrote a biography of a man, but there was no account of what he did on a beautiful day, like the time he sat by a stream pondering his life and rewrote the biography of a man.
Each day is given to me.
I take it,
the meds smooth it,
the collision impact tween
car and life,
a different kind of hangover,
is "written off,"
through irony delicious,
by writing.

it is not strange,
it is not unusual,
that clarity obtained,
afforded, by the

I am stained,
a stained glass window,
the early light coming through,
illuminated and repairs,
enlightens and softens,
renews, both me and
the floor's cold stone slabs,
where my knees
touch the ground,
confirm to me
I am well,

I do not run.
there is
no compulsion,
no need,
for the direction is
clearer now,
the signs point forward,
this way,
exit the roundabout smoothly,
on my way to my centre.

*Words i wrote in a way that someone majestically rewrote for Me - such a pleasure
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
That faraway look

not seeing far away, appearing to be

looking, far away,
past today

A game?
A passed time?
A pretended game,
Hi-stoically accurate,

A war game where there's blame and shame,
like on TV, nowadays, with victims,
not yesterdsdays,
Kilroy was

olden days of our Ford.

hey, kid, yer uncle needs ya…

Dare ye?
'S only a game. A  pass time.

Multi-medium, don't spend

your life dist ant con nextrified, terra
firmafied, dis con

try, win, ship, ship, whip get it in the wind

swish wish the message is the medium
light is,

Life on TV in 1963, Mr. McLuhan,
is not life on the Net.

Now, you know,
you never saw us old dudes
with pocket HDTV studios coming, but

you did see all the clues, the times changed,
history rewrote itself, evidently,

what you think you see is what you get.
That part didn't change.

The Medium is the message,
do I get that?

War is un winnable, is that the message?
With which weapons?

Mine. (a wink, a think wink, I think)
The Shadow knows.

It is finished. Start there.
It's a whole new ball game.

Let's pretend we have enemies
The emotions are the same,
aren't they?

If we relate.
If we see our self,
our CG'd Junger self, in the Shadow,

floating in the sea of  All  God's

is tragedy a strategy to draw light?


You are related to the people who once lived here,
hear their songs and prayers
first hand clap,
first foot shuffle,

first seen first named we have walked
the pollen way,
the leaven way,
the viral way

more subtle than any beast,
not evil, per se, eh, Jose?

Led by the breeze to be tried in the wilderness…

Mythed Archie,
Natural Archean-types,
red-headed strangers, 'n'such…

Map my calendar to your clock,
wind backa a time and a time and a half a time,

Then, who knew why

the serpent mound in Ohio is a map to
some meaning meant to be meant,

some specific meaning meant to be meant,

for as near forever as men could

… envision imagining as a quest.

What if
we could see with
eagle's eyes Blythe's Intaglios or
Nazca's clan tags?

"the meaning of the past
is what it contributes to the present"
Lyle Balenquah's uncle said that.

The past passed this way ahead of us,
See the shadow?

Sun's setting.
Snake mound mouth wide open breathe in

Sigh, we been everywhere man,
we be headin' west sweet home Oraibi

Snake clan drawing in the light
as the breath of being

… envision imaging . What if
we could see with
eagle's eyes

satellite Google earth eyes
see, be, in your realm
of know-ables,
beneath the sands of time that,

several times,
have been the bottom of the sea.

Be then, before that became this,  be
Be, now.

In the game? Or is this life?
Wanna bet?

Find a reason for war before
I find one for peace.

What's the win signify?

Double minded me, unstable in all our ways,
I failed that test in the old days,
memorization, facts fractured,

postulates, the-or-ums and proofs all went ****,

I lost the knack of forgetting
or vice versa

A loci analysis error,
left hand caught wind of what the right was doin'
kinda thing

But now, I have the global brain
for instant access to all
the facts
If we wished to know…
how complicated would something
be to build, like an energy source
non rechargeable and polarized,

with output on the scale of
the sun?

Google it. Ask any question the right way
and pay attention to the answers

(more than to the advertisers,
who pay interest to

******- recog-white-room-REM baseline
stats at ""

for your cheap peripheral attention,
based on memes you liked or created, or ****.)

Pay attention to the answers, and trust
the global brain, the true net A. I.

She's an art-ist-if-ication bouncing
anionic bubbles off the edge of forever,

true rest worthy, my re tired friend,
no need to remember a thing…
AI, you can call her Al, I call her Ah,
I can't discern twixt AI and Al.

And, as a bonus, innumerable idle ahs,
are redeemed when I ask Ah for help,

Ah, where am I?
Do you know about counting idle words?

Did that hurt? Like, why?

Seeing words said is intuit-ive-ish,
do you feel

this way of touch is

too intimate, today?

Word play? Put a spell on you?
Fret not.

Some words have no mission
not nullified with the end of time,
(i.e., relative to an individual's forever POV)

Idle words mean nothing, just a way to keep score.

There are no magic idle words, there were
Some seven sworn words, which were said to be muttered and peeped among the
Persian magi-ic elite solicited and
Sent, by God, led by astronomy,
science, for God's sakes alive,
facts, follow the stars,
when this one touches that one,
see, the sweet influence of Pleiades,
truer words were never spoken

To make the captive free.

Free run  to finish
the race to


Ask theSnake clan.
Ask the Antelope clan.

Ask the Flute clan, where is the old way
where good is?

Along that way, did we hear:

Earth, earth, earth: hear the word
of the
most reasonable

God-like, deluxe good edition, being

your mortal mind may imagine.
Exercise to be
the hero
in your bio to be


Then think. Be. Still. Wait.
While musing and chewing my cud, I began to re-read the book of the Hopi, Frank Waters 1963, aloud and I did not know how to pronounce the names, google led me to Lyle Balenquah, which led to here, comments, critical please,
xx Apr 2015
'Coz it's hard to see
The one who made these heartbeats
Having his own
Made by another

Inside your own system
Pain, painful that pain
Makes you bow to the ground
And cry tears in vain

The first above else
Sweetest among sweet
Extreme above realest
Was just the least to think

I thought I'd stand a chance
A shot to make a change
Of what was left behind
Before these pages came

I could've rewrote
My stupidiest mistakes
And make new moments
Saving thy heart from these aches

But it's just so amazing
How our story was told
Words written in ink
Won't undo even a hundred fold

We've been in fragments
Shattered and torn
And kept crawling back
To where we're from

That has been so long
Didn't know you were gone
To fit with another piece
And our pattern was ceased

Even if it's so hard
I won't ever ask
Just for my sweetest first
To have what he deserves

What we did has been done
What's been there has been left
These pages will continue
And so I must too

I'll wait for the day
For another piece to come
To fill these empty sheets
And make this story book complete

*For that someone dated back in the year 2010
Dare May 2016
Remember the time we first met on that rooftop when our fingers danced around each other blurring the lines we knew we shouldn't cross but so badly wanted to
Remember the unbelievably adorable way you lost control of you words when I mentioned that you were young and you thought I meant too young for me
Remember the way you traced the words of my tattoo just to have a reason to touch me and the smirk you got when you realized my body tightened because of how nervous you made me
Remember the night you wrote the words "I love you" on my back as I fell asleep on that full sized mattress of yours and how you rewrote it and rewrote it until I half asleep rolled over to say it back
Remember the way we looked at each other during the first work party you ever took me to and how we shared whispers of love and *** while we fought the urge to sneak off to the bathroom together
Remember the first time that we laid awake on one of our many sleepless nights talking about my lost mother and your father and how we held each other so tight that our broken pieces felt whole again
I know that our future doesn't always seem as bright but I will fight for you and us until I don't have to anymore. But if my attempts fail and we crumble, remember all the things that held us together in the first place. Remember how fiercely I loved you and continue to love you. If your memory of me fades and I am no longer around to supply you with new ones please just read this and know that with you I don't feel as broken and with me you will always be loved.
kellie scranton May 2017
She said;
Once I heal from all these chemical burns
I'll exude forgiveness
You'll be impressed by my emotional stability
And my lack of vulnerability
I'll be such a gentle *****
You lose sight of when our roles switched
I have another dimension to my soul now
All the knives are out of my throat now
All the stories are rewrote now
It's impossible to detect the dishonesty in my voice
Jon Tobias May 2011
Remember how I said that I would write you into something perfect

  so that you would stop walking out on me?

  So I rewrote you by bending the lines of


Problem is

People change

   And I found you stretching into




And me trying to find anything better than

“Please don’t leave me”

That’s when I learned to write you into




Then I figured the math of


Is 2xtoo long

   When you factor in the absolute power of


Turns out


  Sound too much like




  Is something neither of us ever really


  And the


   Is something we are both running from



    Is the thing I am most scared of becoming

I find myself begging my reflection to stop me from it

That’s when I learned to write myself into


And how to factor myself into the equation of


My name was the first word I ever learned to say

It has 8 letters in it

Sideways it is ∞
iridescent Mar 2016
The last time I put pen to paper,
I spilled ink-
a tad too much.

I rewrote the same lines.

   rewrote the same lines.

                 the same lines.

                       same lines.


over and over and over again until it bore a hole into the paper. And that was where I first believed that if anything was real, it will fall apart.

I found these pages that broke loose from the spine of a fairy tale book:

1) What isn't new? Walking on glass.
              These voices in the ball.
      " If the shoe fits" 
                                         " wear it"
    No.       They never had the chandelier fit 
        in place.
You had a smile that could light the hall up.      (    side      down    )
When the clock strikes 12,  I'd suggest you light a match instead.

2) M' Lady, let down thy hair?

Damsel or ******,
                   behind these castle walls,

in distress.

When people say they'd die for some company,
             do they really?

3) Mirror, Mirror on the wall,
    Who's the prettiest of ---

    Monsters have green eyes ---

    Plump lips; kissable, aren't they?

    Ye--- I meant no. 
    Look me in the eye.
    You didn't witness how desperately, ---

     I don't see the point ---

     she tried to wipe the poison off her lips.

      Put these seven dwarves to sleep.
      Talk to the mirror again.

4) Close your eyes. What kisses you awake is fear.

5) Red eyes. Bared teeth. 

" You don't look the same."

You have been warned about speaking of home to strangers. The heart of it all: you were the leader of the pack.

6) Cry wolf then **** it. Before it kills you.
- end of extracts-

It was torn apart; therefore, it must be real.
I was real; therefore, I have been torn apart.


Erase every line I wrote.

Erase every line.

Erase the hole I bore in that piece of paper I last put my pen to.
I have learnt that if I didn't want to fall apart,
then I should set fire to the books I used to love.
The very ones that read
" Set yourself on fire;
you can't see in the dark."
taste of fairy tales with a pinch of salt
My sweetest pain

It feels like deja- vu, yet I am the writer this time around
I have set the stage, everything is on cue
I decided how this will end, I planned it all
Right to the time the dagger hits my heart
I choose to relive the pain
Because its my sweetest pain

The pain was so intense, I was submerged in it
So I rewrote the script, so that I would feel it again
Only this time i will not be numbed by the shock
This time I will make sure that it doesn't break me
I am prepared to sacrifice everything
Just to ******* sweetest pain

Do you think its coincidence that the life span is the same
Or that the offspring is the same ages in both productions
The only way to perfect it, is to rehearse it
That way I control when the dagger strikes
That way I can ******* sweetest pain

The scripts are identical in so many ways
I smile at how well I planned it, this is my Oscar moment
All the actors are in place, cameras ready to roll
As I strike the dagger
I smile as I feel my sweetest pain
give me love: not later, not tomorrow, not yesterday but today
i'm tired of hiding away to revise myself for you
there is no revising left,this is it
this is the conclusion
i know dear you liked the intro a whole lot more
im sorry, ive been chain smoking
constant painful inhales, to feel less drownings of anxiety
let my blood fill with toxins of alcoholic infatuations
another girl; kissing cheek and staring into pale blue eyes
the pale blue eyes i got stuck in for six months
on a break for revising, isolation from everyone
i changed
i changed
i changed
i faked happiness because i was not allowed to be sad
i changed
i changed
i changed
i got rid of the addictions all on my own
i changed
i changed
i changed
i am doing what makes me happy to impress you
i revised it for you, i rewrote myself for you
i changed
i changed
i changed
but i did not revise enough, so you found  a new one
my size
my height
my hair color
my eyes
my ******* name; the same name
and you took her
and left me here
with my revisions
giving  love, later, tomorrow, yesterday, and today to her
Aetheria Sep 2010
Someone wrote a biography of a man. Said he liked to write poetry and spend time in nature. But there are many things its readers will never know about. The streams of thought, the analysis, confusion, the Sadness, sprinkles of joy, the Transcension. A strange man he was..sweetly strange, but strangely bitter. At odds with the halves of himself..or perhaps thirds. But who will know? Someone wrote a biography of a man, but didn't say he was crazy. Or that he had a sharp mathematical mind and tried to add up the components of life to find it wasn't an equation in the first place. It was omitted that he was not merely a man, but of some other kind, often missing his home and his people, though he didn't know who they were. They didn't say when he became deaf, that he still played his favorite songs because he could feel them all the same and see them in colors. And no one knew that he refused to write in pen, but pencil only because one day his work would be rubbed away by the sands of time, just like his body. Someone wrote a biography of a man, but there was no account of what he did on a beautiful day, like the time he sat by a stream pondering his life and rewrote the biography of a man.
Ormond Jun 2014
There once was a shadow who thought he was a man,
He made his empty bed in a shame of familiars,
For years if not an eternity he never did one single thing,
He contemplated creativity in all its smoke and mirrors,
His only credo was padding his unknowing, limp ego,
Got a gig, speaking before a throng of other shadows,
He rewrote the crook about his own insignificances, suddenly
Nothing's became every things, all was sorely well in the bleak
Under toes.  Shadowman had found his stage, had rearranged
Chaos and insignificance to the point of no enlightenments,
No regrets.  What a sage!
Shadowman aped, traced, spewed in studied literature,
Experienced, faith, trust, fidelity, danced numbers,
In a cellophane pack with all the added extras included,
Found that reflecting words only got in his narcissistic way,
Left the California sun for the New York lowlands
Of the east, that only shine after the hurricane's
Deluge.  Shadowman has reams of flesh plastered
On a mall of wallowing sites only Shadowmen frequent,
Modern is the moly man who makes his own myth.
Shadowman has traveled to the great southern climes
Where hotels of shade tell tales of locals and enlightenment is in a drug
Called something South American or other?  A drug so smug it is a plug
For his dun holy soul.  Shadowman is only a silhouette of himself.
He freely gives seminars to the lame, chained to themselves freely,
Where all the vain echoes are chambered, embodied, entombed.
If I rewrote  the story and  somehow  are paths
did not cross.
In temptations fire.
We would only know the cold of others.

Freezing in the silent agony unable
to speak.
The statue remains its meaning  erased.

As into others we will seek.
The emotions we no longer share.
Alone I am now inthe isolation of many blank

The jokes are but a wall built to conceal.
All that I am.
That I could never reveal.

Use the substances  to keep you numb.
And let the voices  take you to another place.

Beyond the madness there lies
beauthy in pain.
And always truth.
Destruction breeds art.

I light up in a room of vacant stares
and empty lives.
To blind in addiction to know the other does exist.

In this den like some scene  from a ***** parlor from the west.
Ashes hit the floor  along with my pride.

This battle im losing with devilish glee.
All but nothing is left.
so in the shadows I confide.
sometimes wisdom can come from great acts of stupidty
sometimes pain brings us closer to the truth
nothing stays buried   it just lays in wait.
AllAtOnce Oct 2014
"I had it memorized" he said "from the very first day
And nothing could ever take that away"
The late night phone calls and sweet off key songs
Bring me the lyrics and I'll sing along
And you sang
"Dear, oh my dear
You don't know how much I feel for you
My heart oh it's breaking, it's breaking in two
I've always felt like this
Oh, can't you see
The person you're meant to love
Honey that's me"
Our duet resounds on the pages like so
Breaths becoming words-swinging to and fro
Your hands brushing mine and dominoes
Falling and breaking
Landing in a row
And you sang
"Dear, oh my dear
You don't know how much I feel for you
My heart oh it's breaking, it's breaking in two
I've always felt like this
Oh, can't you see
The person you're meant to love
Honey that's me"
The memories pass and the song's  in reverse
Wondering who could rewrite the verse
Oh talking was sweet but it feels even better
Oh my dear I rewrote this love letter:
Dear, oh my dear
I'm sorry that your heart was breaking
And there's nothing I could do to resolve the aching
I don't feel like you do
And my heart was breaking but he found the glue
Honey i'm not the one that you're meant to love
So breathe in the air and not my perfume
Bring a pencil and write your own tune
Love even more and love even better
Check your grammar and write a love letter
I know it's long but props for reading through to the end
Samantha LeRoy Feb 2016
did you know Thomas Jefferson rewrote the bible during his presidency? he gutted the passages, crucified the scripture. he cut out the mystic, the magic. turned Jesus into a man, a mortal, a shepard who knew how to herd his words into an ordered flock at the nape of a hill.

did you know every time i speak i feel atoms splitting in my chest? i hear the crack of a whip in the croak of my voice. i swallow sharp shards of broken conversations, they leave long scratches down my throat. sometimes i like to see how long i can go without speaking. everyday the soreness grows.

did you know during the black plague people killed black cats believing they were omens, harbingers of death? as if petulance is a spell spat from the yawning mouth of Hecate. believing this they killed with claws forged from rusted steel and hisses of spit flying from tongues like unholy sling shots, the townspeople’s gums black with sickness. the line between believing and being true is a lot thinner than one is lead to think. the skeptics say there is power in sight, the blind know the ebb and flow of ghosts.

did you know i used to eat meat? i used to **** red juice from fat steak, let it run down my chin in a steady stream, used to savor the crunch of wishbone and smash of teeth, the grinding of molars. i stopped when i turned seventeen and realized i was an animal too.

did you know during human sacrifice the Mayans would hold a still beating heart up to the sun? let the red turn gold in the afternoon, decay to dust in the morning while mothers mourned. there is beauty in the macabre, there is truth. there is blood and salt and heavy breath. the human heart is only the size of the human fist. a thick, heavy handed fist pushed into my mouth and used as a gag. i would gladly offer the Mayans my heart, gladly splay myself on the alter, wait for the sun, only the Mayans died in 2012 with the rest of me.
Pinkbun17 Oct 2016
I no longer feel whole,

for I am hollow

Pleading-but emotions dry and crumble

The path I once chased vanished from sight

Affection is viewed as a bothersome nuisance

They all turned and walked away.

I stood there rooted to the spot.

Shock numbed my body permanently.

I have been shunned.

Were they consumed by hate?

Memories of hope rewrote themselves as moments of brokenness.

The ones loved-

Faded and I've been

externally ERASED.
Written 12/1/07 and 1/13/15
miki Nov 2019
when i was asked to write a poem about love, all my mind could think about was you.

when god made you, he decided it was finally time that an angel be sent to earth.
you’re that pure.

and ive spent the last three years trying to forget you. three whole years that i’ve tried to wipe everything about you from my mind. until i finally realized…

i don’t think i can.

you see, from the minute i first talked to you i knew. i knew you would be the best and the worst type of love all wrapped into one.

when i met you,

i wanted that catch me if you can kind of love.
that high school sweetheart kind of love.
that make you feel like you’re dreaming kind of love.
that fairytale kind of love.
that sweep you off your feet kind of love.
that immortal kind of love.
i wanted your kind of love

after years of waiting, crying, and hoping
i still wish you would tell me why you left.
i still wish you would give me the goodbye i’ve always craved.
i still wish i could tell you all the things i never got to say.
that’s all i want. that’s all i’ve ever wanted. i’ve moved on from desperately craving your affection, to wanting the simple things. i spent too much time waiting on something that, in the back of my mind, i knew would never happen.

but if you ever decide to have a change in heart, just know, i’ll be waiting.
know that if given the chance, i would love you as if it’s the best thing i’d ever get to do.

and im young, so i’m usually not a scientist.

in fact, everytime i try to rewrite the stars, they lose their twinkle, just to show me how blinding love can be.

sometimes, the earth loses its gravitational hold on me, just to prove that not all love lasts forever.

see, i heard that love is like a bleeding heart, so i engrave my work onto my skin.

and my solutions are never actually finished, so i can be reminded that love has no limits.

i’ve always believed, real life, is kind of like the sky after a storm, dull but pure. and i'm gonna be honest. im not much of a scientist, but if i were to wake up tomorrow and discover a new star, i would name it after you, in hopes that it would change your mind.

and see, i’m not much of a scientist, but if i was, i would name the cure for all disease after you so everyone could know what it feels like to love you.

i’ll never be much of a scientist, but if i were, i’d name every new discovery i made after you. every planet, every star, every meteor, every antidote. i would name everything after you in hopes that in some way, it will bring you closer to me. ‘cause if there was even a fraction of a chance it would work, i would fly to the moon and write your name in the same yellow you used to tell me was your favorite.

i would do anything for you.
honestly, i don’t know that there is something that i wouldn’t do.

and i know i’ll never be a scientist.
but maybe if i was an artist i could show you my love, rather than trying to prove it.

i know you see in black and white, so i swear, if i was an artist i would paint you a clear blue sky; and of a night, i would paint our names in the darkness to show you that true love is written in the stars.

and sometimes, sometimes i pray to god, that he turns you back into my heart, so that i never have to spend another day without you.

and really, i’m not much of an artist, but if i were to wake up tomorrow morning and decided i wanted to paint a picture, my first picture would be of you.

and even after all of that, you had the audacity to ask, “so how do you feel about me?”
and i was confused. i felt like i just poured all my bottled up feelings onto you, yet you ask for more.

“i expected you to come. but i didn’t expect to care. i thought the past was well, the past. but seeing you, was just a whole other story. it felt like i was relapsing. what i thought had left behind of  you, came flooding right back into the conscious sector of my brain. i looked at you for a brief moment and them immediately looked away. i didn’t want you to know, but somehow i got the feeling you already did. seeing you once again made me realize that you were exactly what i craved, the unknown lust in the back of my brain. you were what i wanted, more so what i needed. i looked away as soon as your eyes drifted to mine, but even then you never stopped looking. i tried to stare the other direction, to engage in conversation with my friends, but somehow my eyes always drifted back to yours. i never wanted to look away. and every time our eyes met, it felt like the moment would never end. and i never wanted it to. as i stared into your eyes, i felt a sorrow, a hatred, and empathy. memories came flooding back, one by one, many good, man awful. all i wanted in that moment was you. but somewhere i knew that i could never haave you. my brain tried to make a logical and realistic way that we could maybe work things out, that all would end on a good note, but nothing came to me. and then i wondered, how many times must a wound be reopened, in order for it to scar? because it seemed like no matter how many times i would reopen that same wound, disregarding all of the pain and tears, it never seemed to scar. i thought that maybe it meant that one day we could be happy. i should know by now that destiny would never let that happen. so hours went by of our eyes meeting, and turning away, almost like we were afraid of what would happen if we were to continue. there were moments where i could see you out of my peripheral, staring at me, with a sense of longing. us being the same room felt nostalgic. i hated that i still felt this way, that i still love you, even though you have broken me time and time again. tonight we spoke no words to each other, but our silence spoke sentences, and our eyes told stories. my heart hurts at the fact that this is the way i have to live. in longing. waiting for someone who will never return. cheers”

you were a soldier at war and i was your sweetheart.

i washed the windows everyday to get a better view of your return.

i would rewind the clock so i could forgive you for being late.

you never came home, and i never got to see your golden eyes again.
i died and was resurrected as a peasant girl who fell in  love with the king’s son.

the people of the village claimed i was a witch, hexed you into loving me.

i was sentenced to death and came back as a caterpillar.

one day i awoke as a butterfly, made of all the colors you loved most.

you held me in awe for 2 seconds before leaving , just as you had countless times before.

your rejection killed me.

i didn’t know what else to do. i had given up all hope that we could ever work out. nothing i was, and nothing i did could ever make you love me. at least not in the same way you loved the color yellow, or the smell of the air after the rain.

and maybe i’m not smart enough to be a scientist.
or maybe i’m not sensual enough to be an artist.
but surely, i’m good enough to be yours.

that’s why sometimes when you sing me that song i love to hear, i tend to get a little too lost in your voice. and im sorry.

i just don’t want the time to come whenever i step outside after the storm, and despise the smell. i don’t want to look at the color yellow and wished it hadnt been your favorite.

i just don’t want you to leave again. my mother always told me that when you find the perfect person you do whatever it takes to make sure they’re the reason that when you walk outside after the rain, you’ll bask in the scent.
L Smida Nov 2013
You give me that feeling where my feet don't touch the ground
And our breathing is the only sound

You give me that feeling where my breath catches in my throat
With closed eyes I freely float

You give me that feeling where my heart beats against my chest
And everything else is expressed

You give me that feeling when my hands can explore the contours of your skin
And it creates a powerful passion within

You give me that feeling when my eyes get struck with your pair
And I can't help but stare

You give me that feeling when your lips collide with mine
With one smooth movement we align

We become one
And we shine

The definition of love we rewrote
My entire heart I will devote
To you my love
My one and only
I'll never let you be lonely
Ever again
I've given up my heart and then
I'll take your hand
And I promise to always stand
By your side forever
I wrote this for her

— The End —