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And that’s the thing with sensitive people.
They notice the world how it’s meant to be,
not how everyone think it is.
The world is beautiful.
It’s good.
Just like people.
Every single one of us.
They’re the one’s with the big hearts.
Who constantly live wiping their tears away
caused by all the sensations that overwhelm them
even in simple occasions.
Yea that’s the thing with sensitive people.
They feel what others pretend isn’t there.
They see the true beauty behind all this ugliness.
And the true pain that people attempt to hide
behind their awfulness.
They get every inch of true emotion
that lies beneath all their shattered pieces.
They comprehend the world in a way
others could never ever picture.
So breathtakingly beautiful
and sorry together.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Unheard-of Apr 2014
He, was in love with her plays
her masquerade
tragedies
shakespearean days

Her fences
Defences
Her armoured-
Sensitives

Her past
her facade
her lovely charm
and, learnt, laugh

The curtains close
the room brightens

But he'll fall in love again
the next night,
when they reopen.
Haven't been on in a while but this poem was one of my drafts before I logged off.
Luvanna Nov 2021
it was your sweet lips
sugary words drip
your eyes, your gaze, make me twitch
a knot in my stomach
when you flirt
when you touch my sensitives
all the small gestures
and your act of service
suddenly I'm your Queen Bee
I'm in a sugar rush
addicted, obsessed, hooked on
and I just ignore all the nutrition facts
Double checking,
Last minute Xmas Shopping list,
Spent a whole day at
MUSÉE D'ORSAY,
with eyes and curiosity,
Renoir: Father and Son,
Painting and Cinema
two Renoirs,
Pierre-Auguste
and Jean Renoir,
Renowned Impressionist painter inspired,
his son, Jean Renoir
‘ A day in country’
one of his Famous Film,
They shared models and
shared sensitives
Like father, like son.
Written by: Dr. Xijuan Angel Liao/ 21/12/2018  
After visited a public exhibition from Pierre-Auguste and Jean Renoir at Musee D' Orsay
Lover of Words Jun 2014
My computer is as messy as my mind, and is scattered with pretty pictures and blurbs of my brain I was not able to keep in.
I am wired, I am worried, I am always anxious.
And maybe cause I'm scared and worst off I'm puzzled at what's really going on inside.
I lost a friend. A good one, not to a permanent lost, but very much likely will not ever see her again.
And that hurts, like an unacknowledged bruise taking place with me completely unaware, hurting only when poking at the location of bright purple and murky blue.
I hurt for you and my sensitives nerves are all bursting and boiling and bubbled over with swollenness of being overused.
I wish I could put my heart away. I wish I could pretend I had no heart and that people would not sink there teeth into me so easily.

I wish there words wouldn't hurt and spoil me. You think by being old enough the wounds of second grade don't come back to haunt you.
For me, at least they are shadows of my past warning me every day.
It's hard to say words that don't mean anything, worst off it's harder to say words that mean everything.
I don't let others in, no I shrink from that violent force of overcoming with love, for what would I do with it.

Love only makes one lazy and fat with self content. An artist can never be happy with their rate of talent. They search and lurk for more, hoping to be better then they were the day before. That is how we right brained people think. We hurt cause we always have this little voice in our head saying we will and are never going to be good enough. That our talents are empty shots heading toward the sky, as we fall back to earth realizing we are mere mortals who cannot break the atmosphere.
And everything has changed, and nothing at all cannot stay the same. For I've seen seasons break and burst, and I tumble through them on vapid lisps of sleep that do not keep my body operating very effectively. As if hurting myself is really going to stop the change around me, that my resistance to the new will actually make it less apparent that it's all turning into something I now do not recognize. And it's hard when the change begins to become hard. I can accept change that makes me feel bubbles of happiness, but change that makes me feel lonely or sad or empty I cannot feel. Overall this summer has been the adventure that I never anticipated.
It's nice to be free. Not having to worry really about anyone else except yourself. That is being young, and my brother and sister are doing it all wrong. I cannot help but wish I could turn back their clocks and make it so they cannot grow up at all.
Rory Herd Feb 2014
Tonight,
my heart still beats itself to feel alright
for just a scratch-soothing while
i suspend myself in the fight
and smile as neurons crossed like fingers remember foreword
to a time when i'll always feel warm inside

Why my core has a habit of overh'eating' by feeding
on the very phenomenon-echoes repeating by striking minor chords of flaming screaming
having a heart is simply to imply a vascular system of circuitous bleeding
on the inside
it's becoming of a sensitives pain who's *breath inspires
irony towards the thought of what (and how this) sustains one's own life
for no barrier to the brain could block such a painfully bright self-beside site

I always feel but I don't always know why.












...it makes me so angry, this night.
An attempt at writing from the top of the head not from behind the eye.

(May) Dr. Seuss (may) strike me down.
The autumn has snatched the attire of the trees
But you are still mourning the robes of the queens
Eyes have gathered all blood in them to cease
And you are talking about the beauty of the teens

What all is world a cover under cover to uncover
Its oddities and idiosyncrasies to present ,portray
What a wonderful creatures are the poets as lovers
For the peace progress and prosperity they but pray

I am poet what I see I present you may like or dislike
At times I do take blood from heart to sight to write
Which may inflict heart of sensitives to attack or strike
I am a soldier poet I know how to present and to fight

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2017 Golden Glow
Third Eye Candy May 2019
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit an age of inscrutable things
that feast upon docile swarms of sensitives… but never says what you're thinking
in a Eulogy. Only what you’re missing.
Usually.

But sometimes, like Most Times…. the wounds are like walnuts -
parked in a field of oncoming traffic.
Or some gratuitous cerebral laughter.
Choked from a spasm of serene
by the clutches of a Sphinx
with Midnight teats.
And a mane of plausible
Agonies.
Ken Pepiton Jul 18
This and my next two posts are in reverse creation order,
this is the last panel in a tryptic of three novel scenes.
------------ this was Feb, 22, 2024

Used to be, as we were
used to become, repeatedly,

time sensitives using time
as using any used concept, used
by users
to bring use to usefullness, in time.

As we are used, our complexities
crease our faces with wrinkles
we use to make smiles.

------------------

Thousands, now millions,
then billions and trillions, too much,
unhoned use, dull use, dishonest use

-busy work to earn right to life
-breathe,
-hard parts's over, let it roll....

so we stop counting hours per dollar
and marvel at the cost of being
obligated to share the debt,
owed gravity,
giving minutes where seconds are plenty,
about a dollar each…
converted on the exchange
in  second thoughts.

------------------

Right use,
righteous, right.

The ideal right. Never wrong.

Like sunshine, or stars…

and gravity, and contravening winds,
laws of temperature
and pressure, pre judged within tolerance
too minute to contemplate, indeed,

as with the inner working of everything,
once done, duration makes no sense,

to mortal sensibilities, our assisting intell
sources leak inside information, gut level

response to provocation, my vocation
manifests, yes, blurts

stop.
This is insanity, and I smile to myself,
aware,
I aimed at totally insane, and hit it,

on the spot, nailed it where up and down
cross left and right, there it was,

or is, more precisely, insanity. Stopped.

My self imposed duty done. I stopped it.

I am the monkey wrench. For a second.
Must mean...
-------------------
...
my tools include
sentient wrenches,
sentient plumber tools,
used artistically as the
monkey wrench
in the works
with an Iberian,
artist at café, in tiny
John Lennon glasses,
callouses on his *******...
real deal, pre Adobe Illustrator
whose pen and inks I think I saw,

but in another course through time,

historicity, in fact, is a material invention,
a feminine fullfilled mind's inspiration,

we exist in no time at all, from historical
perspectives exalted to points of view,

from which opinions as to how worth is
weight of something, relative to another.
Balance life in time on instants
in prayer, faith, step taken
instants thanking nexting
step by step, expecting next time….

Worth of a minute spent thinking second
thoughts used as tools, slight smile, soft aha,

leverage our speculation,
ask who has nothing
to do for days on end, but the wealthy good

among the commoner sorts and types and classes.

Weal and woe, both, we believe lack

recipes to fix broken promises to child prayers.

Blessedness declared, nationally.
Given in the ritual,
alright alrise, alrecite, I pledge…
--we did
yes, to ****, at the will of my commander,
and I understand my link to the chain,
--we
brains hardwired from childhood
to handle a pen,
experience ambidexterity while qwerty keying,
left and right,
order and beauty click, feel
minds combined.

We am I, and I am alone,
then I think of you, and now, and this device,

this magic pen, silly me,
anachronisms are my weakness.

We are the monkey wrench.
Tell the seller he may sell my wares, if that be the cost of freedom.
Begone. How can words contrive us and control us? How can marks in a row make us? How can they hold us? there freedom from these, these that you are now holding inside, holding to a vision of us. Representatives, sensitives, senses, tenses, tensions. a person can not have an identity without the signs that are made by these characters. Our characters, our actors. Act out Our hunger to be identifiable, cultural, optical. What’s that membrane, that’s permeated by the self and the social? Blind self image, spectacle of the self seen in the mirror of mind. never do you mind. You Perceive then leave. Perceive then leave. We Perceive, then we leave. We leave. We, Be, then leave. We Be leave and are gone
Sensitives tend to seem like the most broken because they feel so much
They feel their own emotions
Their own thoughts
They feel the energy around them
The change in the air
They feel the energy of others
Even thoughts and words they don't share
Crowded places mixed messages rife
Sometimes solitude feels like a welcome respite
Warmth can be so overjoying
Cold a sharp frostbite
Daylight in the warm delightful
Daylight in the cold lost appetite
Night can be peaceful or full of insight
Dreams can be real escape or a harrowing fright
Friends can be real or pretend to be kind
Opinions can open mind or cut to the heart
Spirits can be a comfort or a startling dart
We can get tired all too soon
We can feel drained or fly to the moon
At times we just want to rest
Though we are creative at our very best
Heart of A Poet
The autumn has snatched the attire of the trees
But you are still mourning the robes of the queens
Eyes have gathered all blood in them to cease
And you are talking about the beauty of the teens

What all is world a cover under cover to uncover
Its oddities and idiosyncrasies to present, portray
What a wonderful creatures are the poets as lovers
For the peace progress and prosperity they but pray

I am poet what I see I present you may like or dislike
At times I do take blood from heart to sight to write
Which may inflict heart of sensitives to attack or strike
I am a soldier poet I know how to present and to fight

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2017 Golden Glow
Heart of A Poet
The autumn has snatched the attire of the trees
But you are still mourning the robes of the queens
Eyes have gathered all blood in them to cease
And you are talking about the beauty of the teens

What all is world a cover under cover to uncover
Its oddities and idiosyncrasies to present, portray
What a wonderful creatures are the poets as lovers
For the peace progress and prosperity they but pray

I am poet what I see I present you may like or dislike
At times I do take blood from heart to sight to write
Which may inflict heart of sensitives to attack or strike
I am a soldier poet I know how to present and to fight

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2017 Golden Glow

— The End —