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JR Falk Jul 2016
And when he kisses you,
you will not be surprised.
Although the timing was random,
you knew that he wanted to,
and you knew that he would.
His lips will part from yours,
he will smile,
and he will kiss you again.
It won't be soft like the first one.
You will not stop him.
You want this to mean nothing.
As his tongue traces your lips
you will retrace your thoughts,
wondering just when you will tell him
you don't know how to make love
without being in love,
but there is no love here.
When his hands begin to slide under your shirt,
you will not stop him.
You will begin to wonder if you are a tease.
You will begin to wonder how angry he will be,
you are not asking for ***, are you?
This is just a kiss,
A kiss is not consent.
You will realize your heart is racing.
You won't be able to tell what's moving faster,
him or your thoughts.
His hands will travel to your lower half,
and you will pull back from the kiss.
You will want to say something to his face,
but it's already heading downward.
You will not stop him.
Instead,
you will swallow and find yourself conflicted.
You want this to mean nothing.
As he begins to unbutton the denim,
you will realize your breathing is so sporadic
that you're getting lightheaded.
Your body is not getting excited in the way you want it to.
You want this to mean nothing.

It doesn't.

As his breath ghosts over your lower half,
through the remaining fabric,
you realize you chose the word ghost subconsciously
because you know this moment will haunt you.
And when he goes to pull the fabric away,
you will stop him.
He will be confused; he will be flustered.
He will ask you why,
and you will sit up, pull your pants on,
and tell him that you just can't.
He will be mad.
You will drive home with all the windows down,
you want to the wind to blow you away.
You will shower with cold water,
you want something else to send chills down your spine.
And when you finally lay down,
you will pull your blankets tight around you.
You want your body to regain its warmth,
its own warmth.
You want this to mean something,
it does.
You close your eyes,
and you will tell yourself:
"I make love to myself every day.
I wash my hair, I brush my teeth.
I drink water even though I hate it.
I sing along to songs in the car.
I watch the sky change colors at night.
I draw pictures of animals,
I take pictures of the sun.
I wake up.
God ******, I wake up.
I am my own best friend.
I am here, and I am not alone.
I have me.
This is all I will ever need,
and I mean it."
Self love.
6:42pm
7.28.2016
wichitarick Dec 2021
New age blindly falling from grace, fighting a hidden enemy

Teen and anxious once the norm now a psych diagnosis, distress taken as some bad label

Faceless facts hard to retract, flashing light world in blight, Harum-scarum analysis isn't reality

Inner truth now given to a mental sleuth, hidden truth never seen, cause and effect does it mentally disable or inadvertently enable

Swallowing knowledge left us choking,  repetition offers no variation, life has no on or off switch, harder to remain stable when emotions are constantly displayed openly on the table so irrationally

Paranoid covered in a blanket of fear, selected target our mind now a part of the market, pointing at humans being inhumane part of the game, being playful becoming a lost fable

Why always recall when you're about to fall, simple shuffle of memory cards can show greener yards, following pre-plotted maps leads to another casualty

Not as bad as it appears, forget learning to simply survive, permanent pessimist, Impossible to relax when buried in facts, wasteful worry replacing meaningful ways to remain grateful

Instant diagnoses blown into multi tethered prognosis, finding middle ground when being told you're not normal or crazy leaves many lacking, losing leverage when searching for adequacy

Mass medias senseless sayings gather no moss to keep the blues ball rolling, taking fun from function,  new dog and pony show, subconsciously afraid, living life now seen as something fateful

Digging our own graves, personal pall bearers for basic thought, selling freedom for an unfulfilled diagnosis, words a magic elixir, removing ways to face fear rationally

Social wisdom masking the freedom of a child to walk through a puddle instead of a lifetime of insight finding knowledge to walk around them, remembering to smile gives strength to go the extra mile, life on life's terms need not be painful. R.C.
First thoughts were follow up on something I did before on  basic thoughts being changed by negative feedback,or "feeling" something mentally wrong when it is just LIFE! goes deeper and wider than simple prose allows and is now several generations deep,do we try and reverse this?  or become scared of our shadows? :) thanks for reading your thoughts are helpful,PEACE TAKES PRACTICE. Rick
Life starts as a blank page,
Where anything and anyone
Can contribute as an author.
Gaurdians carve the page
With passion and love,
But the passion fades away
And the love can change dramatically.
Dreams subconsciously fill the page
While the media whitens them out
And corrects them as fears and nightmares.
Happiness gets erased,
Then saddness stains the page in ink.
Then that one person comes along
To address the page with love.
Paint splatters onto the paper
And colors burst over
The white out and ink.
But as time crumples the page,
The paint chips off
And your lover searches for a canvas.
You remain lost in a stack of papers
As society bleed onto the page.
Your patience wears thin,
And sparks of confusion
Start a flame of anger.
Your life burns away,
You become a pile of ashes,
And realize how little value
One piece of paper can hold.
Jack Apr 2014
~


If I call you beautiful…

Do flowers bloom within your worried eyes
surrounding you with color, with thoughts
Looking past the mirror to that place you have been,
that you long to be again

Do you bite your lip,
looking within, seeking past the darkness,
subconsciously smoothing the ruffles of you dress,
shuffling your feet a bit

Do memories flood your mind
of days before lipstick and eye shadow,
when cute was as common as wrinkled nose smiles,
playing inside or out were your choices

Do you roll your eyes and sigh,
describing a portrait that only you can see,
a mirage of impressions you have collected,
stored away in that file you reach for regularly

Do you brand me blind or crazy at least,
point to that one tiny blemish you know,
turn and walk away kicking dust as you go,
shutting the door in disbelief

Or do you see your reflection in my eyes
the woman that you are to me,
hear the affection in my voice, the truth
and wrinkle your nose once more and say, “I love you”
r h e a Jan 2011
You
subconsciously said it
that i am an angel in disguise
it took me by surprise And
you were embarrassed
coz you thought it sounded ridiculous
such words coming from you.
At that instant,
I believed the earth moves...
I wont keep asking if it were true
but it also might be true, even though
you regarded me as a
harmless eccentric
coz thats how much i adored you
now it really dosent matter
coz theres not going to be
another approach- For, then
Ours was an era that
got everything right-
I remember that
in a significant space of time
We paid loads  for the cracks and still do
for the distances...
Now,
You can watch what you started
as I wander directionless
My thoughts fluctuate
my mind simply cant control my heart
What do we have in the future
taboos of the past ?
though i still feel
You are the BEST
Yes, you are the best.
Mister J Jul 2019
Time
Everything stopped in time
When you walked in my life

Eyes
Those blue eyes staring back
Placed me under your spell

Touch
When your fingers touched mine
My mind went into a trance

Whispers
Those whispers of your desires
Made me a slave to them

A Kiss
A passionate kiss placed on my lips
Sealed the deal and locked my fate

Embrace
You entwined me in your embrace
Gentle, yet subconsciously Greedy

Enchantment
You kept me under your enchantment
Playing with me under your fingers

Trash
Thrown away like trash in an abyss
When you were done using me

Curse
The spell became a curse
When you took my heart away

Despair
You left me in despair
In a cage of your enchantment

Fulfilled
The enchantment became a curse
The spell remained only in my insanity
The dreams turned into vicious nightmares
Pushing me to the edges of my mind
These games have fulfilled their purpose
Costing you nothing
But leaving with my everything
Dumping some thoughts

Happy reading!

-J
Emanuel Martinez Mar 2011
Self-breed hatred so easily suppressed
Taunted by the world, it’s waiting to explode
No, there’s no true taste, we’re only meandering
Listening to the menacing roar begging
To be given breath to materialize

Subtle commentary begins to eat at the flesh of self-belief
Identity crises momentarily paralyze audacity’s ammunition
True sights of self-aesthetic-beauty tremble
Diminishing that part of self-worth
Looming attacks threaten to pour over and reduce
The value of internal splendor for it’s seemingly of no use

Every praise never given to the self but to someone else
A constant crack at the foundation of self-love, it subconsciously ensures
She and she and she and she are said to be wonderful, but never the self

Realization that from any angle the self is not good enough
Leaves the mind discombobulated for lifelong sentiments of inadequacy
Seems to be the only route

Unconscious self denigration provokes false sense of value
For the true inner wealth in self-worth is sullied and unidentifiable

But the self is not merely self-loath and harboring of inadequacy
For goodness in abundance is found a few peals away from the layers of insecurity
March 6, 2011
Selcæiös Jan 2018
Cat's Claw
Rose Petals
double Yarrow
Marigold

Dancing under the Moon's luminescence
that seeps into my kitchen
I love these 3am happenings
except when I slip up
and set subconsciously mischievous intentions

Cat's Claw
Rose Petals
double Yarrow
Marigold

chanting and dancing
as the Moon's glow keeps shining
entangling my soul as I rewrap fate's lining

chanting and dancing
the Moon's glow keeps on dazzling
enchanting my soul as I go

unannounced observers, lo and behold.
Traveler Apr 2015
Her eyes are kind her heart is warm
She is a Rose, I am a Thorn
We catch and ride the wild steed
I’m so alive and she’s so free

In the gazebo we dance until dawn
Our bodies lay naked out on the lawn
Completely fulfilled and finally whole
I have no intention of her letting go

Wheels are turning my heart is yearning
A lust for life subconsciously burning
I breathe too deep and the dream is lost
I start the day with a secret thought

Perhaps she was fictional beyond conclusion
A kaleidoscope of colors, a beautiful delusion
If only to awake and find her near
Instead I sleep and gasp for air...
Traveler Tim
Re po to dec 2016
And again to
11-17
Anais Vionet Aug 2022
Sophy’s mom sent her a giant case of “Fun dip” - a thousand packets of sour, fruit-flavored sugar. Is there anything more junkavore a parent can buy a child - well, ok, an 18 year old?

She LOVES them and so does Leong who’s from China where, apparently, you can’t get useless, non-nutritional snacks. The two of them are running around, all sugar hyped with their emo-grape-chemical-lips, sticking out phosphorescent-green-tongues and threatening to tickle everyone with cherry-red-fingers. It has me wondering, should I switch to dentistry?

Our college prep has moved to a new phase - with just 16 days until we move back into our residential college. We’re suddenly sleeping-in. It’s nothing we planned or even discussed, it just started happening. We go to sleep around 10pm and sleep until 10am - or later. I think we all subconsciously realized that soon we’ll be back to sleeplessness.

I’m peachy - in a great mindspace - these days. I’m well rested (see above), we’re killing our sophomore prep - even the physics, my period was a nothing, we spent over two hours in Ulta sampling perfumes, I have a new Macbook M2 (see below) and I painted my nails in tropical colors.

The FedEx man rolled up yesterday. “Anyone expecting something?” Anna asked the crowd of roommates attracted by the driver bringing packages to the door, two at a time. No one was expecting anything. Eventually he’d delivered 8, back to school, M2-Macbooks (2 in each color) - one for everyone - from my Grandmère.

If that sounds needlessly ostentatious, then you’re thinking she went to the mall and paid full price, but she probably just traded Tim Cook a half ton of lithium or something - one of her companies mines it - in Chili - I think. But still, my roommates were blagabloo.

I picked a starlight one. An odd thing about the new, flat Macbook Air design is that you can’t pick it up with one hand - unless you hook it underneath with a long fingernail - what are guys going to do?
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Ostentatious: something overly elaborate that attracts envy.

Slang:
junkavore = someone who eats completely unhealthily
peachy = happy and healthy
blagabloo = ecstatic
Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Faith
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
The
Yitkbel Aug 2018
I am terribly near sighted
Consciously and subconsciously
I see not what I have saw
And
I hear not what I have heard
Sometimes,
In fact most of the time,
I don’t even feel
What I should have felt

But the mirror of life
It keeps a record of every little thing
And I relive in my dreams
All that I have missed

And much much more:

All I ever need
Is just a little hint of life:

Your lovely little smile
I failed to respond to during the day
Would haunt me
With what would seem like
A whole lifetime of sweet champagne
And
Kisses of cherries and grapes
With a scent of longing that
Fills me to the core with
Twinges that burst throughout
My entire being
Shining brightly from
Every single particle of my
Soul

The little chirps and calls of crickets
That alternate between the oblivious
Moon upon a bed of restless stars
And the wizened sun
Would always take me to a land
Unlived, untouched, unruined
A vast nonexistence
A vast ruin full of life
Where I have never been so alone
Yet so fulfilled, so joyful, and so
Free

And

The dreamless gale that
Would raise me up to mountains
From which I can finally gaze down
With sure and confident eyes
Upon the whole of life
And
See, sense, and feel
Every scenery and every being
With the purest of colours
Rowing down the crimson rivers
In a canary boat caressed by
A forest of ocean blue sequoias
Blanketed with a soup of
Violet stars
Into the heart of the universe

Where everything that have lived
Or could have lived
Never went away

Where nothing is ever gone
But just lost
So momentarily
Like a wandering child
Let out into the world
Seemingly defenselessly
Yet, perfectly safe
Under the hidden watch of
The mother

Where everything I love
Love me just as much
And so much more

Where I am never just me
But a child
A poet
A painter
A musician
An ancient pilgrim

Where I can fall into stars
And float up to the edge
Of the sky
Swim in the air without my feet
Ever touching the ground

Where I am finally
Held by you
The one person
I love most unyieldingly
In a death grip of never letting go.
I Love you through My Dreams
Jan 27, 2018, 6:15 PM
By: Yue Yitkbel ****

Used to be a personal favorite so I wanted to publish it, but since I haven't heard back from anyone, and I don't like it as much as anymore  I'll just post them.

(I wish I can pin posts here:
I think these are better poems of mine:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2646158/the-threads-between-every-you-and-me/
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2618377/the-metamorphosis-of-a-bee/
requiEM Feb 2017
Get out of my dreams
I don't want you there
Let me sleep in peace not in pieces I want to rest
In peace
Instead you rip   me to shreds
You leave that feeling
The one that happens when I think of you and your dream-self powers through
You always act up, betray me, leave me to rot
And I always think of you in that way, whether you like it or not
My mind has a way of warning me, subconsciously so
That you're not worth it, and that you're worth letting go
Robyn Neymour Nov 2010
“Ye without sin cast the first stone.”
No one is perfect, but I’m not justifying crime.

Men roam the streets as their little children sleep,
Ready to attack the obvious prey.
While hard working people that wants to make ends meet,
Pray with their little children or go their separate ways,
Subconsciously hoping to wake up the next day.
Though four miles away and even across the world,
Someone’s being shot, stab to death or *****.
We the country gasp in fear,
Though we the  country created the problem.
Young men and women hooked on drugs,
Partying like rock stars while hitting the clubs.
Showing off the material things, “Yea that’s wassup.”
According to the older folks this nonsense has to stop,
I do agree though, before friends create props.
Are we are neighbors keepers, or do we continue to hate?
While we make money for our bread and butter,
Some families have nowhere to stay.
Young men turn to violence,
To make money for today.
Who knows what goes on in our country,
While the light are off and the street lights are on.
What shall be revealed next?
“All a we,” suppose to be, “One Family.”
Yet our nations need to be healed.
Let’s come together “This Bahama Land”,
And lend one another a helping hand.

©
© RGN - Nov./3/10
Helena Dec 2012
When I was 15, I got down on my knees like a dog because
He   told    me     to.
Gripping my head like I was some sort of
toy he could do what he wanted with.
‘yeaaaah, that feels good’ he’d tell me as he shoved
himself
d
  e
    e
      p
        e
          r
‘you look so good down there when you do that’
as if the compliments really made up for the
broken ego, and self debilitating hate.
But how was I to know back then
what it meant to
deceive
my body? Always being told to
suppress my appetite in hopes of pleasing
some guy.
As if my body wasn’t beautiful enough.

When I was 15, I sold my body for a
Lously ****-
Because I was told
‘that’s how you prove you love me’

I traded innocence, and dignity for
Surety and cried out
L O V E
Because
that’s all I ever really wanted.

As if love was being humiliated and
Degraded,
Over and o v e r & o v e r
Again by someone who only ever
Treated me like a piece of meat-

Eventually, I got sick of waiting
for you to
l o v e  me
and tell me all the things I
wanted to hear
because subconsciously,
I KNEW that
Was never going to happen.

So when I was 15,
instead of completely giving up,
I found a better way to fill the void of my
discontented, broken heart
with the sound of an empty bottle hitting the floor-
A sound much better than the never ending sobs
And begging
for something more than just a degrading
Pick up line, or half drunk conversation.

And eventually I got sick of that,
Too. And then it occurred to me.
I’m not 15 anymore.

If I ever let myself think that I was
Worthless or disgusting or useless
Because of your inability to see past
The size of my jeans, or depth of my throat,
I was an idiot.

If I ever thought I NEEDED you
Or that the definition of L O V E
Was to give your entire being to a person
for absolutely nothing in return,
I was gravely mistaken.

Because I am better off on my
O W N.
I deserve much more than
Anything you had to offer.
Traveler Mar 2017
And so starts
The day over
Never stay clean
Never stay sober

This is the death
Of all those cares
Subconsciously
Remain unaware

The bottle has been
An old best friend
A handful of pills
And numbness sets in

Just like no love
Just like no friends
And so starts
The day
Over again
...
Traveler Tim
This Poem has no real meaning.
I don't drink or do pills, that much...(-;

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_gvUjPxDuU

It is only an exercise in creativity
Ben OHara Nov 2010
To say goodbye ain’t easy,

when you’ve done all that you can..

to convince yourself subconsciously that there’s more to a man..



Then what you see in photographs and read in magazines,

those flawless shining faces on your flashing TV screens.


Accepting to abandon sorrow,

can be a feat fit for a warrior

I was never one to dwell for long, but I’ve always been a worrier.



I’ll let you go, I’ll do it now.


You go your way, I’ll go mine.



And I’ll try to forget those summer days,

where we were tranquilly intertwined.


All those nights I whispered thanks to you,

cause I was scared as hell,

of where’d I’d be perpetually after that final bid farewell



I had a feeling from the start!



I had my doubts and in my heart


I knew, I knew



You were too good to be true.
(At least I never really loved you.)
Dre De Asis Dec 2012
No one will ever understand the things we feel.
No matter how much they say they do as solid as steel.
They will never see the perspective of our peripherals
Even if we pour our hearts out, its like a code in numerals.

In the end we must face the fact that we are different
the things we do, the words we say, will be all but omnipotent
We have no one to lean on but ourselves, no shoulders to cry on but our own
It's like calling someone who fails to answer the phone

We are beyond the term called normal
some even consider us abnormal
the pain we feel is twice of what anyone would ever feel
the scars won't take overnight to heal

People think it's a choice we make
but if it were so, why not choose the easy life to take?
It's easier said than done
the actions we make is to subconsciously find that sense of belonging undone

Will we ever belong or reach that sense of entice
or continue to go down the road of demise?
Will you ever care for me
as much as I care for thee?

I guess I realize it now
It's not the why's but the how's
how will you choose to take your life
given the setbacks thrown at you that strike
Shannon Jeffery Apr 2014
I have lost who I am
Or was I just never found
I don't know when this began
Where do I start? Feeling drowned

I subconsciously blend
I'm a natural chameleon
My emotions and thoughts bend
I feel like an alien

Whomever I stand by
Is who I become
I could breakdown and cry
All these influences, like gum

I'm deep down somewhere
Just no clue where to begin
I need a white light to appear
Or forever my world will spin
Lost for who I am. So hard to explain.
The sky is solid, gray, motionless.
Shuffling bodies with obscured shadows
Make haste for shelter
From the stark, lifeless outside
With its grass that only lives if watered,
The always leafless trees,
And the carcinogenic air.
Looking upward,
Through the smoggy haze,
One sees the neon silhouettes
Floating in the sky,
Atop the glass and steel monoliths.
They speak to those below,
Of subtle, clandestine oligarchy.
Subconsciously belittling the anonymous masses,
"We are Titans, you are rats."
Say the towers,
As the populace quietly passes over stained concrete and asphalt,
Wearing breathing masks,
Saying not a word to the thousands they pass.

We make haste in this world.
We cannot afford to help a stranger,
To make a detour with a view,
To get your child that gift they really want.
So fiercely we have been strangled
That empathy is illogical.
"What a world" we all say,
As we avoid eye contact with the hungry;
As we change the channel from the melodramatic infomercial
About starving, disease-ridden children somewhere else;
As we console ourselves with hollow entertainment and intoxication,
To keep the guilt at bay,
To keep the thoughts at bay,
"Just do what's best for you,
Don't step out of line,
Shuffle in,
Follow the queue.
That's all you can do."
Inspired by life in Chinese megacities.
Julia Rae Irvine May 2014
have  you ever been afraid to go to sleep?
with nightmares so realistic you wake up with a start.
with  a shock.
subconsciously sitting up,
taking in your surroundings to make sure it was, in fact,
just a nightmare.
just a dream.

but then they haunt  you.
for days on end, it's all your mind can focus on:
whether or not you'll be able to sleep tonight.

you know in your mind
the monsters
the demons
the ghosts
the robbers
the murderers
the rapists
are only figments of an on-edge imagination.
but the knots in your stomach tell you something entirely different.
and so the question lingers still...

will I sleep tonight?
Kimani Jones Mar 2010
Soulquarians, gather round.
Hear my testimony. Representin’
Chi town to the fullest. Given the
Name Lonnie Rashid Lynn,
I earned the name Common.

I am, put on this stage for a purpose.
My verses give you, common sense.

I am, the role model to the past,
Present and, future. Being the
Loquacious man I am, I am,
Finding forever in you. So, keep me
In your mind because my time, is
Unforgettable.

Unforgettable I am. I speak with clarity.
Satisfying your starving eyes as I,
Feed you knowledge. I am,
That reflecting image in that young
Persons mirror. Watching them loose
Motivation.

And it’s sad cause’, we got arms,
But wont reach for the skies.
Our ignorance is in the same breath as
Our innocence, subconsciously, seeking to
Find an impressionable mind to convince.

I found one. Mani. One who is beautiful
And sweet. She told me, your lyrics inspire
Me. You are the rarest piece of finery,
And I would hate to lose you. She said,
Find forever in me. Lay upon me,
Your exquisite gift of poetry.

She said, I remember sittin’ in my room
With my boom box bangin’ so loud,
That your rythmatic vibrations caused
The pictures on my wall to form a
New image.

Listening to the game over, and over,
And over until my ears were filled
With beats that flowed from my pen,
And onto my sheet, of paper.

Papers, stacked so high with the words,
I love Common. Common. Nonsense,
Is what we’re seeing these days. So,
If you find the pursuit of passion,
Use it.

I am, here to restore our black maybe.
Cause’ maybe, we’ll get to the top
Someday. Instead of having our opinions
Stored away. Cause’ you see, common
Sense is quite rare. But, those that doubt
Com will soon believe. That-

This is where, Forever begins.
The start of reality. Wars and battles, we
Fought for ours, caught in ghetto tragedy.

Remember black brothers and sisters,
Origin is forever. Through these brown eyes
Are beholding black pride. So strive. Strive.
I, see my worlds tears, and I, want to wipe,
their weary eyes. I will be finding
Forever in you. I am Common.
Copyright © Kimani Jones 3/11/2010
You were gifted
with intelligence -
to be ever growing.

You were born
to seek knowledge -
to be in the knowing.

Don't fall victim
to the infectious
  "brain draining" epidemic -
implemented to cut you short.

Listen to your conscience -
not to all of the crap
that you've been
"subconsciously" taught!

By Lady R.F ©2017
ShFR May 2016
This isn't love per say,
It's a.. I live without you but every time we are reintroduced I can't:

It's a, we will dance all night, during of which I whisper no one knows this energy better than me:

It's a, friends without benefits for the benefit of our friendship:

It's a, you know me to the point where I rather you named me instead of parents:

It's a, if we are together too long people will get the right idea:

It's a, I'm writing this while angry at you, but can't seem to speak negatively about you:

It's a, I keep my mouth shut about your ex because I wish me and you had those problems instead:

It's a, it's complicated:

It's a, I blew my chance back in high school:

It's a, I reach out to show you maybe I do love you with hands behind my back--
unable to show my affection:

It's a, you say you're over me,
(we probably will never happen):

It's a, I subconsciously say I love you with every gaze.

I tell you how I feel with the knowledge you won't take me seriously so I don't take what im saying serious:

kind of situation.
© 2016 by S Fraz All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of S Fraz
Thomas EG Mar 2015
I am not lonely
My thoughts go everywhere that I do
Always watching over me
Wanting me to watch them, constantly

They want attention
and more
I give it to them subconsciously
Without putting up a fight
of any sort

I'm easy, flexible...
You can count on me
Even if the favour is never returned

15, 15, 15...
I was always lonely
Searching for the missing part of myself

I always suspected that it would be a boy
or girl
That filled the void...
Not this
This is not love
Yet

But I can say that I've stopped searching
And maybe it is from lack of motivation
From depression
Or lack of depression?
But I feel less afraid of being alone
Less afraid of being me

I'm becoming happier with myself
I'm changing, changing all the time
And feeling less empty with each day

Is it because of this?
Well I'm not all that sure
Yet
But I suspect it

For I haven't even considered romantic attraction
in some time
And maybe loneliness was what stirred
My need for intimacy before
And maybe now I'm not so lonely
Maybe now I'm finding peace

Within my own intimate thoughts
Within myself
Within this...
15?
15... I think I love you.
**I do.
About discovering and accepting myself! I feel like I'm not as reliant on other people's company as I used to be and I feel as though that's because I've become slightly happier in my own company... Who knows? Not me.
L Smida Jun 2013
Channeling
Every emotion
To a setting
Where they
Do not
Will not
Can not
Be forwarded
For people to see
Subconsciously
Assuming that
The whole
World
Knows when
I'm
Mad
Devastated
Furious
For some ******
Up reason
That is unknown
To me
But if a detailed
Word
Isn't spilt
About the matter
Then nobody
Honestly
Knows such
Feelings
Are being felt
Thinking people
Can look hard enough
Care deep enough
See through me
Expecting too much
But expectation
Should be higher
Not from those
Of others
But of myself
Dealing with emotional
Confrontation
Is something
I cannot handle
Everything in me
Will push it away
Hide it away
Never speak a
Word
About it
But why?
Acting like a
Five year old
Instead of being
Forward
Upfront
And
To the point
Why is it so hard
To speak a mind's
Emotional struggles
Finding words
Or explanations
Is an impossible
Task for my tongue
To master
I'm stubborn
I'm miserable
I'm attention hungry
I'm self conscious
I know I'm all these things
But
Is
There
A way
To change
Those
Parts
Of
Me
When
It's
Who
I
Am?
I sure hope so
Sam Temple Apr 2014
blood moons rise
and the Temple Mount is cloaked in tear gas
innocent lives lost to the droning of drones
irradiated dirt sets under fingernails fresh from the garden
the horsemen died without a flare
the samurai ghost warriors tremble at Wall Street policy
the tears of ten thousand babies
have been drank by flies
spreading vaccinations and pesticides
to wildlife protection areas.

* eating fast food at the gas station I pause to reflect*

morbid wealth in the hands of the conservative party
granting respite on one out of every 135 african americans
who can tap dance while rapping the Gettysburg Address
but only if they will perform on the upcoming reality show
“The Tappin’ Rappin’ Afrikkkans”
…….sore from the blatancy of new world racism
society sits back pretending to be mortified at the train wreck
but the ratings go up each week as water color fodder
fills the desperate air between lonely co-workers
trying so hard to be clever
they sever ties to cultural evolution
subconsciously choosing instead to live the lie
eat trash wrapped in petroleum
and recycle their ***** waste for the less fortunate
as a tax write-off
I think I am developing a garbage series, but only because I don't know what to call these half doomsdayer/political half ranty self-deprecation things......
Amrita G Jan 2021
“He doesn’t even care to keep the knowledge of her possessions a secret, not the least worried about it being stolen”
“What’s worse, is that everyone knows his treasure exists. It’s common knowledge in town”
“How long will it take to get stolen?”
“It’s a matter of days, if you ask me.

He was, however, smiling in the corner. He coerced the enemy into being his friend.  This is why he doesn’t actually disclose himself to anyone, because she might be misunderstood, like what was unravelling right before his eyes. This time however, the misunderstanding just helped him protect his real treasure, something he thought no one could possess because……………

What if you need to think a certain way to know something; and you can’t think that way without feeling or experiencing something else. If that’s true, so much of this world remains hidden in sight, and we don’t even know its hidden.

You can, to an extent, disguise what arises from material belongings immaterially. That’s what makes the key to your locked doors. The keys to your secrets and trust. Our experiences may dictate the way we feel. Look closer however, and there will always be these cracks on the edges of interpretation, these nuances in feelings, small differences that stem out into larger and larger branches until you have at your disposal- uniqueness.

So, here is a complex network of questions and possible answers deconstructed to portray different perspectives of personality, trust and secrets.

Let’s start with trust. It should ideally start with mutual respect and admiration.   Most things fade away, so in reality you are not trusting the other person, you trust yourself to be hopeful enough to believe trust will not wither through time, which is why it may seem like it’s your fault or centered towards you when you are betrayed of trust.

Even the reasons for choosing why we trust others is vastly different for each person. It goes to show how ephemeral our mind is at the microscopic level., almost like no one can truly know us. The reaction of others and their understanding of you may be an external input. But after that the interpretation is yours. And interpretation is slowly built over cycles of overlapping feelings and subtle thoughts.
Can we use this as a “key” to explore parts of ourselves whilst keeping them invisible to others? Can we recover old feelings or find out what means a lot to us, but we remain ignorant to?

Many things that matter deep inside, tend to have a personal lock, like an unspoken connection, or a bittersweet memory we like to visit. The most interesting part about these is that the key for some of these is unpredictable! Any future incident could somehow serve as an access to it, which is what makes personal locks so magical. No one can possess it because of no one, sometimes not even yourself, knows it's meaning to you. Such a key is truly unique, two people may go through the same thing, but for one person alone, that experience could serve as a key.  Here, an experience from the outside world can awaken memories, thoughts that we inadvertently treasured. It can, in a sense, almost transport us to a different timeline.

The phenomenon of getting goosebumps from listening to a piece of music (called frisson), and experiencing a surge of sensory feeling could be a doorway to some great things and could be a sign of higher levels of creativity. When you re-listen to a song you hadn’t listened to in many years, you can relive the time you originally heard it to startling detail. You may notice newer things about memories, be aware of nuanced feelings. Essentially, it becomes something that’s only yours, because you can’t predict how you yourself will be. The only key for such a secret is a unique reaction to an external input.

When you listen to this song, even ambiguously (not attaching it to any particular person or experience), even then when you later hear it, it will be infused with meaning. Why? Because the environment around you at that time possessed some emotional meaning, even if you didn’t know it. It became like recovering a part of you. Like recovering your own perspective on what’s in front of everybody.

Suppose instead of attaching significance, you simply create scenarios in your mind. You just imagine instances and do this repeatedly. Over time, the song’s original meaning will tarnish away. Such imagination gives temporary satisfaction, and even though one can imagine a variety of different scenes and emotions; imagination itself, feels the same. It does not carry any value by itself. It would seem that listening to a song a couple of times and then years later seems to be the world’s best time machine, but when we overplay it, and tamper it using imagination, neural networks get diluted and may not be serve as a very effective train of reminiscence anymore. *^


Mulling things over in our mind in loops can change almost everything about it- it may change a happy sentence into a sad one, a normal experience into a special one, and now these emotions that have been created by you, are like small filters that complicate further experiences.
Consider that two people go through the same experiences from birth. They may not feel each experience to the same degree. The second point is that subtler feelings are experienced by each of them. One may react more heavily, and the other may have auxiliary feeling in more magnitude than the other. Though these differences may be minimal at the start, these subtle thoughts become triggers, just like the initial experience.
Look at what’s happened. Now the seed of subsequent thoughts and emotion is no longer EXTERNAL. Its internalized. As they grow, though material interactions give rise to initial waves of thoughts, our lives are culminated by infinite intertwined feelings and emotions- so for each material interaction, a hundred immaterial ones are processed subconsciously. A symphony can’t be broken down to violins, piano, and drums separately. The feeling that arises when they are played in unison is simply “different” though its just a conglomeration of its parts. This is similar to our mind, and the concept of “The whole is greater than its parts”. What’s more is that the thoughts occurs in different order, and a different order creates a different story.
The concept of “personality” is viewed as abstract sometimes”.  Like character is something that describes the mind, rather than the experience. But this is contradictory, as “Personality” is immaterial, while the experience, the derivative, is material. So, there is a possibility that during this invisible conversion process, our internal reactions and what we make of things in our mind may gradually shape our personality more than the experience itself.


In a strange way, that makes us original. Perhaps not completely original, but it’s possible that no two people are the same, even if they have gone through the same things.
But since the development of originality is subconscious, let us look at conscious examples to put it into application:

Often, there is a part of a song that appeals to us, a favorite part.  When we ask ourselves why that particular melody appeals to us, it may be hard to pinpoint the source of what produced your liking in that part.  Sure, it may mean something like “freedom” or “joy” of remind you of a memory. But why does it mean a specific emotion to you? This is an example of how something that has no direct connection with a memory could possibly trigger a feeling. This is a magical occurrence. It’s extraordinary that a melody can awaken in you a unique emotion, that others may not react to in the same way. It goes to portray how subtly different our minds are. Furthermore, when we create things out of that feeling we derive from the music- make a story based on the feeling, write a new song, or even play it on an instrument- now you have made something that is unique from the depths of your mind. Your own subconscious interpretation.  
Frequency of frisson was positively correlated with overall Openness to Experience, as well as five of its six sub facets: Fantasy, Aesthetics, Feelings, Ideas, and Values. *This may also mean that extensive feeling, or sensing is related to creativity.

Sensory influx, the visual imagery, nostalgia, all point towards creativity, and many renown creative geniuses draw on their sensitivity to fuel creative processes.

Highly sensitive people tend to be more creative, as the depth of feeling offers scope for exploration. The interpretation and emotion felt greatly corresponds to the creation of ideas, and is similar to how interpretation even creates association between senses, or synesthesia.
Infact, drawing on nostalgia can increase imaginative processes


You might have heard of the term “synesthesia”, where sensory experiences get interconnected. A person with grapheme synesthesia, for example, associates letters and numbers with colors. A person with musical synesthesia sees colors effuse out of musical notes. Some synesthetes taste words, smell numbers, etc. It is also a fact* that Synesthetes don’t necessarily share the same sensory experience-though there are commonalities ( ex: most synesthetes associate either black or white with zero), the difference in perception is linked to the environment of growth, childhood*, and if its occurrence is natural, then synesthesia is developed in childhood or at birth.

A Symptom of synesthesia is also reading sentences that seem personified, as though a stranger with different personalities are narrating them. It is interesting to relate this to how there might be different personas in our own head, and sometimes constantly make commentary on our life! It’s like seeing yourself through different perspectives, except these perspectives have defined forms, which makes it easier to assign little quirks to them. If this helps us sense and perceive the world better, and makes us see through multi-colored glasses, it can be very creatively satisfying to have internal conversations, in a positive and uplifting way. We can be a stranger to our own experience, and wouldn’t a change of view be enlightening?

Synesthesia also, may be linked to creativity and metaphors, * and is in a way a example of consciously coming up with original sensory interconnections, a creative process that becomes part of character.  It's connecting something unrelated and different, and an original combination of connection.

So the rearrangement of feelings, and extent to which people sense and feel can contribute to original creations. It is no surprise that many artists and musicians have synesthesia.

Such experiences, with music, nostalgia and conditions like synesthesia are examples of a how we interpret and sense can consciously contribute to originality.


The bottom line is that synesthesia obtains its roots from childhood, but morphs into something complex enough to blur lines of emotion. The proportion of how things are mixed is unique. That proportion is the starting line for all character, and the proportion can be random and unique.
Thoughts feel so diverse and interwoven, that experiencing different facets of it itself can seem synesthetic. Seeing a neon sky, for instance, may not just bring happiness or excitement, but very specific sentience, and a connection to memory, even if it has never been a part of your life at any point of time. The neon sky could mean regret and eccentricity, and flashes of senses may correspond to it. You may feel the aesthetic of a place to strange degrees, and sometimes a simple scenery can seem “wrong” or “sinister”.


  “Why does the neon sky seem eccentric?” “why are roses connected to a past memory that had nothing to do with roses?”

These questions have some intangible meaning behind them. So, it’s not just that people perceive things differently, it’s that their reality itself, a culmination of perceptions is unique, and so are thoughts. And don’t thoughts and ideals shape character in some way? Don't these interpretations become a part of you? A filter for how you perceive the world?


Some song forms a golden thread link with some intense feeling which is connected to a memory you never knew you possessed (this memory may be fictional even) which is linked to a whole little city in your world.  Everything means differently. And as we think and think, these meanings become fine-tuned, and create emotions, thoughts and perspectives that shape our individuality. The essence is that your character may have obtained its roots from the world, but your proceedings, both on the inside and outside, are truly yours. And gradually, proceedings reflect character. More than the roots. It’s a many layered mind that could seem impossible to strip down.

Memories can be similar, but the sequence of memories and thoughts, will likely not be the same.


Here we gently skim the daunting surface of the philosophical idea of “Fictional realism”. A main idea here is to try and question what the definition of something has to be to be considered real. We say “It was a dream, not reality” But did it not feel real? When we read a book, or a movie, and voraciously delve into fictional landscapes, does it not truly feel like we are integrated into it, or rather, it is integrated into us? In that case, since we are real and it is now a part of us, can it be real too? Or can it be real, simply because it exists in our minds? Love and loathing also exist in our minds, but we regard them as a real thing, pulsating with its repercussions. Do we regard something as real only if it has a scope for action? Or if it’s something we can touch or see? In that case, the world will be limited, and there would be a loss of explanation for what gives rise to those actions. It would be like saying “imagination seeds reality”.

Memories and thoughts can be similar, but the sequences of them, even if  slightly  different can grow to be hugely dissimilar. If we can consciously create things when exposed to sensory information, why can't we consider the possibility of subconscious creation of individual character?
natalie Jul 2014
When we arrive at the beach, the oppressive sun has
begun his slow, creeping descent towards the gap in
the dunes where, if one stood at the very crest, he
might see the swampy bay, tufted in tall, thin grass
and dotted with ospreys and cranes. I carry a bag
depicting a bastardization of the American flag, and
he tugs the narrow mesh cart with cartoon wheels across
the flesh-toned sand. The crowd of hungry beachgoers
is thinning, and the lifeguards have just begun to lug
their tall wooden stand back from its perilous proximity
to the gentle breakers. I walk just a few paces behind
my father, until he stops, asking, “Is this a good spot?”
I nod, never before remembering a time when he
sought my approval for a seaside roost. After ******* our
umbrella—blue-green, as though reflecting in canvas
the fluctuating shades of the mutable Atlantic—deep into
the cool sand, and setting the two chairs firmly in its chilly
shade, he asks, “Wanna swim?” Again, I nod, stripping
until I wear nothing but a mint green bikini and sunglasses.
Leisurely, we stroll towards the small waves and wade into
the just-right water gradually. Subconsciously, I am again
just three or four footfalls behind his frame, as if I cannot
continue any deeper until he has tested the sea, and each
step forward is a promise that everything is okay,
and I may proceed with caution.

Our steady immersion suddenly releases in me a torrent
of memories. I see myself, maybe seven, planted next
to him on the beach, where the sand is only just damp,
digging holes with our hands so that a small pool of
icy liquid slowly emerges, and then cupping the sand
and carefully dripping it along the edges to create a
system of fortresses and castles melting in the breeze.
I see him explaining to me, age nine, the proper way
to bodysurf, and I feel once again a sudden fear that
the salty water will fill my nostrils and cause that
choking burn that I detest to this day. I remember
him laughing that hearty guffaw as I was, invariably,
thrown from my boogie board in the aftermath of a
particularly large wave, skinning my knees against
the broken shells dotting the rough ocean floor. I
hear his careful instructions about the proper and
improper behaviors when ****** into a rip tide—
swim horizontally, he’d say, and if I didn’t understand
the word, he’d clarify that it meant to follow the beach,
because following the sea was certain death.

When our waists have just begun to adjust to the
temperature, I overhear the father of a girl who is
about the age I was in these memories exclaim that
a pod of dolphins has come quite close, and upon
looking, I see their gray bodies slithering in and out
of the deeper water. I nudge my father and point, and
we both marvel at this rare occurrence. Thousands of
seconds pass, and this time he is pointing off in the
distance, saying, “They’re still hanging around. Must
be a school of fish or something.” When I ask him if
he knows why they are within swimming distance,
he tells me confidently that it must be due to the
water’s unseasonable warmth, and I know in my
heart and in my brain that he is correct, as usual.

After the dolphins have disappeared, I say that I
am done swimming, that I want to start the Marquez
tome weighing heavily upon my conscience and that,
besides, we shouldn’t leave our valuables alone for
too long. He simply shrugs, as if to say, “Why would
you want to get out of this ocean?” almost as though he
didn’t realize thievery is such a common occurrence
at the Jersey shore. From my haven in the shade, I
feel goosebumps emerge as my father’s shirt deepens
from heather gray to taupe. Before leaving the
house our family has visited every summer for over
a decade, I borrowed his brand new headphones—he
was so excited to tell me that they don’t knot—and
their bulbous coverings, when stuck in ears on a
windy beach, create the sort of howling found in
1970s horror movies, my own personal FX. Despite
the fact that I have just surpassed one quarter of a
century in age, I still see him, a few years past the
half-century mark, turn around, squinting, until he
sees me safely planted in the plastic chair, as safe
as a father could hope his oldest daughter to be.
shireliiy Sep 2015
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Bri Jul 25
It tasted good
So many flavors
I truly enjoyed it
I enjoyed food

I loved it until I thought of my body
Then my stomach lurched
It coiled and warped
My hunger retreating
After only two bites
I couldn’t force any more down

I hated the feeling
I hated that I couldn’t do it
I hated the food

But what I hated most
Was my brain
For forcing me to think like this
I did it subconsciously
Not on purpose
Never on purpose

It was all my brain
Not my greatest poetry-wise but I had to get my thoughts out of my brain.

— The End —