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Bend with me...
Move with me...
No.
Move through me.
Love me like a ghost.
Feel me as a coldness
Freezing the memories of you and I.
Because I don't want you haunting mine.

These fingers remember the way
Your skin laid-
Quietly, anxiously
With the better man I was
When I was with you.
Those were the "golden days" for me.
Before all these emotions overcame my mind like a runaway train.
Before they repeated me to sleep.

The clouds looked down upon us,
Watching the way we changed-
Symphonically.
Spotting fights with dots.
Proving how something so big for us was nothing but small.
They never should have been,
But were, nonetheless.

Our chemistry faded
Like a failed science project.
Unstable at times.
Miraculous in another form of light.

And no other but the clouds
Bare witness to the blinders on our eyes.
Excuse me dear,
But I really feel like we let them down.
Daniel Handschuh Oct 2015
He is blessed to have not lost a hair, despite his climbing age.
   He is both nearsighted and farsighted; can see every turning page.
   His gray mustache is thick; his smile is jovial; he is grandfatherly.
   He is loved by many for his outgoing, convivial personality.
   One might say that death would be quite peaceful with this fellow,
   But who is to be warned that he will not even see the morrow?
   A pipe bounces in his lips as he tells heroic stories to the children:
   “He hoists up his pack and fights to reach the peak of the mountain.
   “He battles the knifelike snow as it attacks like thousands of spears.
   They stab his burning eyes, and blizzardly winds scream in his ears.”
   But what is on the other side of the mountain? What lies beyond?
   What is so great that the suspense and action must be prolonged?
   The man’s face tightens, his eyes go distant, his body goes rigid.
   It is as if his brain has suddenly transformed into a slimy liquid.
   With a rough cough and a puff of smoke, the pipe falls to the floor,
   Spilling out unused tobacco; it is a quiet, unsettling roar.
   The man’s eyes grow dark; his face turns from healthy to deathly white,
   And his head slumps down, staring at his knees, the children affright.
   As a droplet of blood seeps from his nose and caresses his dry lips,
   And a restless bead of sweat travels down the bridge and the tip,
   The children scatter like cockroaches, searching for the darkness—
   Some comfort to ease the horror and the pain and the sadness—
   Somewhere to empty their minds of this terror into a black hole—
   Someplace that they can entomb their thoughts with the secret, unknowable scrolls—
   An undisturbed place where their innocence can be embraced and consoled—
   Yet is there such a place where the recesses of the mind do not unfold?
   But already the old man is forgotten, as are his great stories and tales.
   He slips from all conscious minds and leaves nothing, no details.
   No questions arise; his whereabouts are not wondered; he is decoration:
   A work of nature’s art that is meant to stir up onlookers’ admiration.
   His beautiful stillness strikes a long, thin, metallic chord of inspiration:—;
   But it is the gong of fear and disgust that overrides these ponderations:—
   Fear and happiness battle symphonically to make the best music.
   Fear wins because screaming noise shall always reign over acoustics.
  
   A young man, unmarried upon seeing his bride-to-be hung in her room,
   Has enclosed himself in his own prison and will not come out soon.
   It is rectangular and copper, putting a deep taint on the world outside.
   Long gone is his decency, his health, his love, and his signature pride;
   Long gone is the liquid of delusional ecstasy that once filled this bottle
   That he now resides in. He feels that he has lost a hopeless battle.
   His skin is whitening, the color in his irises are fading, his body is thinning.
   Everything in him is collapsing dejectedly as his skeleton continues creeping.
   He hums an arrhythmic tune with a salmagundi of conflicting emotions:—;
   The phantasmagorical manifestation of mental convulsions:—
   The hot flames of Hysteria make love with the cool rains of Sadness;
   Joy—giddy and intoxicated—rapes Hatred with confetti and madness;
   Anger blossoms as a spring flower and attracts the red blood of Love;
   The screams of this beastly mating is heard in the heavens above—
   Oh, the horrendously whorish screams, how the animals salivate!
   The wails of bastardly offspring! How the corruption does culminate!
   One can only marvel at the dishonor that the unabashed Morality
   Has taken! How can one now differentiate between dreams and reality?
   How does one now describe dreams—so ****** and violent, but perfect?
   Or reality—so disinteresting and faulted, not a wanted soul in it?
   The entrapped man has every answer, imprisoned in a cell, like him,
   But why should he utter a word at all when he is his very own phantom:—?
   He answers only to himself, never reveals the codes he has deciphered.
   So many anomalies, oddities, and complexities that he has been inspired.
   As his breath walks away with loud shoes and its head held high,
   The world is suddenly transfixed and does not want to see him die.
   They know not his name or profession, nor can they remember his appearance.
   Even so, he has been unexpectedly labeled as their guide, their endurance.
   But he froths at the mouth and urinates freely, like a wild, untamed animal—
   For even humans become animals, and grow further to become cannibals.
   Shall all of society tumble because of a lost faith put into the faithless?
   Needless to say, an impalement on jagged rocks will not be painless.
  
   Upon the gong, a naked woman is on her knees, her wrists tied behind her back,
   And her ankles shackled. She is a pained, a contradictory nymphomaniac:
   Oh, how it hurts, but how thrilling! What is pleasure without the slightest pain:—?
   Deception! Nothing! It is suddenly worthless and full of absolute disdain!
   The woman looks up with bubbly, tearing eyes and awaits the cannonade
   Of gripping and violent desire. She will gladly be a toy, and a toy she is made:
   A sword descends and inserts itself into the woman’s welcoming throat.
   She gasps at the cold metal; how deep it falls, how it makes her feel afloat.
   How her ******* bulge with warm milk and her hips shake with anticipation
   Of what the sword has to bring: Happiness, glee, lust, and beautiful vibrations.
   She pants and chokes as the sharpness slices her inside; she tastes blood.
   The sword breaks flesh, finds her womb, and fills it like a flood.
   ******—******—******—!
   Gulp—******—gulp—******—!
   Oh, how her desires are exploding, going far beyond the limitations.
   The tastes of fulfillment come from the monsters of intimidation.
   She coughs; a crimson blob fountains and drenches her cheeks, neck,
   And her mermaidian black hair, like soft silk across her smooth back.
   Whatever blood she does not catch, the gong of fear and disgust catches,
   And it is painted redder than Judgement Day’s moon. The blood attaches
   Itself and becomes one with the gong and sings it's now morbid song.
   As the woman’s lungs are violently ripped out, she feels nothing wrong.
   Nor does she feel at all as her heart is shredded within her tireless chest.
   Rivers of blood flow down her impure body—its warmth is the best
   And brings dizziness to her he head, tears to her eyes, and wetness to her legs.
   Even as she weakly collapses, eviscerated, she continues to long, to beg.
   The gong of fear and disgust vibrates roughly, sparking hormones—
   The hormones of terror and revulsion that help her to never be alone.
  
   As the corpses rot below the acidic waters, the blood polluting
   It even further, horrors beyond comprehension begin rooting.
   The gong of fear and disgust drones over he mountains, emotionless,
   In a great search to find a host. And searching has never been hopeless.
   Catch its eye, and be afraid, or catch its eye, and breathe fire.
   Either way is a dangerous pursuit of will and courage—a dance on a wire.
                        Fly—
                    Goodbye
Layla Jul 2021
The journey starts in the early morning.
By 7:36am the alarm is blaring and we know it’s time to go.
We grab a backpack and carefully put the neon green keychain in the smallest pocket for safekeeping.

Teeth brushed, shoes on and the batteries are all charged as we double check the wallet and phone before finally shutting the heavy apartment door.

As we make our way down the first flight of stairs we stop to stare out the large window that holds an imposing place of honour from the ceiling all the way to the bottom floor. We see a few water droplets crowd together in a corner as they race down as if to see who can make it to the bottom first. We make a right and down a second flight of stairs we go until we reach the ground floor; there we stop and take a picture before stepping outside.

The morning rush seems to be on hiatus today: a few cars go by but nothing like the heavy traffic you would expect on a mid-July day. Although it’s clear a storm is brewing the air is still warm and with that, welcoming. The trees bow down as we pass, the breeze making them wobble from side to side like the white porcelain rocking horse that once sat gloriously on top of the fire place.

We walk fast, music playing in our headphones. We listen to 3 songs by 3 different artists before making it to the first crossing and as we make our way between the tightly packed buildings we see some workmen talking loudly and drinking the first of what is sure to be many more cups of coffee. If we would be walking side by side our strides would match and our steps would be in unison, as perfectly choreographed as the smiles which lay hidden behind thick layers of  please-not-again and just-another-day-like-yesterday. Ready to be deployed at a moment's notice if we are ever approached.

We smell the rain and the trees, and the rubbery scent of tires rolling on wet asphalt. We did it, we made it with 10 minutes to spare. On the left is the movie theatre - we glance at it and wonder what it will be showing today. We make a mental note to check it out later but soon forget as we become entranced by the beautifully coloured pride chalk art displayed on the ground. It’s so detailed it’s sure to have taken many hours of hard work and caused plenty of sore knees.

We enjoy walking on the topsy turvy road feeling free as our steps gracefully land on each colour of the rainbow. Although no one is around to see it we are smiling. Some might call today cloudy, depressing  and dark.

Not us. We see the beauty hiding timidly between each carefully placed line; skipping merrily from one colour to the next, leaving only watery footprints behind to safe-keep the dear memory of our walking tour adventure.

We raise a finger and point ahead to indicate the way in which we need to go. When we glance over and we see our mirrored gestures a laugh escapes our lips. Our eyes lock and shine bright as they reflect the roads and tall buildings ahead, but most importantly they show the spark of love we keep hidden deep inside our souls like an aura that can only be seen by those with a pure and open heart. We cherish each moment, taking it in as if it would be a precious gift the universe has entrusted us with.

As we step back onto the pavement we are met by an array of smells and sounds: the city has come alive in the golden hour we spent day-dreaming of forbidden escape. Our steps are slower now; it’s our own secret world and we have no desire to rush as we thirstily take in all the astonishing sights; as though we would be witnessing them for the very first time. The gentle sound of our steps meeting each puddle symphonically accompanies the soft chatter of the brave that have ventured out on this stormy day. And when we are no longer shielded by the generously large, sloping roofs the rain drops start falling. Landing silently, they are a cooling, sweet delight on our slightly-too-warm rosy cheeks.

After what feels like an eternity of walking through a man-made paradise we are back in the protective embrace of safety as we re-enter the apartment. Our senses are heightened as the brewing storm lets loose and we watch through the windows as it finally begins its furious rampage through the city, showing little to no mercy to any poor soul left behind.

The once quiet clouds have laid in wait for much too long and are now rebelling - throwing loud, thunderous protests towards all mortals as Mother Earth braces for the impact. But the chaos never comes and the seconds-ago angst filled sky is once again a clear, serene blue ready to withstand many more weeks of pain until it’s time to rage and cry and spill the precious water reserves once more.

At last, a beautiful rainbow graces the sky, manifesting new peace with its familiar colours; a sign that it’s safe for us to venture out again.
Leila Valencia Apr 2018
We can not go,
This, I have said this to myself millions of times.

But, that day my heart took the driver’s seat.
My mind stopped working like a well-oiled machine.

I was in the middle of the urban jungle, the concrete city of cars, traffic, and cookie-cutter homes...
The land of squared, sanitized spaces, and constant noises from technology, automobiles, and the noise in our heads to keep up with the rat race.

I closed my eyes

Then, I opened them again.

A different reality!
A dream, of course!

I found myself in a jungle of green, moist, humid sweat.
This was the land of  kaleidoscopic dreams;
The monkey’s howls pierce the air -
birds symphonically, swimming together in the air-
Life in every single layer of nature

I felt myself
Losing myself in the greenery
The lushness
The awe

I had time to contemplate
In my contemplation, I decided, the only thing in life is real is the story I create in life

And as I go through the forest
My thoughts become more developed and articulated

I slash at everything that does not make sense
I slash at every idea
Every preconceived notion
Of
Who I thought
I am

I cut like a savage warrior
On a mission
Branches, dangling distractions
Temptations of fruits and branches that grab at my waist,
And more branches, like physical arms tieing me down like chains

I slash the blade
I cut with no intention of where I want to go

Exhausted, I rest my head

In the darkness in the middle of the amazon

A jaguar comes to me
With their yellow eyes waiting in the corner - It observes me in the bushes
I sit still
Is this a message for me?

Wanting to hear what I have to say
I wait and wait
I stay up all night.

As I wait for prophecies
The jaguar eventually leaves me alone in the darkness

Dissapointment rages inside me
I am left in more uncertainity

But, my heart spoke really loud today
Something took a hold of me
I was not rationale.
I was not cautious..

I opened my backpack and dumped everything off a cliff
I ran and jumped in the blue ocean

Finally
I listened to my heart
Finally...
This is for all of those who do not know where life will take them. This is for all of those who are not sure where they want to go next. I think it is really, really important to just keep going and eventually you will find yourself just enjoying life. Chasing feelings, chasing your heart, and getting out of your head.
Jessica Fisher Nov 2016
Taunting hours
Tachycardiac rhythm
semiotic desire and
lavish confluxes
displaced thought in
sauntered meadows
the willows wrath
symphonically martyred
perused softly
reverberating slowly
malignant design
syringed emotions
evoking morose
please make magic out of moments forgotten under footsteps of hungry giants seeking protection from the gods of tyranny and natural states of synchronicity
under the protection of benevolent forces you are free to breathe your own destiny into being
situations are suggesting that your soul families have become determined to develop and support the unfolding vision arising from the depths of your devotion to life
if you agree to receive an indeterminate amount of unrequested support and a loving increase in your creative life force you will be instantly and irrevocably infused with your solar angel’s heightened frequencies
time and space will be transformed into a breathtaking display of radiant energy released symphonically from the coronal ejection of your electromagnetic field in synchrony with eternity
having considered all possible outcomes what is likely to occur is not the most probable outcome but the path of least resistance to reframing all reality
independent of consequences unforeseen all reality is truly a dream being dreamt by an eternal being with a keen interest in preserving this dream’s integrity
having become one with the knower of the seen and the unseen knowing has become the sole means of interpreting an ever-evolving stream of continuous incongruity between the linear and the non-linear weave of interconnectivity
a tantra of inter-dimensional proportion cutting through an adamantine aversion to illusionary being is perpetually stretching my perception of infinity
letting go of a deeply ingrained resistance to the persistence of the experiences playing out their frequently repeating scenes
we are self-generating machines capable of tasting our own inner ecstasy and creating a destiny for our children’s children driven by love’s simple complexity
Marthin Oct 2019
We both were aboriginals.

Knowing nothing but to rely on primal instincts, we only knew how to devour. Using tactics on how to conquer each other as if beguiled by omniscience.

Carnal instincts propagate as we continue to intertwine our own bodies, matching each other’s cadence. Not even Clausius nor Thomson or even Carnot could determine the Temperature that both our bodies emit.

Lost in the heat of the moment, we continue to confront in sensual interaction, as if taken a drug that took us high.

We both let out melodious keys that resound symphonically. As if tranqualized, we lay there, our bare skin covered in sparkling translucent sweat. Our eyes coincide, within them, a faint trace of sweetness mixed with heat and love. Our cheeks, colored like plump cherries on early spring.

Lastly we close our eyes and drift within the dreamland. Guided by Hypnos himself, we transverse the foreign land, with nothing but the burning memory that made us melt like candlesticks that once held a majestic flame.
dlfleurival May 2020
5/9/20
7:54 am
And nothing else quite mattered
The universe around me didn’t exist
Not that it cared to know that I existed
And I realize I put my heart into treasures of the world
And that is what I could describe what love is to me
Because it’s hard to let go of words written so beautifully, I suppose
The scent of my hair filled the air as I took deep breaths to avoid the tears
With each rip of the brittle, old letter, I ripped matter apart, and ripped at the atoms of my heart
It fluttered symphonically below and returned back to dust just like us
There...
The earth still rotated in an universe that never knew we exist
Jason Trinh Jul 2021
She blooms in silence
Watching carefully
Candid constancy
Amidst a soundless place
Amidst a fretful space
Symphonically serene
Extraordinarily in between
Damien Ko Feb 2020
syncopate a sentence succinctly
take that thought and
slice and serrate across lines
synth steady and stolid syntax
stitch surrealism to sanity symphonically
scatter sadness, sow sunny spirit
slather language with excess
dole diction in dearth
depose dialectical dogma
dredge dreary dreams and not so drearies
foment formidably
froth and fracture finalities
syllogise spectacular speculation
simplify abtruse abnormalities
whet words wonderfully

— The End —