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Rachel Sullivan Sep 2014
I remember the day,
you gave me a bracelet.
Leather, and brown.
Beautifully woven and thick,
Writing on the front that read
“Lokana”, your name in Hawaiian.

But the clasp was broken,
Completely unwearable.
I would have to tie it with string.

Most would have thrown it away.
Yet,
You gave it to me as a gift.
And you looked at me
With such extreme importance in your eyes,
Your voice stern as you said
“Don't lose this.”

It was then that I realized
What it must have meant to you.
A sharp twinge of fear caught me
As I promised I wouldn’t,
Knowing how much you were asking of me.

I have such a forgetful mind, you see.
I drop brand new phones on concrete,
Leave 10 page essays at home,
Forget the way to my best friend's house
After hundreds of times being there.

I forget chunks of my life.
Years of my childhood,
Gone.
Precious items,
Missing.

Yet you wished me, of all people,
To keep track of something so small
And easy to lose.
And I, of all people, agreed to do so
Because I knew what it must have meant to you,
And now it means that to me too.
SG Holter Jun 2014
Selfless service.
Ego-less existence. Robes

Unwearable to mortal
Men, yet their colours are

Worth adopting onto
One's own everyday

Fatigues. I sit with one eye
Closed wherever I am, wondering

Whether this snake uncoiling
Within me is Kundalini awakening

To tell me that Dio's Stand Up
And Shout is not a mantra,

Or just some sense of knowing
That I have not a single reason to

Smile. Until I
Smile.
Harmony Sapphire Feb 2015
Old people become like children.
They need care & monitoring.

Broken & unrepairable.
Intolerable & unbearable.
Stained, torn, & unwearable.

Empty & no longer full.
Anger takes you like a raging bull.
Motivation pushes & pulls.
Through & behind locked doors.
Solid brick walls coward's hide from us all.

Guilt has shame.
Responsibility blames.
Isolated & insane.
Somethings stay the same.
Sometimes people, places, or things change.
Somehow all becomes strange.
Memories rearrange.
Ambitions & goals get deranged.
Shattered dreams are pained.
Credit is unfamed.
Wild hearts are never tamed.

Fallen through the cracks like grains of sand.
Your destiny is purified your hands.
You fall where you land.
"Family" has you labeled & banned.
Inspirations & Aspirations are canned.
Your future is never planned.
Traffic flow gets slowed & jammed.
Victims are slandered & slammed.
Innocence gets ******.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved
Skye Dec 2018
I have a confession
I don't mind depression
It helped me make friends
But what if it ends
Would they ever stay
Even for one day
Maybe they would
No reason they should
I am worthless
Couldn't be less
My pain is unbearable
Chains so unwearable
My mind is my prison
By my own decision
Locked myself inside
Don't let me outside
I will destroy you
Though I don't mean to
My issues are contagious
Loving me is outrageous
So do yourself a favor
And make yourself a hater
Throw away the key
Before you can see
The monster that is hidden
I horse never to be ridden
Please just keep me caged
Never to be engaged
Torin Mar 2016
Can't last much longer
Without a change
This life I feel is strange
Becomes unbearable
This sweater made of wasp
Unwearable
Not enough to keep me warm
Not a shelter
Only storm

And this taste in my mouth
I thought was sweet
Becomes a poison dart
Aiming for my heart
This poison invades me
It pervades me
And reaches even the parts
I tried to hide
And I want to show

This life
I have to give
This life
I have to lose
I want to win
But all it is
Is really nothing
And how can I hold on
To nothing?
neth jones Jul 2019
-

[Note : i am flushed with heartbeats,
fast panic breaths
and thought.
i have overwhelming stream of ideas]



...it’s ridden through in our flooded veins

it’s furnishing our museums

  it’s marred out on parchment

     it’s mated together in privacy


      [Note : i tighten my eyes closed for relief]


     forbidden

      persecuted

     tried and executed

    preserved in wetland peat

   it can be called out

without the feed of the moon

without the woe of the ocean


 [Note : i clamp my hands over my ears]


senses

census

pleasured

genetically vetted

it can be rutted out

  falling **** through the generations

    the speed of the molecule

   or flitted across our grid electrically

    microscope

     magnet

     telescope

      prism

      morse distressed

     music

    pressed

   repressed

  and invested against

through historical text

it’s collected in your visage

and yawned back at you

  off of your morning mirror

   it’s in your needings

    your trolling of prayers and personalities

     and the breaking of your vocal jockery

    
     [Note : i dry gag and go silent]


     information is energy

    not erased

  but converted...

   ...and then nothingness

    an unwearable yelling void

     expanding pressure-less

      precipice

       rapid

     the immense feeling

    of feeling nothing

   the code/no-code

  the necessary ill behind the facade

of the purpose currency


[Note : my thoughts slow,
i note my breath
and my heart]
It's hard to explain how pain alters you
and changes the way you relate.

in agony or in ecstasy it pins me to the floor
and the wait for relief if it comes to numb me
is even harder.

It could be voodoo
and you know what that means?
it means I'm being punctured by
needles, accented by screams,
lost in the chasms of the
tormented screams or
it could be
acupuncture.

either way
it's still hard to explain
and when the pain becomes
unbearable,
when the day becomes unwearable
I
go naked into the night.
WMullery Feb 2019
You borrowed my life for 2 years
One size too big for you, like my pjs
You spilt dough just all over it
Gave it back *****.
Hard to remove
Its unwearable, tight, restrictive
Like my pjs, more yours than my own now
TLPrince Apr 2020
Louise is still in bed.
     It is almost eleven, Louise lies in her bed.
     She lies, entangled in the multiple blankets that shape with lights and shades the delicate curves of her body.
     Her hair flows softly on the pillow where they lay.
     One of her leg, skinny but still forceful is spread out of the warm shield of the covers : A white arrow against the crimson mattress, and her smell fulfills the room.
    It is a drunk sensation, that smell, like a rough rush of desire as a perfume.

    Her white complexion distinguished itself clearly on the brass pillow, her sleek blond hair shining, her head hangs slightly on the left and she wears a dreamy face. And again that heady smell of her.
    A man has taken his clothes and escaped by the window a few minutes ago, or more. The sound of a ragman praying in the distance is still ringing through.
    The window open wide allows the breeze in, throwing the red curtains billowing. The chill is there too, engaged in a mighty fight against the protection of the blankets. The sun is pouring like burning coal inside, all of gold and beams.
    The flowered wallpaper, yellowish now due to the ages’ action, emanates a soft warmth ; an old lady has just sneezed somewhere ; the picture of the madonna peers quietly over the room, all over the big brass bed, half-drowned in a vivid light.Oh, and that unwearable smell likewise a goddess body, entrancing.
    
     Louise, she’s just near, she moves, rolling tenderly on her side, in an endless struggle against the reawakening. Stretching a leg now, crunching on herself then, the mouth slightly open ; a sugary breath blows between her ivory teeth.
     The bed seems too big for her, she could have shrunk during the wild blazing nighttime, though I doubt it.
     The murmur of the blankets rippling can be heard to the advert ear. The sandman is on a beach in Florida now : only the defense of her fragile eyelids remains. A deck of cards has been scattered on the floor, the jack of hearts swimming flat in a pool of hopes.
    
     Outside, across Greenwich Village, nobody can guess that baby isn’t blessed, but that’s all our fate too. A man is sliding, a hat on his eye, round the corner of the avenue, God knows he paid some dues but now it makes it only seem so cruel.
    The lamppost mule is holding up the skies, folding upon the world, that makes the dogs bark but they are only dogs, remember it.
     What if Mona Lisa was not smiling and the Chineses were blind ? The highway happy, and the rumbling thunder shivering ? Like a roar, those questions still echo in the air, but she does not care, just like a little girl.
     Her pearly fingers run across her face, through her hair and down her eyes. She bridges languorishly her back to the ceiling and falls back featherlike, lying now straight.
     Two spotlights of blue and mist opened, staring at the ceiling, the dreadful ceiling. Images of past and future, of lovers and crooks swirling in front of her : she’s awake.
    
     A fat budgie sings like silence from a corroded cage in the darkened corner ; A bra and a shirt hang from it but no one really cares. The rumbling of the crowds, the soundtrack of our life. A tree near the window shatters the blinding light that bursts in the room. And that smell… it’s so hard to get on.
     Likewise the leopard, she stands out her nest, softly, without any noise and with great grace. She grabs a shirt that she let on her shoulders floating to her hips, to protect the body from the haunting chill, and she strikes the fat budgie.
    The floor it is cold, she walks, she floats on her tiptoes to the window ; as she walks, the sunshine draw ghosts of valleys, hills and forests upon her flesh. Dignity is carved in her features, meanwhile the spirit of sensuality howls in the bones of her face.
    A strand of hair taunts her eye as her mane seems to follow every breath, every pace she takes, timelessly. She removes that strand arrogantly. An eternity had just passed when she arrived at the window, an eternity of elegance that no school can ever teach, that no one can ever learn.
    
   She stands, framed by the pouring light, bathed in clarity, like an angel on the window ledge. A restless memory of him has disappeared : she said she was called Johanna yesterday, she said  she would never forget, neither of them believed it, she said watery words, she spoke from her watery lips, once. The egyptians pretended that every new day was a new world, she’s not egyptian. Still she does not feel yesterday anymore. She just stands there, framed by the pouring light, the beauty of the world and the beauty of my lover so entwined,  an oblivion conquers our minds.
     She looks but does not see ; She listens but does not hear ; she exists, she does not live and she spends a lifelong while at those window. Greenwich Village, the green and gold and brown and grey daytime light and tree and street. The shirt dancing on her sides, she smiles mirthful, her shiny eyes seem to encompass the whole universe in a sight, or two. She is present, she is here, she is her. Like she never done before…
    
    Maybe she has stood the trial of time at this window, carved in an instant of perfection, maybe she is flying with the doves by now, heading for the gates of Eden, maybe, she has jumped…anyway.
Oh, and that smell of her, is now all that remains.

— The End —