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Brycical Dec 2011
200 miles away
connected by VNV Nation
we speak of stars
we speak of space
& I just want to be weightless
with you.

We wrap our words in time machine
blankets to worlds we’ve never been.
Man, they don’t even exist in this scene
but we’ve begun to vacation there to see
the stars in space stationed there where
we can just be weightless there
                               be weightless there
                                       be weightless there

I want to take you by the hand,
& float on into our sonic plans
to meet next week
& fly inside
each other’s stripes
while the entire world just wonders why
or how these psychedelic titans imbibe
so much inspiration from their color blind mind’s eye…
the echoes
                   of each other’s smile
reminds me of the stars
once in a while
because I just want to be weightless
                                  weightless with you.
Rhythm and feel influenced greatly from Pink Floyd's "Echoes."
KS Julianne May 2014
Illuminated by the soft glow
Of glorified plastic, I sit still
On the duvet, my body feeling
Completely and utterly weightless.

And my back is slumped against
The cement wall, bruised spine aching
As it begs for me to lie. Ah,
Completely and utterly weightless.

Hearing sounds and beats I can't listen,
Inhaling chopped air waiting for dawn to arise,
exhaling words before they clog my mind.
Completely and utterly weightless.

And sleep beckons me and asks me why,
and I start nodding along to it as the moment end
and my bruised spine aches. Ah, but I was
Completely and utterly weightless.

But the buzz won't let me sleep, as always,
so I keep listening to riffs I can't hear
and plead to my mind to rest instead;
Completely and utterly weightless.

At least, I used to be.
But the bags under my eyes
decided that it was time to weigh
down on my skin again.

Completely and utterly weightless;
I slip into a restless slumber
as the lead in my bones makes
itself more evident that before.

So I let my words become weightless instead.
But they refuse to leave, so instead they
seep in my muscles, clanking around skin and bones
And waiting to be bled, **** it, I can't sleep.

Surprise, surprise.
There are these moments   when I drift between consciousness and slumber where I kind of lose feeling in my body, and my thoughts ring the loudest in that moment, which, in turn, wakes me up again. This happens multiple times every night and it's very frustrating,  but I've gotten used to it. All part of being an insomniac.
Viseract Feb 2017
Judgement is offered without being asked for,
Just remember that.

To be a good judge of character
You gotta see further than the books front cover
You have to look deeper, must find meaning
Between the pages and the paragraphs and what it is you're seeing

Know that every page number is another day on scene
Know that pages are stained from the blood we bleed
Know that pages crumple with the words unspoken
And know each new chapter is a lifetime token

Some may label "money", "corruption", "greed"
But know you can help swiftly as Godspeed
They opened up to you and it's up to you to see
That crazy times make people do crazy things

I'm just holding out the hope,
Standing still as I reel against the ropes
Tell me how long til I fall down
Weightless as a feather, gone without a sound

I'm just holding out the hope,
Standing still as I reel against the ropes
Tell me how long til I fall down
Weightless as a feather, gone without a sound

She opened up to me, for strangers advice
Is easier to get than from others in your life
There's no fear of judgement, disappointment, or people
Who like to spill secrets that are too dark and evil

I looked in the mirror and it became see-through
Not a reflection of myself just Myself Mark 2
It's funny how that works, the lies we pursue
The hope that something worse will surely make a better you

Know that the engravings on each book spine
Is a scar from the past, another mark in time
As you run your fingers you ask "where is the beauty?"
If you look past the cover you may finally see

I'm just holding out the hope,
Standing still as I reel against the ropes
Tell me how long til I fall down
Weightless as a feather, gone without a sound

I'm just holding out the hope,
Standing still as I reel against the ropes
Tell me how long til I fall down
Weightless as a feather, gone without a sound

I can't tell you how to run your life
But I tell you it's dangerous to run with knives
Maybe you don't care because pains the prize
Trust me, it's a trap that'll **** you as you fly

Icarus himself fell from the clouds
And plummeted to the ocean, an arrow straight down
I will help you surely as Jesus Christ
Has been told from three days to come back to life

So I may die, but that's okay
With wax wings I flew too high anyway
The pain is a trap that'll **** you as you fly
And I'm not ready to ready another goodbye

I'm just holding out the hope,
Standing still as I reel against the ropes
Tell me how long til I fall down
Weightless as a feather, gone without a sound

I'm just holding out the hope,
Standing still as I reel against the ropes
Tell me how long til I fall down
Weightless as a feather, gone without a sound

I will hold out for you
Talk to me, make me see
Convince me that its true
That it's not worth helping you

I'm just holding out the hope,
Standing still as I reel against the ropes
Tell me how long til I fall down
Weightless as a feather, gone without a sound
For every denial of beauty, I will say that you are beautiful until it is ingrained that I love you
Haze Feb 9
What if I died-
Today, tomorrow?
What weight does it have
Gravity; all that sorrow?

The weight of it all-
Pain, fear, love, happiness, and
All other emotions of all sorts
Suddenly turn to mist;
A weightless,

Was I wrong to feel things too deeply?
When every single thing-
That mattered too deeply
Is bound to be a faded memory?
What does strength in this life even mean,
To those eventual weightless dreams?

Perhaps, it is a curse
That when I pause
And breathe
It felt okay
To feel,
And to feel deeply
Even when it is all bound to be
A weightless, faded memory.
Any feedback will be very much appreciated, thanks!
Dylan McFadden Feb 2020
Weightless, he was
Bound to none –
A wispy, wandering

He danced upon his days
Like waves,
Without a ripple
In the end…

‘Cause times when he
Would come too close,
Feet nearly touching

He’d hide away
Into his dream
And scream
Without a sound


Weightless, he was
Bound to none –
A wispy, wandering

He felt no wonder
‘bout his life;
Nothing felt

‘Cause nothing could
Command his heart
Or pull him down
To stand

So ‘ever he just
Drifted there
In fog and
Foreign land


Weightless, he was
Bound to none –
A wispy, wandering

He settled for a
Fairytale, but
Woke up feeling

‘Cause deep within
The darkest depth –
An abyss of Truth

He knew that there was
More than this:
The “Ever-Expanding


But…weightless, he was
Bound to none –
A wispy, wandering

Zoe Nov 2011
When things were good, they were
We could stumble down the streets
at four in the morning,
wearing hickeys like tattoos
we'd be ashamed of at dawn.
Sneaking wristbands from friends
with fake IDs,
or faker ****.
And if we were low on cash,
we might take turns
lifting our shirts, shifting our bras,
until a flash of something sacred
earned a free drink.
I could have been
if gravity were working.
But we were all
Mistakes just floated away.

Our dresses were too short, and
our dresses were too tight, and
the boys wore shirts
that were good at hiding stains.
Sometimes we didn't even need words;
we could walk into
a smokey, sticky bar
and fall in love with a boy's arms
while he fell in love
with a too-short dress
and the chance to see underneath it.
And we knew
we'd be waking up
with those hickey-tattoos.
But we didn't care, because
we were all
The boys just floated away.

Maybe we wouldn't find any
but that was always okay, because
we were in love
with ourselves.
Our hazy heads
whispered pretty words,
and as we burned our throats
with shots of pure love,
pretty words began to slur
into a pretty song, but we could
never remember the melody
when we awoke.
So the next night
we'd shimmy into our too-tight dresses
and start ******* down
more liquid love
until we began hearing
that pretty song again.
We half-knew our sober hearts
would never be able to recall
the tune,
but it never mattered.
We were all
Notes just floated away.

These nights, things are
I'll pour myself some love,
but it burns like regret now.
I don't wear any too-tight dresses
because I don't much miss
the dance floor.
I don't miss the hickeys
or the four A.M. walks.
I don't miss the shirts
being lifted and pulled.
I don't miss the smoke
flooding the bars.
But I do miss the song
that I'll never quite know.
For though I am grounded,
that tune is forever
and the notes will just float away.
I don't quite like the ending. And I have mixed feelings about the repetition. I could use a lot of help with this one, y'all. Thanks bunches.
maisie khan Jul 2014
He is teardrops that fall from my face, salty in my mouth, delicate in my hands. He is all the shadows the sun brings with it. He is all the stars you can't see, millions of light years away from me, dead stardust. And here I am, dead stardust, too. So if we're just weightless dust from the same endless space then why did we lose so much connection? Why am I still endlessly floating away from you when all I want to do is become a piece of you. How is it that we are just millions of atoms crashed together and yet you can't join our atoms up, as if there's no such thing as chemistry between us. There's no science between us at all.

You are loved. You are loved because I see you as the sun, the moon, the solar system, the entire ******* universe when all you really are is just WEIGHTLESS DUST. Tell me, universe of my life, do you understand how intense this kind of love is? You have the power of a thousand black holes, pulling everything in to you. I am just the weightless dust you spit out.
Murphy Lynne Sep 2014
As a feather
Everyone afraid
I will fly away
Is what i crave
With my heart
As hollow
As my bones
Madeline Kennell Jul 2016
think of ice cream melting so you have to lick it off the sides of the cone

think of holding hands with a boy for the first time

think of being *****- not a gross ***** but ***** like you worked so hard today that you deserve this 800 calorie meal

think of the sounds of summer when you close your eyes, of a slight wind and the chimes that they blow about on your grandmother's porch

and speaking of grandmothers, and their porches, think of how you discovered watercolours in that very place

and think of coming home from a long day at the pool and watching the rain on your porch while you feel your skin cool down and you drink that amazing caramel tea

think of climbing the tree to get to the wall to climb on the garage roof and watch the clouds roll in over the mountains

think of the feel of the first time you got to hold a baby bunny and how in a way this made you see God

think of that feeling when you hiked the mountain even though your hip was broken and you got to the top and said 'i did it'

think of when you swam in the ocean and all your troubles ran off into the water and left you forever because the water was the pacific

think of putting on all that makeup and your prom dress just because you felt like it

think of dancing in the rain with your sister when the grass smelled sweet and the dirt was soft like a carpet and you felt at one with the world

think of cooking when billie holiday belts it from a record player and you sip red wine and pop the tomatoes in your mouth and your curls dangle in your vision

think of running off stage and getting high fived and glowing because you just successfully became someone else for a scene

think of that wonderful little secret joy you get from seeing that look he gives you when you're not looking... he just doesn't know you're staring at a glass reflection

think of how you have no money and the waitress is at one time annoyed with you because you can't afford a milkshake but grins as she walks away because she was that crazy kid too

think of the love you feel on your birthday when so many people made a special time to buy you something they think you'll like. even if you don't

think of falling asleep in the arms of someone you love and feeling like everything is in the perfect place and you are safe

think of the way cathedrals go up and up in the gothic style and how you understand the phrase heavenly light and feel yourself become weightless as you lean your head back

think of being cuddled in a soft blanket with hot chocolate while it snows, how you know your cheeks are pink and nose is rosy but it's all due to the world baring winter with you

think of thanksgiving and family and eating so much but being together because you are from the same people and you share blood and you are bound

think of swinging around your new haircut because you have nothing touching your shoulders and it ends so quickly and is new

think of drinking wine with your girlfriends in your pajamas and being classy together

think of backpacking through europe and how the locals know you are there to experience the real stuff and not some tour bus nonsense that never lets you stop at this little cafe you want to love

think of finishing a long book that shows wear on the covers that lets everyone know you smelled it paid so much attention to it for so long

think of falling asleep after a long day and knowing you deserve it and you are happy and all the bad is gone from your life. You've coughed out the demons and cried out the poison and you're now a week sober of sadness and everything is getting better and it's not even uphill from here, it's a sleigh ride now
Jesse stillwater Jun 2018
a breath of fresh air
tickles still-waters
a lone swan's quill
let fall, takes flight
  carpe  diem ―
nigh weightless,
buoyantly skitters
across the water,
laissez faire;
barely dimpling
the shallow peace
on a lake in the wood

a wild feather's
mindless pirouettes
emanate from
the steeping silence
lapping  its
superficial  refection  

the true nature
of wildness,
unspoken freedom,
an untamed
wilder – ness
skims the skinny waters
seeking their own level;
leaving no trace
of  ever being  containable
like a breath of fresh air
unconquerable souls
touching in the
conscious moment ―
a gentle passing breeze
arousing a rogue gust

Jesse Stillwater

01    June   2018
Thank you for stopping to read my soul scribbles :)
J M Surgent Feb 2015
I have never wanted so badly to be weightless in my life,
Than I have wanted to be weightless tonight.
You spoke for hours,
Drawling on as I sat across from you.
I stared blankly at my shoelaces,
And I could hear the weightless words.

I rubbed my tired eyes --
The same eyes you never knew weren't blue.
In the black fog I saw your true actions,
Speaking louder than your weightless words.
Chris Thomas Oct 2017
If all our dreams are nightmares
And if all our hopes are hopeless
Then darling,

I just want to leave you weightless

If derelicts won't ever row ashore
And if the sun leaves our sons faithless
Then darling,

I just want to leave you weightless

If I never learn to be adept at depth
And if water runs dry on the doorstep
Then darling,

I just want to leave you weightless
Molly Feb 2019
"have you lost weight?"

i never know how to give an honest answer regarding this innocently loaded question. most days i feel weightless, floating through the motions.

i've been socially conditioned to take the question as a compliment, but my past eating disturbances only trigger sheer panic, inciting vehement rejections.

maybe i've physically lost weight because food tastes different after your departure. mentally, the weight of your memories bears down on me.

sometimes i feel like atlas; the weight of reality is soul crushing. i feel like i take up too much space: in your office, in your time, and definitely in your inbox, but never in your mind.

i've been starved of your presence for too long, and i'm growing dizzy and weak.

a lot of the time i just don't feel like putting effort into mere existence. i have trouble closing filing cabinets in my brain until i spew out the trivial information that's cluttering my head.

i'm hoping to purge you from my thoughts by this continuous writing of confessionals i'll never send, and maybe i'll finally be weightless.
Gary L Dec 2015
who paved the way that we feign?
we face the days and smile in pain
please take away this stain retained
we need to break these chains we claim
facing a hell in heaven's name
let us stay within a grace maintained
we know we won't face this pain in vain
we put our faith in a weightless reign
aa b cc b aa rhyme scheme poem
Adrianna Jul 2018
I began my life active with sports and other meaningless award systems.
Girl's recreational soccer, basketball, bike riding, math competitions, the works
Today, I feel weightless
useless would be best fit
As if all the running, jumping, yelling, point requiring statuses pushed the light out of my transitioned life.

I find myself sitting in one area often, as one may do
But different than sitting on a bench or sitting actively in company of others
I sit wondering exactly who I am looking at
Why am I empty lifeless longing towards an imaginary spot in the distant wall
I imagine some events in these minutes of stoic despair
Hearing goes weak and frozen, in this second, while I continue my Sunday brunch with non-conformative attitudes and her mother, the sweet old dementia
I don't mean to have their meetings often, I must of first acquainted as the first grade trauma or the Broadway rendition of Alone Thoughts featuring the Broken High School Years.
I hope to work the wheels again, to end these meetings and to live for once, in the midst of motion and pause.
This time, stopping and starting as I please.
Hi everyone, this is my first poem! I write a lot when I am thinking of my life and this world. Hope you enjoy
zebra Aug 2017
i am much younger than i am
my hair is dark and thick
instead of pruned bald
i am lean and meek
feeling hollow
as if weightless

we are at an airport
with no memory of getting there

i had left my hotel room urgently
in a jacket that is not mine

i can't find my Swedish wife
whom i miss like a panicked child
and my Asian wife whom i've never never met before
and know all to well
is angry
and could care less if i got lost forever

i am going home to my parents house
i remember that they are dead
but we had just spoken
there will be soup and Hors d'oeuvre's

they wait for me

on my way
the streets and boulevards are unfamiliar
yet old hat
and no matter how long i walk
i can never find their house
located somewhere in Brooklyn
on Haze street in San Francisco

i have a business
and retain no idea of what i do

i left my cloths somewhere
and i don't know why
in a locality i cant remember
for a reason that doesn't exist

a beautiful woman smiles offers me ***
she is friends with a girlfriend whom i'm committed too
but do not know and never met
i want to cheat with her
but guilty kisses will ruin everything
so i turn away
murdering desire
in an already anchor-less miasma

i remember a past
my life a continuum
of disjointed vagaries
tears well up

i fear myself a figment
a bodiless revenant
stranded in a fog
sparkles and smoke
incandescence and shrouds
a dis-junctured soul
that clutches memories
like braids of dust
living in the eye of nothing
a labyrinth of shades
lighted by the sun of cognizance
a wretched phantom
transparent husk
living a dark fiction
my grave a womb

i am the dead living
Irish Ditty.. One fine day, middle of the night, two dead men got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other.
Adam Childs Oct 2014
I am a floating weightless rabbit
So let me bring a soft spring
As my fury pads
Softly pass like a
Silky silent stream
Still in silence you must be
If you ever wish to see me
As I am so very shy
And will soon fly
As I meet the world
With a gentle touch
While I dance and play

Many lords and land owners
Clumsily wade and trample
Over life and emotion
Colorful cars and coats
Controlling , as I am bulldozed
Out  to societies edges
Sharing land with farmed animals
Who have long since lost
Their control on fate
As we are left like
Miserly maggots just surviving

Looking up at grand stately home
A  bubbling , curdling
And Blood thirsty envy
Rises  up in me
What am I saying
Have I lost mind  
For  I am vegetarian
No jealousy in me
As I can only lightly nibble
At the great green abundance
The world always offers me

Never seeking to change
The outside world
Like stampeding ego's
Building boundary fences
I spend my time only
Seeing and understanding
As i borrow deeper and deeper
How deep can  go  
Breaking away from above
I feel as free as a dove
Sinking searching deeply
I love this hidden world
A deep internal Love
Exploring many pathways
While always feeling protected
From the clashing worlds above
As i feel the earths embrace
My heart unfolds into
An unlimited space

Very many are we
Common are we
So common you see
Wearing our grey coats
We are a mediocre day
We have such an ordinary way
As I  vanish into grey
Such a blissful way
As there is more expansion in
Grey than there is ever in
The confines of great expectation
As nothing warms my heart more
Fondly than the simple life on
The edge of town , where
The grass is green and tender
So in this blending  relaxation
How ordinary can I be

In a humble state
I pop in , pop out
Pop up , pop down
Never needing to
Challenge and conquer
As I live lightly under
Softly accepting and accepting
As the world drops my importance
I am found completely free
Listening and listening
I drop into a watchful silence
As I navigate the world
With the most delicate  foot
As I lightly tickle the world
I hear the earth's laughter

Living life like a weightless Rabbit
We find out life much easier to face
As we humbly embrace our place

I begin with two words that all men have uttered since the dawn of humanity: thank you. The word gratitude has equivalents in every language and in each tongue the range of meanings is abundant. In the Romance languages this breadth spans the spiritual and the physical, from the divine grace conceded to men to save them from error and death, to the ****** grace of the dancing girl or the feline leaping through the undergrowth. Grace means pardon, forgiveness, favour, benefice, inspiration; it is a form of address, a pleasing style of speaking or painting, a gesture expressing politeness, and, in short, an act that reveals spiritual goodness. Grace is gratuitous; it is a gift. The person who receives it, the favoured one, is grateful for it; if he is not base, he expresses gratitude. That is what I am doing at this very moment with these weightless words. I hope my emotion compensates their weightlessness. If each of my words were a drop of water, you would see through them and glimpse what I feel: gratitude, acknowledgement. And also an indefinable mixture of fear, respect and surprise at finding myself here before you, in this place which is the home of both Swedish learning and world literature.

Languages are vast realities that transcend those political and historical entities we call nations. The European languages we speak in the Americas illustrate this. The special position of our literatures when compared to those of England, Spain, Portugal and France depends precisely on this fundamental fact: they are literatures written in transplanted tongues. Languages are born and grow from the native soil, nourished by a common history. The European languages were rooted out from their native soil and their own tradition, and then planted in an unknown and unnamed world: they took root in the new lands and, as they grew within the societies of America, they were transformed. They are the same plant yet also a different plant. Our literatures did not passively accept the changing fortunes of the transplanted languages: they participated in the process and even accelerated it. They very soon ceased to be mere transatlantic reflections: at times they have been the negation of the literatures of Europe; more often, they have been a reply.

In spite of these oscillations the link has never been broken. My classics are those of my language and I consider myself to be a descendant of Lope and Quevedo, as any Spanish writer would ... yet I am not a Spaniard. I think that most writers of Spanish America, as well as those from the United States, Brazil and Canada, would say the same as regards the English, Portuguese and French traditions. To understand more clearly the special position of writers in the Americas, we should think of the dialogue maintained by Japanese, Chinese or Arabic writers with the different literatures of Europe. It is a dialogue that cuts across multiple languages and civilizations. Our dialogue, on the other hand, takes place within the same language. We are Europeans yet we are not Europeans. What are we then? It is difficult to define what we are, but our works speak for us.

In the field of literature, the great novelty of the present century has been the appearance of the American literatures. The first to appear was that of the English-speaking part and then, in the second half of the 20th Century, that of Latin America in its two great branches: Spanish America and Brazil. Although they are very different, these three literatures have one common feature: the conflict, which is more ideological than literary, between the cosmopolitan and nativist tendencies, between Europeanism and Americanism. What is the legacy of this dispute? The polemics have disappeared; what remain are the works. Apart from this general resemblance, the differences between the three literatures are multiple and profound. One of them belongs more to history than to literature: the development of Anglo-American literature coincides with the rise of the United States as a world power whereas the rise of our literature coincides with the political and social misfortunes and upheavals of our nations. This proves once more the limitations of social and historical determinism: the decline of empires and social disturbances sometimes coincide with moments of artistic and literary splendour. Li-Po and Tu Fu witnessed the fall of the Tang dynasty; Velázquez painted for Felipe IV; Seneca and Lucan were contemporaries and also victims of Nero. Other differences are of a literary nature and apply more to particular works than to the character of each literature. But can we say that literatures have a character? Do they possess a set of shared features that distinguish them from other literatures? I doubt it. A literature is not defined by some fanciful, intangible character; it is a society of unique works united by relations of opposition and affinity.

The first basic difference between Latin-American and Anglo-American literature lies in the diversity of their origins. Both begin as projections of Europe. The projection of an island in the case of North America; that of a peninsula in our case. Two regions that are geographically, historically and culturally eccentric. The origins of North America are in England and the Reformation; ours are in Spain, Portugal and the Counter-Reformation. For the case of Spanish America I should briefly mention what distinguishes Spain from other European countries, giving it a particularly original historical identity. Spain is no less eccentric than England but its eccentricity is of a different kind. The eccentricity of the English is insular and is characterized by isolation: an eccentricity that excludes. Hispanic eccentricity is peninsular and consists of the coexistence of different civilizations and different pasts: an inclusive eccentricity. In what would later be Catholic Spain, the Visigoths professed the heresy of Arianism, and we could also speak about the centuries of ******* by Arabic civilization, the influence of Jewish thought, the Reconquest, and other characteristic features.

Hispanic eccentricity is reproduced and multiplied in America, especially in those countries such as Mexico and Peru, where ancient and splendid civilizations had existed. In Mexico, the Spaniards encountered history as well as geography. That history is still alive: it is a present rather than a past. The temples and gods of pre-Columbian Mexico are a pile of ruins, but the spirit that breathed life into that world has not disappeared; it speaks to us in the hermetic language of myth, legend, forms of social coexistence, popular art, customs. Being a Mexican writer means listening to the voice of that present, that presence. Listening to it, speaking with it, deciphering it: expressing it ... After this brief digression we may be able to perceive the peculiar relation that simultaneously binds us to and separates us from the European tradition.

This consciousness of being separate is a constant feature of our spiritual history. Separation is sometimes experienced as a wound that marks an internal division, an anguished awareness that invites self-examination; at other times it appears as a challenge, a spur that incites us to action, to go forth and encounter others and the outside world. It is true that the feeling of separation is universal and not peculiar to Spanish Americans. It is born at the very moment of our birth: as we are wrenched from the Whole we fall into an alien land. This experience becomes a wound that never heals. It is the unfathomable depth of every man; all our ventures and exploits, all our acts and dreams, are bridges designed to overcome the separation and reunite us with the world and our fellow-beings. Each man's life and the collective history of mankind can thus be seen as attempts to reconstruct the original situation. An unfinished and endless cure for our divided condition. But it is not my intention to provide yet another description of this feeling. I am simply stressing the fact that for us this existential condition expresses itself in historical terms. It thus becomes an awareness of our history. How and when does this feeling appear and how is it transformed into consciousness? The reply to this double-edged question can be given in the form of a theory or a personal testimony. I prefer the latter: there are many theories and none is entirely convincing.

The feeling of separation is bound up with the oldest and vaguest of my memories: the first cry, the first scare. Like every child I built emotional bridges in the imagination to link me to the world and to other people. I lived in a town on the outskirts of Mexico City, in an old dilapidated house that had a jungle-like garden and a great room full of books. First games and first lessons. The garden soon became the centre of my world; the library, an enchanted cave. I used to read and play with my cousins and schoolmates. There was a fig tree, temple of vegetation, four pine trees, three ash trees, a nightshade, a pomegranate tree, wild grass and prickly plants that produced purple grazes. Adobe walls. Time was elastic; space was a spinning wheel. All time, past or future, real or imaginary, was pure presence. Space transformed itself ceaselessly. The beyond was here, all was here: a valley, a mountain, a distant country, the neighbours' patio. Books with pictures, especially history books, eagerly leafed through, supplied images of deserts and jungles, palaces and hovels, warriors and princesses, beggars and kings. We were shipwrecked with Sinbad and with Robinson, we fought with d'Artagnan, we took Valencia with the Cid. How I would have liked to stay forever on the Isle of Calypso! In summer the green branches of the fig tree would sway like the sails of a caravel or a pirate ship. High up on the mast, swept by the wind, I could make out islands and continents, lands that vanished as soon as they became tangible. The world was limitless yet it was always within reach; time was a pliable substance that weaved an unbroken present.

When was the spell broken? Gradually rather than suddenly. It is hard to accept being betrayed by a friend, deceived by the woman we love, or that the idea of freedom is the mask of a tyrant. What we call "finding out" is a slow and tricky process because we ourselves are the accomplices of our errors and deceptions. Nevertheless, I can remember fairly clearly an incident that was the first sign, although it was quickly forgotten. I must have been about six when one of my cousins who was a little older showed me a North American magazine with a photograph of soldiers marching along a huge avenue, probably in New York. "They've returned from the war" she said. This handful of words disturbed me, as if they foreshadowed the end of the world or the Second Coming of Christ. I vaguely knew that somewhere far away a war had ended a few years earlier and that the soldiers were marching to celebrate their victory. For me, that war had taken place in another time, not here and now. The photo refuted me. I felt literally dislodged from the present.

From that moment time began to fracture more and more. And there was a plurality of spaces. The experience repeated itself more and more frequently. Any piece of news, a harmless phrase, the headline in a newspaper: everything proved the outside world's existence and my own unreality. I felt that the world was splitting and that I did not inhabit the present. My present was disintegrating: real time was somewhere else. My time, the time of the garden, the fig tree, the games with friends, the drowsiness among the plants at three in the afternoon under the sun, a fig torn open (black and red like a live coal but one that is sweet and fresh): this was a fictitious time. In spite of what my senses told me, the time from over there, belonging to the others, was the real one, the time of the real present. I accepted the inevitable: I became an adult. That was how my expulsion from the present began.

It may seem paradoxical to say that we have been expelled from the present, but it is a feeling we have all had at some moment. Some of us experienced it first as a condemnation, later transformed into consciousness and action. The search for the present is neither the pursuit of an earthly paradise nor that of a timeless eternity: it is the search for a real reality. For us, as Spanish Americans, the real present was not in our own countries: it was the time lived by others, by the English, the French and the Germans. It was the time of New York, Paris, London. We had to go and look for it and bring it back home. These years were also the years of my discovery of literature. I began writing poems. I did not know what made me write them: I was moved by an inner need that is difficult to define. Only now have I understood that there was a secret relationship between what I have called my expulsion from the present and the writing of poetry. Poetry is in love with the instant and seeks to relive it in the poem, thus separating it from sequential time and turning it into a fixed present. But at that time I wrote without wondering why I was doing it. I was searching for the gateway to the present: I wanted to belong to my time and to my century. A little later this obsession became a fixed idea: I wanted to be a modern poet. My search for modernity had begun.

What is modernity? First of all it is an ambiguous term: there are as many types of modernity as there are societies. Each has its own. The word's meaning is uncertain and arbitrary, like the name of the period that precedes it, the Middle Ages. If we are modern when compared to medieval times, are we perhaps the Middle Ages of a future modernity? Is a name that changes with time a real name? Modernity is a word in search of its meaning. Is it an idea, a mirage or a moment of history? Are we the children of modernity or its creators? Nobody knows for sure. It doesn't matter much: we follow it, we pursue it. For me at that time modernity was fused with the present or rather produced it: the present was its last supreme flower. My case is neither unique nor exceptional: from the Symbolist period, all modern poets have chased after that magnetic and elusive figure that fascinates them. Baudelaire was the first. He was also the first to touch her and discover that she is nothing but time that crumbles in one's hands. I am not going to relate my adventures in pursuit of modernity: they are not very different from those of other 20th-Century poets. Modernity has been a universal passion. Since 1850 she has been our goddess and our demoness. In recent years, there has been an attempt to exorcise her and there has been much talk of "postmodernism". But what is postmodernism if not an even more modern modernity?

For us, as Latin Americans, the search for poetic modernity runs historically parallel to the repeated attempts to modernize our countries. This tendency begins at the end of the 18th Century and includes Spain herself. The United States was born into modernity and by 1830 was already, as de Tocqueville observed, the womb of the future; we were born at a moment when Spain and Portugal were moving away from modernity. This is why there was frequent talk of "Europeanizing" our countries: the modern was outside and had to be imported. In Mexican history this process begins just before the War of Independence. Later it became a great ideological and political debate that passionately divided Mexican society during the 19th Century. One event was to call into question not the legitimacy of the reform movement but the way in which it had been implemented: the Mexican Revolution. Unlike its 20th-Century counterparts, the Mexican Revolution was not really the expression of a vaguely utopian ideology but rather the explosion of a reality that had been historically and psychologically repressed. It was not the work of a group of ideologists intent on introducing principles derived from a political theory; it was a popular uprising that unmasked what was hidden. For this very reason it was more of a revelation than a revolution. Mexico was searching for the present outside only to find it within, buried but alive. The search for modernity led
We need not count on fate
on the battlefield
where windows reflect our dreams
when we find ourselves crawling
as we laugh.  
It is merely an invasion
from which I will not flee
no matter how hot
I find the essence
stained by my other half.  

Life’s best moments
will not make you famous
so don’t be anxious
or make empty promises
to a world
which remains the same.
Stay weightless
within your spirit
and keep the salted seas
from turning you bitter,
left behind….
in shame.
Copyright @2015 - Neva Varga - Changefulstorm - 09/28/15
Charlotte T May 2020
Part one

We were weightless.
From dawn till dusk
Racing on our bikes
We had only just learned to ride.
Pretending time was infinite
and tomorrow was a promise;
We lived on wheels.

Part two

I later learned independence.
I cooked my own dinners
walked to school
And I made my bed in the morning
because despite what it was like at the time,
It made everything feel a little less messy.
Maybe I’m not so weightless anymore
and maybe you’re not either.
Sara L Russell Dec 2014
Sara L Russell, 19/12/14 00:58am*

White gulls fly against darkness of winter trees
swirling in a reeling easterly;
bare branches stand in earthbound traceries
behind the birds that dance weightless and free.

There is a rhythm in this circling flight.
a lazy, slightly tipsy minuet;
a majesty in gliding wings of white,
a sign that better times are coming yet.

The dew has barely faded on the green,
two fountains bend before the icy breeze,
as seagulls, with a grace I've rarely seen
swirl heavenward, like flights of fantasies.
Brycical Dec 2011
I look past your face—
traveling deeper inside
through your consciousness
passing the galaxies in your eyes
farther beyond—
abstract psychedelic dimensions
of understanding in your brain
our comprehension
of time,
& the divine
as I continue traveling
to the vast, farthest
of you
where there is
just a weightless
Nirvana of nothing…

Here, there’s just a void,
devoid of any life,
or, remnants of

There is
complete, nothing.

There is more copacetic bliss here
than any imaginary world,
or ***** fantasy
we’ve created.
Here's the companion piece.
Turn your face up to the stars, my dear
Picture yourself falling up, far from here
Drifting higher
A ball of fire
A shooting star
A firefly from inside a jar
You're a weightless wanderer
A philosophical ponderer
Let yourself fly free
Don't think, just be.
I think of you on warm summer evenings
when our slowly setting sun coats
dappled oaks in more shades than I can count,
and every leaf is framed in greengold.

I think of you as sleepy wind
lingers in my hair,
strands dancing on a moment,
before laying to rest by a collarbone peak.

I think of you when the warmth settles on my skin
so easily that I see myself
spill out into the dusky air,  
finally weightless.

I think of you.
Jessica Jul 2018
Hold your breath
Count to three
Be Whoever you need to be
They can’t hear you
It’s not the time
Tip and slop like turpentine
Stick me on the fishing line
Cast it up
above my head
Thoughts glisten
I breathe dead
Asleep at the wheel
begging and praying
Make me a deal
Finish me
Finish them
Don’t turn back and see
They’re crawling on the walls and beams
Still stuck there
A creepy christening
Tell me I won’t remember who
Who I was before
I met you
Written July 27, 2018
rook Sep 2014
i wanted to be weightless, he said
so i took myself deep into the ocean
i let saltwater fill my body and i let fish
swim past me in schools
and i watched the sea’s skeleton
i couldn’t see the ocean for the waves
and i sunk down  down   down
and it didn’t work

i cut all of my strings
all of the things that tied me down to the earth
like so many certain balloons
                                ­  by
and i thought it would take me higher than i’ve ever been
but all i did was
the way icarus showed me
i wanted to be weightless so i built a pair of wings, naively thinking that maybe i could fly, too. but if humans (is that what we are? human?), humans weren't meant to fly. only to fall.
Morgan Mercury Jul 2014
Feel the tide.
I am the ship.
I am the captain.
The ocean is a savage
the way it pulls my body,
slinging me around like i'm weightless.
I will not surrender to this beast.
The waves mean nothing to me.
I've been fighting this savage ocean for a century.
100 years of getting carried away across these waters.
Isolation is my home.
It's all I know.
I brought this on myself.
I ran away from land and into the water,
unknowing of the horror it holds.
But I will not surrender
I am the ship.
I will not kiss the ocean goodnight.
I will not fight.
I will float on until the day comes I greet the sea.
My lungs will sting and my head will rush.
Leave my body in isolation.
Let it be a peace offering.
So the ocean wouldn't have to carry away another ship that day.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2017
all I've learned from love


for the fedora man, 10/29/17 10:34am


another song done me wrong on a Sunday morn,
so much due to do, a list not for compilation/publication,
including poems promised and weighty deadlines overdue,
for its tedium would still be lbs. heavy in weightless space

instead a lyric plucks my attention, of course beeping,
insistent chirping a chorus of, write me right now,
immédiatement dans son français de Montréal,
this is the item that needs to be list topping,
now whispering a messenger-angel name dropping
a request formal from the fedora man dressed in black

all I've learned from love,  
a listing doomed to comprehensible incompletion,
a listing to the right as new reasons in-come
constantly from the left, each heart beat a
remarkable reminder that the list grows longer

every day, the repeating seasons, proffer suggestions,
disguised as a newly revised ten commandments,
obedience to which is a wish list for
attaining grace

all I've learned from love is its duality, essential quality,
a human single cannot attain the commingling required
for the visioning a peak season of life colorful,
its sad corollary, leaves falling exposing the body bare-****** of the soul linear alone

all I've learned from love is its shining skin is an agreed upon
indefinable nature, other than we all recognize how our
definition personal exists in that Ven diagrams space where
our circles intersect, when A breaks the skin of B, creating

all I've learned from love is without it no matter what
somewhere inside is a desperation pocket that is
an inquisitive irritant, a brain burr, a pea under the mattress,
a high and mighty 1% of disarmament incompetence that rules the imbalanced balance of my bottom line on the top of my head

all I've learned from love that it appears on its own timetable,
in surprising trains and planes and baseball games, sitting
alone in a theater or in front of a Rubens, on crazy disastrous
first dates in foreign countries at cafes or non gender
specific bathrooms amidst alternating currents of
this is crazy and this is infinite and ever so sobering
wondrous possible

all I've learned from love is it never shoots straight,
but will always end in a holy bullseye

*Tout ce que j'ai appris de l'amour, c'est qu'elle ne tire jamais directement,
mais se terminera toujours dans une sainte bullseye
Plain Jane Glory Jun 2013
For My Sister*

Doll face, what does it matter
if you're ugly as hell?
If you’re short or you’re fat
Or your face is full of pimples?
Why the hell should it matter?

Sweetness, who gives a ****
If you tie your laces upside down?
And your left hand smudges the words on the page?
If you break down crying at the sight of rotting road ****?
Who is anyone to laugh at you?
Who is anyone to tell you who you are?

I am sick and tired of seeing your red-rimmed eyes
I am sick and tired of seeing what they do to you
I hate to see you hurt and I crave the very best for you
I want you to be happy in all the ways you can
Let go of it all and crawl on the ceiling, weightless

Darling, people are messed right up
And we've all got cuts and stitches and oozing wounds
But don't let the bruised and beaten up punks
the privileged warriors, the wait-listed mental patients,
the scummy lost wanderers, the vengeful aching souls,
Tell you it matters if you're ugly as hell
Please please please
Understand you are so much more than a shell
than an exoskeleton of a soul
You are a glorious, bruised and beaten up,
Ugly, pimpled masterpiece,
And it's a shame that they don't see it
I'm an avid user of dorky pet names, if you couldn't tell. Though my sister is gorgeous inside and out, this is for her. She was bullied in elementary school and she still has to deal with the effects of it at 21. I just want to see her smile.
cosmo naught Jul 2014
You've got a sense of gravity
that drew me into orbit.
My mind is spinning, spinning
so fast I can't ignore it.
I put my trust in you
like nothing else before
and suffer for it.

I gave too many chances
now we've made up a routine.
Why should we stay together
if you're somewhere in between?
I'd rather hear you say goodbye
than say things that you don't mean,
I mean, you're free to go, just know
when you're gone, my hands are clean.

You make a pretty promise
but oh, your words are weightless.
You get my hopes so high,
but when you kiss me, it's so tasteless.
You swear to guard my heart
and then you turn around and break it,
I can't take it.

I know when I am hurting,
you start to feel apologetic.
Once you know our history,
I don't seem quite so prophetic.
Such a constant state of disarray
surrounding us and yet it's
like a second nature:
Fall in love, forget my name.
Forget it.

You make a pretty promise
but oh, your words are weightless.
You get my hopes so high,
but when you kiss me, it's so tasteless.
You swear to guard my heart
and then you turn around and break it,
I can't take it.
Another potential tune for the band. It incorporates a few elements from some recent poems.
floating on the small breeze
no worries
no cares

i'm weightless

sitting here
the cool air
over the smoldering sand
my feet
a happy medium

the small crashes
rumble as the climb the shore
all thoughts are taken
nothing matters
except now

i'm weightless

Dani Feb 2011
Let me disappear in your mind.
Next to you I’m so small,
there’s no need to make room.
Let me paint with your wild ideas.
Feel how I fit among your racing thoughts?
Let’s set them all free.

Hold my whispers deep in your heart.
They tremble the way your soul rumbles.
Let me sing melodies atop this fearsome beat.
Wait for the decrescendo.
Do you hear how quiet I can be?
Let’s make noise.

Rest your tired eyes on me.
I try not to shrink under your gaze.
We’re walking down parallel roads,
with matching stones in our pockets
to hold us down to the Earth.
Can’t you see that I understand?
Let’s be weightless.
Tivonna Dec 2016
Oh, how you sparkle as diamonds so rare,
dancing suspended in mid-morning's air,
face against glass in a trance I do stare,
while warding off the bright morning sun's glare.

Almost invisible to human eye,
it is light and refraction to define,
with unseen prism effects to rely,
painting pale rainbow shades so sublime.

Each crystal is floating, weightless it seems,
hovering low to allow me to see,
their show of exquisite beauty as deemed,
hypnotic—this rare jewel's dancing team.

Effects of crystalline dust a glowing
sustained in visual concentrating,
intense calm while spiritual mapping
my awes and experiencing  time-lapsing.

December 25

Merry Christmas to everyone at HP.  What a privilege and honor to be chosen for the Daily on December 24.  I am away, and had an intuitive nudge to turn my laptop on this morning . . . many notifications!! "What??"  What a rush!  It is magical as a dear poet friend commented, and is definitely so! A special gift Christmas morning to receive.  I thank all dear poets who have taken the time to read my writings, your kindness, love, support, and ongoing encouragement. I will respond to your comments as able, in between meal preparations, and celebrations.

Much love,
Pete King May 2017
The curve of her smile,
Sweeps me away with the wind.
Like I am weightless.

If I were to fall,
It would not hurt me at all.
For I am weightless.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
~for granddaughter Wendy on her first birthday~

mailman delivers a
a small bubble wrapped envelope,
an internet purchase made a long sometime ago  
accompanied by an enjoyable, self-served and self-serving,
"you're a good fella"
          pat on the back        

a spurting act of the what-the-heck,
trigger pulling, self-pleasuring,
donating a few bucks to saving poetry,
****** in by a suckers click bait

sent money to the
   keepers of poems;   
they even give something
in return.

sensible pencils.  

a non-rational purchase;
@ $6 dollars per leaded squib,
a wooden helping kiss rife with possibilities

all for a goodly cause
preservation band society poetic

this one-and-done impulse many weeks ago, 
followed by an immediacy forgeting,
then, an eye stabbing,
a widening wow weeks later
upon receipt
of an unexpected 5 pencil's all poems poetry reciting!

5 pencils. No. 2’s,
on each a phrase,
a poet's name and their singular words parsed
(see the notes).

paired passages from five poets,
deemed and distinguished to be
what's more apropos than a dangerous  instrument of a
loaded leaded pencil,
that can be used to add to the  
Ever Expanding Universe of Verbal Liturgy
("and I helped")
once briefly dusted off the top of closeted dreamy days,
my notions of acclaim gone, silly gone,
my only marks now are erasures,
tiny rubber sheddings on paper
that's my marker,
a minus mark of deletion.

may yet come the day,
one will one gather up the
many survivors,
poem fauns, all my orphans,
give them to the
Wendy baby,

she to metamorphose those
baby squeaks and  giggles,
weighty weightless poem noises,
clapping, waving, delighted and delighting, kiss-throwing videos and that milk covered face,
into her own living words

all these noises that makes even non-poets
smile ear to ear unabashedly,
nodding in delight agreement
to her own non verbal
original poems
one day a little girl
will stumble on five pencils,
mixed in within fifteen hundred poems not particularly well hid,
between worthless insurance policies and other artifacts,
memoirs and pointless depositions,
hid between her older sister and brother's
crayoned keepsakes

  with pointed newly sharpened pencils
the very same,
his Wendy,
might add
to the grandpere's poem collection with
pencils begging to be used,
for they are generationally and genetically,
pre-poetically enabled,
weighting the old memories
with new ballast and new balance,
from new verbal babies
all of her own.
What happens to a dream deferred?  Langston Hughes
Won't you celebrate with me? Lucille Clifton
Do I dare disturb the universe?  T.S. Eliot
I'm Nobody! Who are you? Emily Dickinson
Where can the crying heart graze? Naomi Shibab Nye

— The End —