Angles foreign to me, the
Space between wake, sleep
Amble walks through
My dreams
Pacing a bit through
This bizarre uncanny
Place, I start to see
Something that once, maybe
Belonged to me
Not quite certain what it is
Maybe that's the point, the
Westerlies sunsetting dreams
Remind me those things
I've no right to keep
L'âtre périlleux | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: someone dead, allegedly
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And it's wild to see
How much effort you put
Into changing me
Might not be the best
But it's mine
I loved all of you when
You loved me sometimes
I won't cross one
Let you do your line
My head is clear and
I'm doing just fine
Hematite | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: the receiver
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That I didn't ask to receive.
I hold a heavier rock.
Like splitting water with light,
It takes three: your fever, me.
30% O₃, 70% Fe.
With good intention, suffused.
I wash it off.
Uketamo | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: unimportant
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Alone, I saunter along over an old bridge.
No recollection of my arrival
Or where come from.
An apricious thought emerges.
That then and even now, I
Always had the freedom to be okay.
Near the end of the old bridge
On a rot stump I rest and consider
The gold frame. That weathered picture.
What it meant then, not much anymore.
The reminder it holds now.
I suppose I do have a lot to thank you for.
Waving verdure break a vacant gaze.
Orchids and orange lilies dotted throughout.
A memorial for both where I have been
and where I am today.
You have the freedom to be okay with it.
I have the freedom to be okay.
No recollection of my arrival
Or where come from.
An apricious thought emerges.
That then and even now, I
Always had the freedom to be okay.
I never knew what to expect.
Nuisance. Always in the way.
I just wanted you to see me.
Do you remember that day?
What it should have been.
Just how I wanted it to be.
I am taller and bit older now.
You likely wouldn't recognize me
Potted in a perfect purple clay.
And you should see him —
I kiss the top of his head while he plays.
And we will both remember today.
Nuisance. Always in the way.
I just wanted you to see me.
Do you remember that day?
What it should have been.
Just how I wanted it to be.
I am taller and bit older now.
You likely wouldn't recognize me
Potted in a perfect purple clay.
And you should see him —
I kiss the top of his head while he plays.
And we will both remember today.
Near the end of the old bridge
On a rot stump I rest and consider
The gold frame. That weathered picture.
What it meant then, not much anymore.
The reminder it holds now.
I suppose I do have a lot to thank you for.
I always have the time, his favorite
Color is blue and I will always know
When he needs new shoes.
My sleeve is damp when he is sad.
He draws me pictures and I save
Every fucking one of them.
He understands that accidents happen.
And he's a reading level ahead.
We play hide and seek.
I just hid under my bed.
He's never been terrified of me.
I love him and he loves me.
Color is blue and I will always know
When he needs new shoes.
My sleeve is damp when he is sad.
He draws me pictures and I save
Every fucking one of them.
He understands that accidents happen.
And he's a reading level ahead.
We play hide and seek.
I just hid under my bed.
He's never been terrified of me.
I love him and he loves me.
Waving verdure break a vacant gaze.
Orchids and orange lilies dotted throughout.
A memorial for both where I have been
and where I am today.
You have the freedom to be okay with it.
I have the freedom to be okay.
Crowding Tub | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: who gives a shit
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Black clouds. Truest blue, the old game
That rain comes falling down
Runaway kids, unfed mouths or
Robinhoods, they're all moral devils
Someone gets to die now
Not god, nor the Plutocracy, no
But someone gets to die now
Negativity Bias | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: n/a
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I notice everything. I recognize when I'm asked a question that wasn't for me to answer. Glad you're doing fine though. I notice when you skip over me. I understand what convenience is and you do too; being the only option to talk at, but only when all the right people aren't around. I know what optics and fragile, short-term allegiances look like. Back here with your first-string friends that became third-string friends who get more steps in adjusting to your roster and changing seats than they get walking the bases. Fickle and addicted to opportunism. I see how opaque I become when the right people with the wrong stories walk in. Who brought the imagination and why wasn't I invited to that campfire? Zero-sum bias. Yum! Are you even sure you know what it is that you do not like in me or am I the convenient conduit in which to fit inside the things you hate about yourself?
My spine is iron and I know you know it too. I know it feels like parasthesia when I look at you in the eyes as they can't seem to meet with mine. We both know it and that's just fine. Sad life.
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My spine is iron and I know you know it too. I know it feels like parasthesia when I look at you in the eyes as they can't seem to meet with mine. We both know it and that's just fine. Sad life.
Upiór | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: Count Chocula
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Meant to starve, only to come alive at night?
O, Lamia. Sanguine.
Fragile porcelain —
Concomitant
Crimson syzygy
Malleus, a whisper
Are you proud of me?
Are you proud of me, devil?
Can you not forgive me at all?
If all I know is what I have been taught?
Accustomed to tying the knot
A perfect marriage? ...hardly
The cord, taut
Imagine I sway, dear you
I should have known,
Having forsaken me
I would not get what I seek
What I have sought
Please, are you proud of me?
Are you proud of me?
Are you proud of me, devil?
The Paper Man | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: specter
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It is dusk and the crowds they usher along past the paper man. A present stature, subtle and ambient in silhouette, but do they see him? The paper man exhausts in intervals, leaving a curtain of fading smoke to swirl around the next passerby. He gazes miles into his thoughts somewhere between the cracks in the pavement, never batting an eye; only his arm raises to inhale like a neon sign, animated to advertise and to lure your eye, but no one sees the paper man. The paper man. The paper man who sees in black and white recalls a time when he knew what to feel and even wanted to but just didn't know how. His memories they aged cemented in sepia between the annals of wants and wishes and those of experiences, all colored but one in the same. The paper man didn't feel real and maybe he wasn't. He smiles just like you and frowns all the same. He probably even has a name.
The cigarette rapidly cools as it is pressed into the wall. If he leaves now, he should make it by dawn.
The choir laments.
It is dawn and the paper man stands before the shoreline. No more seen now by nobody than he was around everyone. The paper man walks into the sea. Each wave returning from the shoreline walking him further into the deep. As the sun rises he looks down at his hands just below the surface of the water. His distorted figure more so as his hands spread, loosening and coming undone at each fold. Now he knows. His legs soften and buckle and he starts to sink, floating here or there at the mercy of the ocean's random push and pull. His face submerges and flutters along with the random bits of current. As he sinks he looks toward the surface. His eyes widen. One more memory. He gently files this one, a perfect blue, safely between the others.
The choir mourns and observes as the paper man comes unraveled evermore.
The cigarette rapidly cools as it is pressed into the wall. If he leaves now, he should make it by dawn.
The choir laments.
It is dawn and the paper man stands before the shoreline. No more seen now by nobody than he was around everyone. The paper man walks into the sea. Each wave returning from the shoreline walking him further into the deep. As the sun rises he looks down at his hands just below the surface of the water. His distorted figure more so as his hands spread, loosening and coming undone at each fold. Now he knows. His legs soften and buckle and he starts to sink, floating here or there at the mercy of the ocean's random push and pull. His face submerges and flutters along with the random bits of current. As he sinks he looks toward the surface. His eyes widen. One more memory. He gently files this one, a perfect blue, safely between the others.
The choir mourns and observes as the paper man comes unraveled evermore.
Diseased | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: blood doll
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Your sweet, take it back.
More fables, another lie.
Whispers in the dark,
I beg you bite me in the light.
A desperate prayer,
hoped that it would take me there.
Invitation over that thin line,
An unfortunate destiny.
You broke my skin,
When I let you in.
When I let you hurt me.
I let you hurt me.
Asha | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: the inspired
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Like the warm feeling of a thought of what could have been from a missed connection, the wind whispered a secret so soft I could hardly make it out. In that moment, I thought that just maybe it was something special — as to what it was, I will never know, but I believed it.
Nuclear Shadow | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: the intransigent
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Force the petals in the flower and then pick them again.
Taciturn | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: the observer
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I enjoy doing things alone.
I suppose with so many things that are uncertain in life, I know that I can expect loneliness to feel exactly as described, every time. I know that I will be where I need to be and on time, every time. I know that after the sound of fumbling for the keys, the seal breaking between the door and the doorway, the knock of a couple of steps onto the floor and the ambient sound of the city closing behind that resealed door that I will feel alone. Every time.
I go to dinner alone and often. The loneliness is already understood and really not even a thought because the loneliness rises to contentedness, but only until I make the reservation. I have far too much anxiety to announce my loneliness to a hostess, but not enough to sit and be observed eating alone. Most times, reservations are for two or more and I need that reservation. I choose: two. It is only then that I am reminded of my loneliness and the contentedness subsides, but only for a moment.
Sometimes I will eat dinner at a place I have visited prior, but I hardly look up from my plate. I fear I might start to see a pattern, a familiar face. I do not know why it troubles me, but if I had to guess, it would be loneliness and familiarity are exclusively content with never getting to know one another. Sometimes with familiarity come expectations and expectations can go unmet. I can lower those odds by cutting out variables and the math gets messy when I rely on anything other than myself.
There is some kind of comfort in hearing laughter at another table, mention of a name of a person I will never know and how jealous of or excited for someone is of them. A farewell, bell on a door. A greeting for the next table served.
I wonder what they think of me.
Does the waitress whisper? Do they want to know what I am reading? Maybe they think I am sad. Maybe they think I am confident. If they ever figure it out, I myself, would like to know.
I suppose with so many things that are uncertain in life, I know that I can expect loneliness to feel exactly as described, every time. I know that I will be where I need to be and on time, every time. I know that after the sound of fumbling for the keys, the seal breaking between the door and the doorway, the knock of a couple of steps onto the floor and the ambient sound of the city closing behind that resealed door that I will feel alone. Every time.
I go to dinner alone and often. The loneliness is already understood and really not even a thought because the loneliness rises to contentedness, but only until I make the reservation. I have far too much anxiety to announce my loneliness to a hostess, but not enough to sit and be observed eating alone. Most times, reservations are for two or more and I need that reservation. I choose: two. It is only then that I am reminded of my loneliness and the contentedness subsides, but only for a moment.
Sometimes I will eat dinner at a place I have visited prior, but I hardly look up from my plate. I fear I might start to see a pattern, a familiar face. I do not know why it troubles me, but if I had to guess, it would be loneliness and familiarity are exclusively content with never getting to know one another. Sometimes with familiarity come expectations and expectations can go unmet. I can lower those odds by cutting out variables and the math gets messy when I rely on anything other than myself.
There is some kind of comfort in hearing laughter at another table, mention of a name of a person I will never know and how jealous of or excited for someone is of them. A farewell, bell on a door. A greeting for the next table served.
I wonder what they think of me.
Does the waitress whisper? Do they want to know what I am reading? Maybe they think I am sad. Maybe they think I am confident. If they ever figure it out, I myself, would like to know.
life in jest. folly and fumble. be better every tomorrow.