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Day #92-93Love is a strange feeling;
It puts you through hell,
It tears you apart,
It makes you want to scream,
And it brings you so deep into
Depression you contemplate the worst.
Even so, it's the only thing worth living for.
Day #90I'm losing the motivation to write.
I'm sorry, I wish that
I could weave together
A poem that's full of emotions
Like anger, sorrow,
Love, and joy,
But instead I'm here
Sitting and looking at this blank screen
Wondering if you'll understand what I type.
I'm just afraid you won't.
Day #79-85I'm sorry for keeping
It's not because I don't
I trust you with my life,
Have just rendered me
I was taught that to
Complain was to bring
Only more pain and
Sorrow on my part.
If you'd like to
Listen, you first
Need to make me talk.
Patience and love are the keys
Just beware of Misery
Day #78Every moment that passes
I think of you.
I'm sorry I can't help it...
I just can't help thinking that
You shine among the filth
Of what we call humanity...
I'd lost my faith in it long ago,
But once I met you,
It was somehow restored.
In doing so,
For the first time ever,
I started having faith in myself
As well humanity...
I guess what I'm trying to say is...
Thank you for loving me
Broken RecordInsanity is doing something with a lack of reason
A deranged state of mind; everything's an illusion
Doing it over again, expecting a different end
Almost like a broken record that you're trying to mend
You set the needle back, hoping for a tune
But only vast, empty silence fills the room
They say the broken record would never be fixed
But still the insanity continues, leaving you transfixed
A different result you expect, from setting the needle back again
But never did it hit you that the attempt was vain
Endless trying, never succeeding
Perhaps it was just the insanity speaking...
CancerI remember the time that you touched the stars
Stark white, skin-tight; they hit you too hard
With a splintered cry, falling from sulfurous Mars
And the Fates ran screaming back into the dark
I remember the sound
The thrum and the pound
I remember the morning you woke in blood
When the lies in your eyes were unbearably rough
And the marks of the hypocrite far from enough
'Til you wept as Moses e'er fires and flood
I remember your song
You thought you were strong
I remember much further than Man ever dreams
You forced out your flesh, and I wept at the screams
The soul and the sorrow to memory clings
A light in the night, like Insanity, beams
I'll remember your cry
'Til the day I, too, die
StoriesWhen you walk by
and see someone,
do you ever wonder
about the story behind that person?
What put them on the road
to where they are now in life?
How did they gain their fame and glory
or why are they filled with pain and strife?
That homeless man
lying there in the street
may have at one point
served in our naval fleet.
When he came home,
his wife had divorced him
and that is the very thing
that completely destroyed him.
Then there's that secretary
who's flirty boss is her pet peeve,
and you may wonder
why she doesn't just leave.
Her family is poor.
They need the money.
So she is stuck with that job
and her boss's promiscuity.
Of course there's that boy
who sat in the corner
and the girl who spoke to him
despite what they told her.
Many years later,
they are happily married
and have two kids
named Robert and Sherry.
Every person you see
has a story to tell
about how they reached heaven
or how they're damned to hell.
So the next time someone
talks about their life,
cursethe glass's sand, to our chagrin,
spills fast away and ne'er again
will life subsist as it has been;
may you live in, may you live in...
we're forced to watch forces align,
to our communal world malign
and lay to waste our plans contrived;
int'resting times, int'resting times...
The fence in my yardThere’s a fence in my yard
My father taught me to build
With a gate in the front
And a back strong-willed
Where the inside and outside
Love and hate of the world collides
Just like my face
It has two sides
One of welcome and safe inclusion
One of absolute defiant seclusion
Both built to last paid with sweat
Nails driven with pounding regret
But isolation has left this yard alone
The laughter of my children echo no more
Because as they all matured
They walked out the door
Express YourselfAn opinion is not a fact,
It’s a way of expressing what you believe,
Some people just overreact,
And they do nothing else, but deceive.
You either concur or deviate,
People’s beliefs deserve a lot of respect,
Everyone has a right to differentiate,
It doesn’t necessarily mean they are correct.
A person’s view could be knowledgeable,
Just appreciate what someone has to state,
An opinion doesn’t have to turn into a debate,
It’s a shame when people are intolerable.
I wish the world could be a better place,
For the entire human race,
A place where we can care,
A place where everyone is fair.
Now before you go on and criticise,
An opinion is not a fact,
It’s a way of expressing what you believe.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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