The Geek Forum
Misc Forums => Writer's Block => Topic started by: Wunderkind on January 23, 2009, 11:38:11 PM
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Simple
Between the light they tell me are stars
I see the emtpy space called "dark matter"
Two-thirds of my universe is missing
I want someone held accountable
Math and physics are too far out there
For my simple country mind
Don't bother trying to explain it
You'll need tiny words and little signs
The infinite and sub-infinite of the particul.. let
Are all just to damn big
I need something I wrap my hands around
Something easy to lift
The weight of just one atom
Would break my narrow shoulders
My clumsy fingers I use to understand
Turn neutrons into boulders
Science and god and goddess and what's in between
A gasping, grasping, delusioned belief
That this is all so painfully simple
It becomes far too complex for me
If the universe is as big as you say it is
There must be more to it this
There must be numbers and equations
Scientific mumbo-jumbo, hypothesis, and theories
I can't possibly understand
The forces that make up this universe
So you must be wrong
Your math is just cursed
Complexity has become a drug
A tool of the complacent and fickle
But we buy every single damned day
Because this is all too simple
This all just too damn simple
If this made you seizure, pls comment.
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Very, very cool.
The weight of just one atom
Would break my narrow shoulders
My clumsy fingers I use to understand
Turn neutrons into boulders
I like that part a lot, but the whole thing flows nicely from the concrete and tangible to a cosmic unraveling.
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Nah, it's not a requirement.
It's an evil side effect of staring at modern art in museums for four hours straight.
EDIT: You should know that poetry is one of those things you can't do on request. Well, you can, but it will suck ass.
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I gots nothing.
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When your birthday is fractional,
Your age becomes rational.
That's all I can think of.
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I used to celebrate my half birthday by eating half a birthday cake.
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Cool. I think on my half-birthday I'll drink half a bottle of gin.
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It seems like every year on my half-birthday I end up taking a fucking quiz, usually on something I didn't study for because I was too busy reading books about things that actually matter, like Stupid Sexy Flanders, or advanced HTML and CSS.
I had a good one, but I'm a few months late. So... yeah. Not posting it.
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Thanks for that.
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so you raised the dead to tell us you're NOT going to post anything useful. Good call.
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HAY GUYZ I'M JUST POSTING TO LET YOU KNOW I'M NOT GOING TO BE POSTING IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING BAI NOW
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Since some dumb shit ressed my thread I feel entitled...
Locking Doors
Black is a bold color
A stain, like a pen mark
On some stranger's shirt
You made me think
I hate to think
What if all the world was heaven?
What if this is hell?
What if life is a religion?
What if getting sick is getting well?
Red is an evil color
A dirty scene that caught your eye
Made you turn your head to watch
You made me think
Maybe I could make it
What if I had it all?
What if it wasn't that bad?
What if being happy didn't mean
Someone else has to be sad?
Gold is a beautiful color
Like a bird fluttering over the horizon threshold
She made you hold your breath as she walked by
You made me think
My existentialist point of view was awkard
What if you were wrong?
What if I don't care?
What if I could walk by them
And just not care?
Blue is an awful color
Like morning after the sunrise
I locked the door behind me when I left
You made me wonder
What would it be like without you?
What if I couldn't cope?
What if I never saw the daylight?
What if I was as evil as you said?
What if I got up and walked away?
Black is a bold color
Like a stain, an ink mark
On a stranger's shirt
You made me think
About what I did
And I wasn't sorry
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That's really good, I like how the mood changes with gold and then changes back again.
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:-P
Thanks.
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WK, let's do a project.
You write a sentence and I will rhyme in dutch.
After 10 sentences I wil translate the whole poem.
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She smiles at the thought.
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this is a cool idea, I cant wait to see what happens!
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/me pops corn
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Popping Baron?
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and he shall be the key to her heart :evil:
post to the funny forum game ;)
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I'm really, really sorry. I was a total dumbass. If I remembered the poem, I'd post it to attempt to make up for my retard behavior. I think part of it went like this:
I want to wish you a Happy Half,
'cause you deserve a real good laugh.
Drink half of a glass of wine
(from anyone's cellar but mine)!
If I remembered the rest of it, I'd put it up. Sorry for giving a false alarm. If it helps, I feel like a total ass for doing that.
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very very nice
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Not A Poem: Otherwise Entitled "Without You"
For 'Angel'
A year of tyranny in a few simple words, empty, poor, lonely.
I hit bottom baby and the company down here is colorful. Looking for a way out baby and the uphill incline is grim. Looking up, holding my breath for the stagnate judge of character that is the universe, you should see this list of losers in my hand, lovely.
Let's start at the top and most utterly recent.
Success is your crosshairs, baby, my advice is don't shoot. It isn't going to be what you think it is anyway. Come down here. Start from down here, baby, from down here, I've got a banging view.
I shook you. I freaked the hell out of you. Not exactly what you paid for, was it?
You want to know where I come from. I try to piece together my history from the torn shreds of the atlas, but you won't be able to keep up.
You ain't the one, doll. Long legs are nice but they won't do shit against these bullets I'm shooting tonight. Don't back me up. If you want a real thrill, come stand in front of me tonight, doll.
Flashing red lights, you're in the wrong district girl. Get yourself up on out of here. Sweet little thing, but stupid.
You ain't the one, boy. You got brains, but you ain't got no devil in you and I can't stomach anything that sweet, not anymore. Get out of my crosshairs, cute little thing, before I order you up deepfried and yes, I would like fries with that. No salt, please.
Sent a message out to the stars by way of a lantern and Morse code. Thought of a million things to say while you're on you're way to me, lovely. No promises that you'd see it. Where the hell are you? Stop fucking around, you God damned mother fucking son of a shit faced bitch. Do you realize the number of assholes I'm sifting through on a daily basis? I'm not going to put up with this much longer. I'll find someone, someone cute, someone blonde, someone cheap, you could eat cornflakes out of his skull. It's an empty threat, but I'll still make it.
Finally settled on something.
"Ohne dich."
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That was TOTALLY worth reading.
And apparently, if I understand this correctly, Angel has been told.
(http://www.ivandavidoff.com/misc/oh-snap-chart.jpg)
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Oh snap!
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5 Words or Less
Written While Drunk; Surprisely Coherent
The imperative misjudgement resulting from an enduring desire to seek company, in 5 words or less.
The haunting realization rotating back around in solar orbit always descending at this time of year to remind me of what's missing in me, in 5 words or less.
The echoing judgement, hollowed out between the cliffs of injustice, a painful ravine from which spews forth all manner of beauty that you will never recognize or see or hear or acknowledge for whatever reasons that stupefy you, in 5 words or less.
The cruel irony at the bottom of the glass last seen as half full waiting to steal our breaths away in a futile attempt at murder, in 5 words or less.
The rap song speech half melancholy and mostly malicious against indifference and apathy that birthed it and without this it wouldn't be, in 5 words or less.
The cynicism that I am all too familiar with that comes crashing in benevolently each time my morning alarm recurses the beginning of the day, in 5 words less.
The reason we sleep in the dark of the shadow of the dead bodies piled high, a price that was paid and paid and paid and paid, in 5 words or less.
The dictionary of logic, dumbfounded and accursed by the illogical and those humbled before a source yet to be proved or touched or hypothosized beyond the initial glance at the mica reflective of their circumstances, in 5 words or less.
The challenge, all too simple and oxymoronic, is to take that which is inside of us and at the moment of understanding display it and defend it and claim it, as if to say we had the material to do so, but only if it can be done in 5 words... or less.
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Here I sit, same as ever
took a dump, pulled the level
the toilet jammed
the water flowed
look out world
it's the motherload!
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The Universe as Seen Through a Martini
Could've been a mime.
You wouldn't have known me better.
The universe fits into an olive in my martini glass.
Could've been an actor.
You might have liked me better.
Communication lacks in a communicating setting.
Could've been a lost boy.
You might have related to me better.
Growing up in smoke and clarity gives me a slight advantage.
To roll the ice cube down the volcano into sludge,
It seemed an insurmountable task for one such as you.
Incense does not impart strength. Ever.
Could've been a dancer too.
Could've been a lawyer.
You might have been happier.
But I'm not, and you're not, and the cosmos in my cup don't care.
Could've been a doctor.
You poor pathetic thing.
At least I'm happy, underneath society, underneath the pavement, underneath your stare.
Could've been a liar.
Oops, you already are.
Don't frown on me too quickly, you'll ask me for help in a minute.
And the cosmos in my cup don't care.
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I like it!
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I like it!
Tambien
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Pretty damn awesome, Wunderkind!
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Thank you. This thread is one of my happy places. I didn't think it would be, but it is.
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CLICK (Also Known As "Eleven Hundred")
Eleven hundred.
Summer solstice sun rises.
The fan unfolds, fold by fold.
click, click, click
Eleven hundred and one.
Soul moment breathing in.
Hammer pulls back behind the barrel.
click, click, click
Eleven hundred and two.
The ashes fall out,
Of the pipe bowl as it's tapped.
click, click, click
Eleven hundred and three.
Foolish little child, who I met here.
We'll never meet again and I won't miss you.
click, click, click
Eleven hundred and four.
Last breath, exhale the cosmos.
I only wanted one moment more.
click, click, click
Eleven hundred.
It won't rhyme, it won't tick or tock.
It won't sound pretty. It's a digital clock.
click
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(http://icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/files/2009/09/funny-pictures-kitten-is-confused.jpg)
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Exactly, ivan. Exactly.
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Distinction
There is a distinction between me and you.
Sometimes wide and shallow, but often deep and narrow.
There is a canyon between me and you.
I have stumbled across a ravine today.
I see a fjord in my future tomorrow.
There is a distinction between me and you,
And the tea leaves in the bottom of my empty cup.
I have wanted and I have undone and I have cut.
To spin and weave and ravel and stitch.
I have a look about me and I have looked up.
There is a distinction in the lines of the wrinkles,
On your face.
There is a distinction in the roads on the map of where you go,
The ways you might take.
You are far away.
I am very close.
There is a distinction between us, only the night truly knows.
The stars are marveling at the gravity that they boast.
I have seen the distance between us and its true expanse.
The cosmos, not so easily crossed, have laughed at my attempts.
There is a fjord between us again, or it will be soon.
A distinction, a satellite waving, as it passes the moon.
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It has been brought to my attention that "CLICK" makes no sense. This may help a little. The counting (elven hundred, eleven hundred and one, etc.) is in reference to the counting and the loosing count of firefly's flashes.
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Have you seen my beloved?
A dangerous man is he
His hair is black as a starless night
His eyes like the bluest sea
His heart beats in my chest
He is a heartless man, you see
Have you seen my beloved?
A dangerous man is he
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In Time, Together
I saw a shadow of a pine, leaning over a softly flowing brook, and in the shadow of the pine leaning over the softly flowing brook I caught the glimpse of your lovely face. My heart beat. Your heart beat. In time, together. Oh that we were fish again. In the shadow of the pine tree, would you grant my wish again? Swimming silently by each other. Curving perfectly around each other. In time, together.
I remember the branches of the pine, leaning over a softly flowing brook, in the branches of the pine leaning over the softly flowing brook I caught the sound of your lovely voice. My heart beat. Your heart beat. In time, together. Oh that we were birds again. In the branches of the pine tree, would we take flight again? Fluttering feathers all about each other. Soft cooing words to each other. In time, together.
But the pine is gone, the brook is dry, and I am far away from the pine and the brook and your lovely soul. My heart is still. Your heart is still. Will we be, in time, together? Oh that I could hold your hand again. By the roots of the old pine tree, to touch your skin again. I must hope we will hold each other. I must have faith we will meet each other. And be, in time, together.
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Survivor
I've got a damned dark feeling.
I've got a damned sense about things.
I've got a pretentious warning.
I've got a foreboding premonition.
I've got a cup that's not broken.
It's got a chip in the lip of its rim.
It's got a crack in the bowl that you hold.
It's got a missing handle.
I've got a story that's not known.
It's the story of every lost love.
It's the story of every emotional coping.
It's the story of every survivor.
I've got a damned dark feeling.
You're going to have forgotten me when we meet.
For the first time.
In time.
Here, at least.
I've got a song that's not sung.
It's the song of boots ringing in time together.
It's the song of doors slamming one by one.
It's the song of gunshots in the distance.
In the night.
I've got a damned dark feeling about this one.
It's gonna be a damned cold one.
It's gonna be a damned long one.
It's gonna be damned.
I've got a sense of things.
I've got a feel for myself.
I've got up to my feet.
I've got knocked down again.
I've still got your heart.
You want it back yet, or what?
I've got a sword that's never been used.
It's got blood on the blade.
It's got a notch in the flat side.
It's got finger prints on the hilt.
I've got a road that's not been walked down.
It's got traveler's plenty.
It's got deep wheel ruts.
It's got pot holes like prostitutes.
I've got a pretentious warning.
I've got a call to come in for the night.
I've got a priest by the balls.
I've got God on the phone.
There's not a whole lot left.
It's a damned sad thing.
It's a damned shame.
It's a real pity.
I've got a fistful of unused paper.
It's got words written all over it.
It's got pages and binding.
It's got a title on the cover.
I've got a foreboding premonition.
It's like I've got money coming.
It's like I've got good things on my way.
It's like I'm going to rule the world soon.
I've got a damned dark feeling.
Like a gun that's not been shot.
The barrel's still warm and smoking.
It's got one bullet missing.
I've gotten to see through blind eyes.
I've gotten to feel with a black heart.
I've gotten to break with a steel soul.
I've gotten to fly with lead wings.
I've got a damned dark feeling.
I've got to survive this shit that's coming too.
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The Shadow of Man
I have seen a shadow of a man.
I have seen proof of life.
I have seen the living dead.
I have seen a dark light.
The world is quite flat, my son.
The field of vision is narrow.
The cards are all on the table now.
We know what will happen tomorrow.
Every move and turn plotted out.
A course so carefully planned.
All will come to naught, though.
All will be an hourglass void of sand.
There is a secret army with me.
I have great power to wield at my hand.
I know that it is time rise up.
I have seen the shadow of man.
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It's been a while, hasn't it?
Rooms
I never guaranteed you that I would be clothed.
I'm sorry that nakedness offends you.
It's the best way I've found to be honest,
the best way to the tell the truth.
I never guaranteed you the world, or the moon,
or any of the ridiculous things we promise,
like forever. I don't like people touching me
I'm not a huge fan of the kiss.
I'm as quirky as they come, at best.
Eccentric, if you want to use a pretty word,
And I'm happy with me as me
And I'll keep me as me, for me is pure.
You'll suggest I make room for another,
I think that's bizarre and obscure.
But there it is anyways, against my will,
like a maze. A room in my heart for sure.
I never guaranteed you anything coherent.
I'm hardly sober enough to cope to with the life
as you call it. I only want freedom
to be as I am and express that freedom with light.
I never guaranteed you a place in my heart,
Yet I assumed a little corner there.
How dare I intrude on our little room,
But since I'm here, I'm glad I'm here.
I hope you'll be here too, soon.
--I'm drunk. I'm not guaranteeing any of that is worth shit. <-- that is not part of the poem> (I felt the need to close the <> tag, like a parentheses but with style.)
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Loosed
There it is.
A shadow, a fog, a cough.
He breathes out, she breathes in.
They laugh, they point,
tortured themselves inside
where no one is allowed in.
The night, the day,
the earth is round and
I am hollow and hallowed.
A single letter,
a single sound and the world,
the universe, is shaped by vowels.
Oh look I fell again.
Oh look I get back up again.
He is surrendering to her surrendering.
There is a light.
And men are made of words.
Here we are, in the dark, fumbling.
I made life.
I made it by killing.
All those long promises,
there they are,
and there they go.
We are made of blessings.
Here it is,
a bright, burning,
shining, stinging, blinding truth.
All men's sadness
and all men's mirth
is tied to a captive thought
now loosed.
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^
I really love this poem.
Especially this part:
The night, the day,
the earth is round and
I am hollow and hallowed.
A single letter,
a single sound and the world,
the universe, is shaped by vowels.
Gives me shivers, in a good way, if you know what I mean :)
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[Possibly] NSFW
You
I want to travel to that exotic country that is your body.
I want to explore the country side of your skin with my fingertips.
I want to visit the dark forests of your soul
And know you in the dark,
the light,
the rain,
the night.
I want to touch every part of you,
To be the discoverer of you,
To be nationalized to you,
The queen of you.
I want to be a citizen of your body.
I want to read all the books in the library of your memories.
I want to study your air currents,
Your warm, East Asian spiced breezes,
The breath of you.
I want to be the expert of the smell of you.
I want to know the origin of you,
To be the anthropologist of you,
To be the curator of the museum of you,
The historian of you.
I want to map the topography of your being.
I want to more than love you.
I want to become a part of you.
Like the natives of a land.
When they speak of me,
I want them to speak of me as
Being essential to you.
Until I blend into you.
Until I'm natural to you.
Like a landmark, a wonder,
A very real and necessary portion
Of the foundation and culture of you.
And then I want to never leave.
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Please allow me to resurrect this thread.
*draws circle*
*summons demons*
*raises the powers of the Catholic Church*
*casts resurrection spell*
Holding
I’ve been holding onto lies.
Like rags, they are torn and dirty.
They hang from my hands
As I grip them tightly.
I’ve been holding onto lies.
My white knuckled grip cannot be loosened.
It is a life line to the land.
I do not hold them lightly.
I’ve been saving all these untruths
To save my own self,
If you can understand
it. I know they are unsightly.
They have stained my hands.
I am made of old lies.
I exist because they were spoken.
If they go, I go.
I will shift away like sand.
But this too
Is untrue.
This too is untrue.
I am holding on to lies.
I carry rags like treasure.
I wear threads like gold
Like the wealthy wear ease.
But I will let go of this untruth
That I have no measure.
These things are old
And will be released.
They have the worth
That they gave to me.
So I will untie the hold
That they have on me.
Because they are untrue
And I am not worth
These old lies.
I deserve only the truth.
-R.A. Fialkiewicz
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Therapy
I have a feeling I’m going to be crying more often than not while this is happening.
I have a feeling I’ll be MIA for more than one day while shit goes down.
I have a feeling you’ll mean less to me when I come out the other side.
I have a feeling this means first grounding as well as finding the ground.
In suspension I don’t have face the heights I have to rise to.
If I pretend I don’t know where the floor is I can ignore the ceiling.
If you are always at the door leading out of this closed space
Then I don’t have to assign the walls around me any further meaning.
I have created the knife that I hold at my own throat.
I have created the gun that I hold at my own head.
And I joke and I laugh and I make fun of me and my threats
Because it is made of sugar means it’s not full of lead.
And I have a feeling I’m stronger than you.
I have a feeling I always have been.
I have a feeling I’m braver than you think I am
And I will find I am more than you while this is happening.
Of course on some level I am strong because of you
But I will not thank you yet.
You will have none of my gratitude
Not while I undo all the bogus standards you set.
While this is happening, you will be a stranger to me
And that will be easy because you made it impossible for me to know you.
In return you made it impossible to know me.
I will not regret that for you.
I have a feeling they will wonder why they had not met me before.
I have a feeling they will say that they missed me.
I have a feeling that despite how difficult you made it
Somebody in here loves me, while this is happening.
That somebody matters the most.
That somebody is the matter that is happening.
She is the matter at hand that matters more than you.
She is the matter with me.
I have a feeling you will come to me with cupped hands
But I won’t be who you are coming to, while this is happening.
You will come towards me but end up at them.
This heart and harbor is closed, at least, while this is happening.
I have a feeling you won’t like who greets you when this is over
And you really won’t be in any sort of control.
I have a feeling there will be a rearrangement, a change of guard
A mutiny of sorts in the order of what matters in my soul.
I have a feeling I’ll be quiet and alone while this is happening.
I’ll be withdrawn more than a few times while I talk to myself
About how to proceed with many things.
Because what is happening is about me.
This is not about you or him or them
But about me and that someone inside me
Who loves me.
So I have a feeling I will become withdrawn and awkward while this is happening.
I have a feeling I will live with a box of tissues in my purse for a while.
I have a feeling I will get angry at random, for no reason, for a time.
I will accuse everyone but me for the state of me and know that I am lying.
You’ll have to excuse the mess on aisle four, she’s in a state of reviving.
I don’t seek to solve a problem, there is no real equation.
I have a matter, with which I require assistance, is all.
That matter is the matter of she who hates me and she who loves me within me.
I have a matter with whatever is the matter with me and that matter is me.
I have a feeling I’ll be a while, untangling this heinous mess.
I have a feeling to go away and hide my face while I pick at the knots.
I will curse and scream and blame and cry and none of it will be about me
Because it is actually about me and I don’t want it to be
And I will cry more often than not while this is happening.
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Coming soon, the more popular version of "Therapy" - "Fuck you, dad".
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(http://i31.photobucket.com/albums/c384/kagura225/Tumblr/Slow-Clap.gif)
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Now I feel the urge to actually write something called "fuck you, dad", but I can't figure out where to start with it. I want to though, because that would be one bad-ass angry poem.
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Holding
This is good.
I mean, they're all good, but this is really good.
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They told me once when I was young,
Write drunk
Edit sober.
Honesty in a glass and liquid courage,
Ask her out
Ask her over.
Nectar of life, nectar of the gods,
Lay her down
Love her gently.
Little green fairy in the bottle,
Come kiss me
Come love me.
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I Think of Death Fondly
I am not a liar.
It is a freely flowing movement to others, but to me it is as difficult as climbing mountains.
Not like the quiet trails about the base, but like the climber, clinging to the very pinnacle by rope and stake, there I am amidst the tide of strangers.
I often feel as though I do not belong anywhere.
Stumbling on shores so distant from anywhere that is familiar, I am cast away on strange tides.
Not in the brave and intrepid traveler's footsteps, but as a terrified child who is cast out in the storm and now must find a way forward because there is no way home.
I am not as you are.
We are different in almost every way, the winds as they sweep across the earth speak to us in very alternate ways.
Not poorly, for we are all of us gifted, but I see not what you see there, and I speak languages you do not dare, and I cross borders that ought not be crossed, and I think of death fondly.
~R.A. Fialkiewicz
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Over Shoulder
Don’t look over your shoulder, she said.
I am moving. I am movement.
Don’t look into the past except to see the sorrow
Don’t look into the past except to see the future
As it comes over the hill.
I am moving. I am movement
I am made of bones and teeth, blood and thunder.
I am made of bones and teeth, fire and light.
I shine, not burn.
I am moving. I am movement.
Collide, catastrophe, everything you came out of
Is hate and pain, roll on into hope and peace, new thing.
Be strange.
I am moving. I am movement.
Run, run, run, roll up that hill
Meet the new, meet the end, meet the beginning
Dance a strange dance
Strange child, she said
Don’t look over your shoulder
Don’t look over your past
Just keep running ahead.
I’ll be right behind you.
The past is always right behind you.
The past is always at your heels.
She said.
Leave it behind, leave it in the wind,
Rise above the kings, rise up on the wings.
She said,
Don’t look over shoulders.
~ R.A.Fialkiewicz
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paint to painter
you used your fingertips like paint brushes
dripping water onto the cracked, barren surfaces of my skin
I was still until you came with your fingertips
hardened and resolved carefully reserved under the surface of my skin
out of the harshest desert world you must’ve come
to not fear me, to not fear my dry terrain
and then touch me with your water dipped paintbrushes
I am like the flower both needing and fearing the rain
your paintbrush fingertips spread me out
you push my colors everywhere
carrying me out to new places and onto surfaces strange
you paint with me all manner of things fair
I do not need to be convinced of your artistry
I am not the one in the midst of cosmic doubt
I am only the dry paint you dripped with water
and with fingertips turned and spread me out
you are the river in the midst of the wastelands
carrying out the colors of the earthen debris
and painting them on other shores with shells from other shores
painting them with colors from outside and inside of me
~R.A. Fialkiewicz
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I can appreciate the difficulties of your past,
The turn and twist and flow of your first,
Your middle, your crisis, escalation, resolution, last,
Your reason, logic, and I even understand your curse.
We've come to some kind of terms,
An unspoken agreement that we should
Just stay this far apart to avoid hurt,
Just avoid connecting even if we could.
You gave me some really good things.
You gave me waves and balance and hope.
You gave me money for the cinema and
an appreciation for the broader scope.
You gave me some really good things.
You gave me an inherit mistrust of smiles,
of the lies that are told to keep up appearances.
You gave me the discerning eye and all the while,
You taught me really important things.
I learned to stand up because of you.
I spoke up, I raised my fist, I stiffened my upper lip,
I held my head high, all because of you.
You were the resistance that sharpened my edge.
You were the wind that strengthened my roots.
You were the precipice upon which I learned to cling to a ledge.
You were the forced words when I was rendered mute.
I have you to thank for who I am.
Only you, no one else, for shaping me,
Into the warrior who looks at the sand
and thinks, sure, it's not the worst it could be.
But I would have liked to be weak.
I would have liked to rest against you.
I would have liked shelter and a break.
I would have liked to know what love looks like too.
And in the end, I'm okay, I get it.
The final resolution, I didn't turn out that bad.
And hey, it's over.
But really, fuck you dad.