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Coltrane was moving out of jazz into something else. And certainly Miles Davis was doing the same thing.

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The Bad Pretty Girl

I am the pretty one,
the one the girls hate
and the boys pant for
and I stand aloof because
there is no room for me to be
who I am.

All I get is people reacting
to how I look
and I see them whisper
'She's so stuck up.'
I am not.
I am lonely and superior to them
that make these kinds of comments.

So all day I have to take the stares
and the mini-hatreds
just because I am pretty.
I like being pretty
it comes easy to me;
takes no effort.

My hair is beautiful and I don't have to do anything to it.
My skin is good. Thank God, no zits
My figure is good
but I get the comments when I walk through-
the Neanderthals always make comments-
and I cannot help it if my parents are rich.

So I am trapped behind this wall.
I don't have to study hard to get good grades;
this school is easy.
I don't have to work hard for anything.
Things just come to me.
But it has made a prison for me
and because I don't have to get smart
or work hard-
I can get by on my looks.
My teachers like me-
one too much,
so in the end I am doing what I hate
others do-
seeing me only in terms of how I look
and I realize I am doing the same thing to myself.

I am my looks. I am trapped.
So when boys try to talk to me I clam up
because I think there is only one thing they want.
And most of the time I am right. They do-just want
one thing.
Other's of them just want to say I am their girl friend
even if that is not true just so they can brag to their friends.

Some of them lie and claim they had you, or you
are lesbian just because you don't like them.

I am the pretty girl and most times that is pretty sad.

So I don't talk to anyone except other pretty girls.
They understand. They have the pretty girl thing too.

So we stand around sometimes and think we are superior
but we also think secretly we might be inferior and lonely too
and who is going to feel sorry for the pretty girl? Nobody that's who.

So I dated the football guy who was pretty too. It seemed he would
understand-handsome and pretty, the same thing I thought.
Boy was I wrong. He was his mothers' boy and only liked me
because he thought there was prestige in it. And I did it for
the same reason. We both were boring when alone and tried to
look like the super couple when people were around.
I was bored and truth be told I was also boring.
I had nothing to say and all's he wanted to talk about was football
and sex.
I told him no.
And then he latched onto my best friend, well I called her my best friend, but
we were not really friends. We just sorta hung out together.
My real best friend was Alma for a while. She was the ugly sidekick
pretty girls seem to attract. All she wanted to do was be with me. She did
everything I asked her to, sometimes without me even asking. I began to think that just maybe being pretty was being superior. People like Alma
made it easy to think that. She seemed to think I was superior.
I used to lie to her about all the boys coming on to me and things they said and she believed those lies. I felt I had to tell the stories because the stories seemed to mean so much to her. Besides telling her the phony stories gave me a fantasy life to make up for my real one.
We were a good pair of friends for a while until Alma told me one day about her love. Her love for me. And I realized she was not talking about friend love.
That's another thing, you get come ons from both genders and some like Alma turn into stalkers. She lied and told her friend that we had been together. A total lie.
That is why high school is prison camp for the pretty girl.
I broke down one day while talking to Geek Billy who came over to my house to fix my computer. He was rad-geek and shorter than me and I never really considered him a real person or anything so I was talking like he was not even there. I was saying 'why me, why does everyone hate me? '
He started yammering that he didn't hate me, and put his arm around me. I looked up and saw that he was not trying to jump my bones, he really was trying to comfort me like he understood and all that. It was laughable you know. I was so above him and everything but he seemed that day like a real person to me for just a tiny minute.
He left and I lay on my bed and wrote into my diary-'Geek boy loves me.'
I wrote: 'I am the pretty girl no one likes because I am above them.'

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I am the Pretty Girl-Chapter One

Pretty Hurts
 I am the  pretty one,

the one the girls hate

and the boys pant for

and I stand aloof because

there is no room for me to be

who I am.

All I get is people reacting

to how I look

and I see them whisper

'She's so stuck up.'

I am not.

I am lonely and superior to them

that make these kinds of comments.

So all day I have to take the stares

and the mini-hatreds

just because I am pretty.
 

I like being pretty

it comes easy to me;

takes no effort.

 

My hair is beautiful and I don't have to do anything to it.

My skin is good. Thank God, no zits

My figure is good

but I get the comments when I walk through-

the Neanderthals always make comments-

and I cannot help it if my parents are rich.

So I am trapped behind this wall.

I don't have to study hard to get good grades;

this school is easy.

 

I don't have to work hard for anything.

Things just come to me.

But, it has made a prison for me

and because I don't have to get smart

or work hard-

I can get by on my looks,

my teachers like me-

one too much;

so in the end I am doing what I hate

others do-

seeing me only in terms of how I look-

and I realize I am doing the same thing to myself.
 

I am my looks.
I am trapped.

So when boys try to talk to me I clam up

because I think there is only one thing they want.


And most of the time I am right.

They do-just want

one thing.

Other's of them just want to say I am their girl friend

even if that is not true just so they can brag to their friends.

Some of them lie and claim they had you,
or you

are lesbian
just because you don't like them.

I am the pretty girl and most times that is pretty sad.

So I don't talk to anyone except other pretty girls.

They understand. They have the pretty girl thing too.

 

So we stand around sometimes and think we are superior

but we also think secretly we might be inferior and lonely too

and who is going to feel sorry for the pretty girl? Nobody that's who.

So I dated the football guy who was pretty too.
It seemed he would understand-handsome and pretty,
the same thing I thought.

Boy was I wrong. He was his mothers' boy
and only liked me

because he thought there was prestige in it.
And I did it for the same reason.

We both were boring when alone
and tried to look like the super couple
when people were around.

I was bored and truth be told I was also boring.

I had nothing to say
and all's he wanted to talk about was football

and sex.

 

I told him no.

And then he latched onto my best friend, well I called her my best friend, but 

we were not really friends. We just sorta hung out together.

 

My real best friend was Alma for a while.
She was the ugly sidekick

pretty girls seem to attract.
All she wanted to do was be with me.

She did everything I asked her to,
sometimes without me even asking.
I began to think that just maybe being pretty was being superior.
People like Alma

made it easy to think that.
She seemed to think I was superior.

I used to lie to her about all the boys coming on to me
and things they said and she believed those lies.

I felt I had to tell the stories
because the stories seemed to mean so much to her.
Besides telling her the phony stories
gave me a fantasy life to make up for my real one.

 

We were a good pair of friends for a while
until Alma told me one day about her love;
Her love for me.
And I realized she was not talking about friend love.

 

That's another thing,
you get come on's from both genders
and some like Alma turn into stalkers.

She lied and told her friend that we had been together.
A total lie.

That is why high school is prison camp for the pretty girl.

I broke down one day while talking to Geek Billy
who came over to my house to fix my computer.
He was rad-geek and shorter than me
and I never really considered him a real person or anything
so I was talking like he was not even there.
I was saying why me, why does everyone hate me?

He started yammering that he didn't hate me,
and put his arm around me.
I looked up and saw that he was not trying to jump my bones,
he really was trying to comfort me
like he understood and all that.
It was laughable you know.

I was so above him and everything
but he seemed that day like a real person to me
for just a tiny minute.

He left and I lay on my bed
and wrote into my diary-
'Geek boy loves me.'

I wrote: 'I am the pretty girl no one likes
because I am above them.' 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

  

 

 

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The Simple...

follow that star...
to forlorn manger bare
'neath skies of poverty's making...

the simple, the common,
the calloused hands,
the baby's cry in cold night's grasp....

the light so few could see...
no temple, no righteous robes,
only a carpenter and wife...

no kings, no prophets,
no blaze of fury....
a child born in stillness,

that stillness formed....
abused, misunderstood,
his memory used and twisted

into something else and less....
never knowing, never seeing,
the simple truth....

the hands, fully human,
that dared to touch...
changing the darkness

with compassion's forms...
as if a leaf turning,
and no one heard!

therein lies the beauty,
and the stillness!

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I was up late last night yapping about the elections on CNN and up early this morning doing the same thing in my daughter's kindergarten class.

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I never thought I was doing the same thing as directors like John Carpenter, George Romero, and sometimes even Hitchcock, even though I've been sometimes compared to those other guys. We're after different game.

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Hide In My Own Tears

I never been good at running
because i foolishly run back
so i go out and hide
As a reaction to an act.

The world can't hear my cries
But they see my tears
The world don't see my darkest insecurities
But they do see my fears.

When I start to run, I trip and fall
From then I must find my mistake
and even if it means doing the same thing
I'll give it all it takes

So I've decided to stop running
and in my sorrows abide
So instead of running
I go out and hide
Instead of letting what i feel be open
I bundle it inside
And when no one else is looking
In my tears, I hide.

I got tired of running
Because falling is my biggest fear
So instead of escaping them
I just hide in my own tears.

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When I Move A Step Forward

there is something that i notice with us
when i make a step forward
you do the same
when i make a turn, you do the same
i don't think that you are my shadow
because you look so real
that i am even tempted to touch you
though i am afraid sometimes
that you may not like it at all

now i stopped doing a thing
and wanted even to stop thinking
and here you are still doing the same thing
i am definite i am not you and you are not me
for we are two different entities
facing each other and perhaps wanting to
be the same and fuse as one

are you my dream? are you my wish not to be alone?
why can't we talk? who knows if we have the same mothers?
who knows if i am your twin and mother did not tell us?

when i die, please, to complete this story,
will you also die with me?

I doubt you.Therefore, you exist.

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Were Into Something Good

I never thought it could be like this
Give me another kiss if you dont mind, one more time
To flatter you with many stories
Used cliches that would be boring
Would just waste time, precious time
I dont have to say a thing
Its written on my face
Any doubt that you still have
Let our love erase
Chorus
Were into something good and you know it
Were into something good dont be afraid to show it
Were into something good, baby
I dont see how you conceal it
Theres no way that you cant feel it,when we do what we do
Now you cant get this close to me
Send all these vibrations through me
And not know what to do
So wipe the tears away
Dont be afraid of me
Love between us should come
Oh so free and easy
Chorus
Were into something good,baby
Chorus

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A little grammar is most becoming, it becomes a man...

And in case no-one mentioned this to you
on those hot summer afternoons when
you could hear the sound of bat on ball, or
ball on racquet, or foot on football, or
just people enjoying themselves out there
beyond the half-open classroom window –

a little bit of grammar can open your eyes,
open your mind, make you curious…
take for example the word ‘become’..

many centuries ago the ancient Brits
got it from some ‘Germanic’ tribe,
and it meant, to come to a place,
be somewhere, go somewhere…

and later it acquired the sense of something
developing into something else, and
being recognised as that –
‘she’s become a real beauty, hasn’t she? ’

then in the Jane Austeny 18th century years,
they would say ‘what a very becoming
young lady..’ though not to imply she
wasn’t quite a lady yet, oh no…
and the verb had ‘become’
an adjective sometimes (well, OK, a verbal adjective..)

or they’d say ‘How well those clothes become her! ’
meaning, not, she hung them up at night, and
in the morning found herself hanging there inside them…
but meaning decorous, well turned out

then in the 19th century I guess,
philosophers of the heavy sort (we might assume
they’d reverted to Germanic tones…)
talked about ‘Being and Becoming’,

implying that two things were going on,
a bit like one thing standing still inside
something else which was changing;
or perhaps outside; a bit like God
(whom those philosophers didn’t necessarily
believe in – but it serves…)

God saying ‘I Am - BUT – I am going
to become – Everything! ! … so,
Let There Be Light! ’ and
you know what – there was light…

and there alas, we must leave
our friend ‘becoming’; to become
what it will, or rather, how we use it; but
you must agree, life becomes more interesting,
even you could say, more becoming,
with a touch of grammar even
on a hot day when you’re becoming
a little drowsy, please Miss, can I go
and get a glass of water…?

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Gross stupidity

It was at a time
where you had
to wear a uniform to school,
had to cut your hair
to a predetermined length

and got caned
if you were naughty,
failed a test,
or sometimes
to let the teacher
enforce his will.

If you complained at home
about getting a hiding at school,
you would probably
get another there too
if you deserved it,
but if you were right,
were punished unfairly
or without a real cause

it was seen in a different light
and a teacher
or whoever the punisher was
would have to face
your father in a fight
and could easily
be hit into hospital.

School regulations stipulated
that you couldn’t receive
more than six whippings on a day,
but at Estcourt high school
on my first day
at the new school
in standard nine (now grade eleven)
I received twelve.

We were lining up
to go to the hall
and a prefect told me
to cut my hair
which were just a bit
longer than how
they wanted it.

I said that I would
and while we were walking
to the entrance of the hall
I was told the same thing
over and over again.

On the eighth time
I told the English prefect
in Afrikaans
not to catch the pip
which was a Afrikaans adage
for do not catch a fit.

He told me to repeat
what I had said,
which I did
and thought
that I was cursing him
and took me
to the Headboy
who was English.

Where I had to repeat
myself again
and I did
as believed in telling
the truth.

The head boy took me
to the principal,
(Mister Robert Smith) ,
who thought
that I was saying
something like
go and play
with your member.

He called in the
vice-principal
(another Englishman) ,
a man with a red beard,
who was convinced
that I was cursing,
who shoved my head
under a table
and whipped me six times.

When I explained what it meant
they didn’t believe me
and called in a teacher
who taught Afrikaans
and the principal gave me
another six whippings
for being insubordinate
and wanted to expel me
if I didn’t have my hair cut
on by the next day.

I didn’t tell my stepfather
(who wasn’t a dad to me) ,
but even he
would have sorted
the headmaster
and vice-principal out
and it would have been
the Anglo-Boer war
all over again.

At the time I thought
that I was grossly stupid,
but thinking back
the headmaster and vice-principal
was probably more so.

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Patrick White

The Western Light

The western light
comes right in through my windows
and glows in a golden haze on the dirty panes.
It slashs geometric shadows on my landscapes
like some mad abstractionist
who took them way too personally.
And all they said
was moon tree star light stone flower river sun
as if that were enough of a vocabulary
to say the whole of creation
quietly under your breath
like a secret that’s shared by everyone.
Guess I’m not enough of an ideologue
to comb the swamp for my own skeleton
like the ancestor of modern art.
I’ve gazed too long and hard
at the waterlilies in the Fall River
as if I were meditating on koans
that effortlessly open by themselves
not to waste my mind on anything
that didn’t include my heart
like a work in progress
like a river on its way to the ocean.
Dark soon.
The night sheds petals of insight
like moonlight making waves
on the shoreless seas of enhanced awareness
where I stand like a human candle
with my little standard of flame
trying to light up the universe
so I can see what I am in the depths
of my own eyes.
If I’m the tragicomic clown of my own catastrophe
or if there’s something more profound
going on around me
than time and light
glancing off the mindstream
like birds against the delusive skies
that lie like the windows of insight
until you break through them
like the sun at midnight
shining its light
on a conspiracy of mirrors
against the moon.
I must have been mad before I was born
to see things the way I do now.
Everything is inconceivably probable somehow
like a fortune-cookie
that’s had its tongue cut out
for telling lies to the emperor
or the lack of a sign
for the thirteenth house of the misbegotten
in the neighbourhood watch of the zodiac.
Even when you lose your purpose in life
like a passport in a borderless country
you can still hang on to your identity
like a willess work engendered out of nothing.
You can still firewalk the ghost road of smoke
like stars under the feet of the dead
or follow your own breath
like a dancer that no one is leading.
It’s a surprise when you first come to see
that the greatest liberty of all isn’t death
but to cry as if you were bleeding
from a wound
so much sharper and deeper
than the poignancy of the knife that opened it
like a posthumous loveletter from the gods
you feel
reading your own fate
in the silence between their voices
as if forever hereafter
you could only be killed into life
and that every rafter of delusion
you ever sought shelter under
were the overturned hull of an empty lifeboat.
Sometimes I look at my life
like one of the splendid ambiguities
of a subtly nuanced godsend.
I try to befriend the way I feel
like the generous host
of a dangerous stranger
too cold and aloof
to introduce himself
as my shadow
my eclipse
my potential assassin.
I have tried to stay true to the lies
that led to the myth of my lucidity
like a mirage in a desperate desert of stars
I could drown in like an island
up to to the neck of an hourglass
in tidal waves of quicksand
laying my life down
like the foundation stone
of an inverted pyramid
that yearns for the state of mind
he enjoyed before life
more than that that won’t come after.
I have refused to put the torch out in its own reflection.
I have not tried to uproot
the beauty of the waterlilies
opening their eyes like stars
from the decay and the lies
and the scars that sustain them.
I have put to good use
the dysfunction of delusion
to make a credible raft
to get me to the other side
of this river of shadows
swollen like a flashflood
in a lunar seabed.
I have danced with ghosts
like a lonely shaman
around the unappeasable fires
of desire and death
entreating the nightsky
to rain on my flowerless roots
and sweeten the severity
of the dragon’s eyes
with tears.
I have lived in such a way
to actualize the nameless reality
of a few common words
like love and understanding
I’ve kept alight like fireflies on the wind
and cherished them
as if the seeds of insight
were the perennial beginning
of enlightened orchards
that taste like the fruit of compassion.
I have lived in such a way
like a thief of keys
to relieve the locks
on the nightwatch
of their tunnel vision
that it’s not safe
to give my new address
to my old mailbox.
But even in a black out
I have not kept the light out
by plastering my windows with starmaps
or gone underground
like a blind star-nosed mole
that put its eyes out
to share something
in common with the dead
who would never have dreamed
they would all end up sleeping with their mothers.
I open them to receive the sun.
I close them to remember the stars
I’ve been dancing under
for lightyears
against the gathering storm
like a poor man’s chandeliers.
I have celebrated my defiance
of hitching a winged horse
to a hearse
by expressing the joy I take
in the revolutionary spontaneity
of my unself-reliance.
But of all the things
I’ve ever outgrown
or overthrown
like a sword from a bridge
I gave back to the sacred waters of life
the last to fall
was the ghostship in the mirage
of the image I had of me.
I poured myself out
like imaginary water
from a fountainmouth
in a real drought
to green the secret Edens
at the sacred crossroads
of the four rivers
that might come of it
as if X marked the spot
where I was standing
as the best place to start a garden
on the waterwheel of the mindstreams
that radiated out of its stillness like spokes.
Sometimes you end up stealing fire
when all along
you thought you were meant
to invent the wheel
or make up a new language
out of the echoes of dolphins
breaking into birdsong
as if they had turned in their feet
to go back to the sea
but had not forgotten
that their fins
could fly as easily
as the wings they once wore on their heels.
Many rivers flow into the one sea
and the sea returns to transcendence
back the way it came
without stepping into the same mindstream twice.
And I prefer to think
that the same thing is true of the multiverse.
Everything that shines in the night
or in the mind
down to the smallest spark of insight
locked like a firefly
in a lighthouse of ice
on the same omnidirectional course.
And true north
just the magnetic attraction
of a voodoo doll
in a haystack of needles
trying to get a bearing on things
like the right ascension
and correct declination
of a lost soul
summoned like a deranged galaxy
to the singularity
at the bottom of a blackhole
to exchange the light it goes by
by upgrading its eyesight
to search for itself in the night
on the higher frequencies
of X-ray vision
on board an experimental satellite.
And yet for all the myriad universes
that bubble up in hyperspace
like the last breath of the drowning
I have refused to live
like a diving bell in a wishing well
trying to understand
why nothing came true but the coins.
If you’ve never resolved anything in your whole life
maybe you were meant
to keep the mystery alive.
The medium is not the message
when the message is the mystery.
A meaningful medium
is nothing but meaningless words.
The sky doesn’t intend to say birds.
The water doesn’t mean fish
anymore than an infinite number of other things.
Nothing lives like a machine
for something as small as a purpose.
You don’t have to live like a lens
to keep the sun in focus.
And maybe one of the greatest blessings
of being on the nightshift
is that when the universe is out of work
it has no use for us.
We’re free to be when and whatever we want.
Or thoroughly protean.
Or nothing at all.
A full eclipse of the clock on the wall
or a chromatically aberrant nightlight
like a colour crazy star
low on the horizon of the hall.
As for me and my house
I’ve lost track of the number of times
I’ve brought my starmud to enlightenment
like a horse you can lead to water
but you can’t make drink.
The words crawl.
The words swim.
The words take to their wings
like eagles and dragonflies
and startled waterbirds.
Half a sliced pear
looks like a short-necked Spanish guitar.
Looking for the meaning of this
isn’t the same
as listening to the music.

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795. Relations Wobbly and Rootless ‘I’ - 171208

While swimming
Amidst seething sea
Of selfish karmas
Seeking for coast
To rest my aching legs
I found a tiny land!

With a heavy relief
I docked my feet.
But alas!
It slipped and sank
Into selfishness!

Hurriedly I took
Refuge in another rock
The same thing went on!
Thus walking on
Moving stones
My voyage goes!

When the search
For something stable
Turns inside me
My own ‘I’ derides
Being a chameleon itself
With numerous shades!

Where is the root of ‘I’?
Am I this body
With thick emotional skin
Covering my foul feelings?
Am I this mind
With whirling thoughts
Centered at illusion? 171208

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Imagine This

(8/31/12)

Try to imagine and visualize if every household
In n. y. c. was to light and hold up a candle
How bright that would be?
Now imagine every town in the united states
And every city doing the same thing.
How much brighter that would be.

Now imagine every country joining in
With every household doing the same.
It would be trillions of people holding
Up a candle - it would be as bright or even
Brighter than the sun in the sky
And that's because everyone was willing to try.

Now if - and that IF is quite big
Everyone that held that candle
Raised their voices for peace
For love of one another, and treated
Each other like sisters and brothers.

Imagine how it would spread
Like a wildfire out of control
And from one person to another
it would be told.
If we must fight - let us fight for peace
Let us fight to stamp out hunger
Then human trafficking in slavery
And abuse of every kind, verbal
And physical.

This is the war that we should be in
Because these are the wars that
We can't seem to win.
After this all the rest of the worlds
Problems will fall into place
And you will see a much happier face.

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Nirvana was like that- Nirvana was like the only band to come out of that- it was like the same thing, Seattle was like this whole scene and it was like this big scene that was thrust upon America.

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Robotic Routine

We wake up in the morning
to a cup of coffey
to some it's just a cup
to others a trophy

We do our daily needs
get ready for work
we feed our hungry stomaches
like pathetic jerks

Then we climb into our cars
and away we go
to join the other millions
on this circus show

We really should stop
and think for a while
we're doing the same thing
and with no damn style

We need to change our lives
by adding some color
we have to change routine
in our tuned out motor

We have to come alive
and change our scene
we need to say good-bye
to our robotic routine.


(Charlie vergara/07.14.2008/25117)

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Keeping Conversations Just As Stale As Ever!

When one is comfortable and accustomed,
To doing what one has done and still does...
For as long as that person has been on Earth.
With an identity attached and connected.
It is as natural as the air one breathes.

To expect one to be humbled by a few compliments...
Is like wishing a tree had more flexibility,
When a drunken fool runs into it.
Driving from behind a borrowed car.

The tree saw this coming.
But was not about to bend or move!
And folks keep doing the same thing...
Over and over and over.
As if from the act of it...
New discoveries are made!

And for a few...
Even new discoveries don't teach!
Folks keep doing the same thing...
Over and over and over!
Getting the same results...
And keeping conversations,
Just as stale as ever!

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I Came To Accept The Invitation

What does one do when found attractive?
Available AND dateless.
With a presentation that begs for attention.
And the ease of it makes one suspicious.

'Have we met before?
You look awefully familiar.'

~I was thinking the same thing about you.
And you do.~

'Are you in the neighborhood?
I mean...
Do you live here in it? '

~I could if those needs were met.~

'What kind of...
Needs.
If you don't mind me asking? '

~I was hoping you would...
Ask.~

'Who sent you here?
And don't laugh.'

~My heart.
And my willingness to listen,
Finally.~

'Why are you licking your lips? '

~I'm beginning to notice,
We both want to grope! ~

'And that was the first time done,
Ever looking into someone's eyes.'

~I am not surprised by that at all!
I came to accept the invitation.~

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Gone to Far

I have done it now,
I have pushed him far enough,
I know that I have gone to far,
But the walls around me are building up,
I can’t see that how much he loves me,
I thought I was doing the right thing by pushing everyone away,
I hate myself for doing the wrong things,
I blame myself for causing the pain in everyone around me,
I am afraid to let anyone get close to me,
I surround myself with the guilt I feel inside,
On the inside I cry,
He is gone to far,
Far away from me,
I am ashamed of my life because its empty like my soul,
I try to reach out,
Reach out for help that I needed,
I try to let him get close to me but I keep on pushing him away,
The further I push him,
The further he drifts away,
I am left with this broken heart because I have pushed him away,
I just wish I knew how to fix this mistake I have caused for myself and for the one I love.

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Breaking The Law

There I was completely wasting, out of work and down
All inside its so frustrating as I drift from town to town
Feel as though nobody cares if I live or die
So I might as well begin to put some action in my life
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
So much for the golden future, I cant even start
Ive had every promise broken, theres anger in my heart
You dont know what its like, you dont have a clue
If you did youd find yourselves doing the same thing too
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
You dont know what its like
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law

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Inside = Outside = Equal fascination

writing poetry
suddenly i realise
it is to a journey to
my own sanctuary
where i get a better
inkling of myself

those who read
and could follow
pick up a few
pieces of diamonds

i look into myself
and find a universe
similar to the one without

unreachable, without end

god's geometry
within and without
this human frame
would work out
- for me - to be only this;
equal fascination

two coins of the same
thing?

the real solution
perhaps we have
to wait for the
eternal master
to come with the
real formula

when we close our eyes
and look within
does it mean we look
into everyone's else
universes too
the ones locked in
each of us
unreachable, without end?

are we hands and legs
of the same spirit
like what the tentacles
are to the giant octopus?

are we lost in these universes
that bind themselves to us?
these universes a parasite
to our soul? the satan that refuses
to let go?

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