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themurdershewore |
Tag: waves
You Are Not – A poet’s revenge against the Cliché –
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repeated often till meaning dies
revealing my weakness for your body
are but an honorable mention
calling and seducing me to lay in your arms
carried you to me from afar
whose temptations take me from reality to fantasy
sung endlessly while children clap their hands
crashing your sexuality over my beaches
perfect beauty so many times compared
striking the lies of men and melting my soul to yours
the common seen on every poet’s page
possessing the beginning and ending of my life
Also published in Life As A Human Magazine
First published in Opinionsofeye.com
02142012
Prophecy
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Rhythm Of Wings
Guile’s Subtle Creature – Pain and Fear are my defenders
A Broken Seed
― W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil
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wehaveforgotten |
Me, the living dead, a zombie of a man, a tortured and near empty soul made void by the very thing that I sought to deliver me from the pain of existence. I sought Them. The caretakers of darkness, who, pawning their wares to this little child, made sure their victory. Taking their empty promise, I swallowed the hook and ran. They, laughing, knew it was a matter of time before they would pull up hard on that line and watch me struggle valiantly, but in vain, against the taught leash. I jumped, thrashing against the line, but into their hold I fell. In the misery of the company around me, I saw I wasn’t alone in my plight. There were many who, in an act of innocence, in an attempt at living, took the camouflaged snare, and, like myself, struggled to retract their explorations and be safe again. Years have passed now, a blur of feigned life, an echo of songs long since expired. My hands reached out of their cage many times, hoping to connect with freedom. I found my release, unexpectedly, born on the wings of tumultuous circumstance. My cage was thrown to the wild waves, into a deep sea of desperation, leaving me, in heaving labored breaths, to struggle against the inevitable. Death. Cold and final. Release. It wasn’t my end, but my beginning. Spring, bringing tender green shoots and a fresh vitality, broke me from the seed that bore my soul. In a dance of liberty that only those who are long held captive can know, I spun around and around in delighted exuberance of the death that brought life. Captured and prostituted soul, find your open door through a death. But not a death, a door. For how can it be called death when you live again? It is a door, not an end, but an eternal beginning.
A Broken Seed
― W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil
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wehaveforgotten |
Me, the living dead, a zombie of a man, a tortured and near empty soul made void by the very thing that I sought to deliver me from the pain of existence. I sought Them. The caretakers of darkness, who, pawning their wares to this little child, made sure their victory. Taking their empty promise, I swallowed the hook and ran. They, laughing, knew it was a matter of time before they would pull up hard on that line and watch me struggle valiantly, but in vain, against the taught leash. I jumped, thrashing against the line, but into their hold I fell. In the misery of the company around me, I saw I wasn’t alone in my plight. There were many who, in an act of innocence, in an attempt at living, took the camouflaged snare, and, like myself, struggled to retract their explorations and be safe again. Years have passed now, a blur of feigned life, an echo of songs long since expired. My hands reached out of their cage many times, hoping to connect with freedom. I found my release, unexpectedly, born on the wings of tumultuous circumstance. My cage was thrown to the wild waves, into a deep sea of desperation, leaving me, in heaving labored breaths, to struggle against the inevitable. Death. Cold and final. Release. It wasn’t my end, but my beginning. Spring, bringing tender green shoots and a fresh vitality, broke me from the seed that bore my soul. In a dance of liberty that only those who are long held captive can know, I spun around and around in delighted exuberance of the death that brought life. Captured and prostituted soul, find your open door through a death. But not a death, a door. For how can it be called death when you live again? It is a door, not an end, but an eternal beginning.
It’s Illegal To Fly – A romantic encounter
Deryn swallowed, then pointed at the screen. “He makes me feel like that. Like flying.”
– Scott Westerfeld, Goliath
The following article was written by Anna Rindfleish, a talented author and blogger, in her blog, annaaa in a fairytaleee. Enjoy.
I can feel the sunshine on my skin,
You said, “My baby wanted to know what it would be like to fly.”
Courting Nature – Enjoying nature’s seduction
– Friedrich Nietzsche
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inshaallaah |
I danced with waves today
I felt their rhythm that held me in sway
I danced with waves today
I walked with rain today
I felt the cleansing that came from gray
I walked with rain today
I laid with sun today
The love of women just the same
I laid with sun today
Courting Nature – Enjoying nature’s seduction
– Friedrich Nietzsche
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inshaallaah |
I danced with waves today
I felt their rhythm that held me in sway
I danced with waves today
I walked with rain today
I felt the cleansing that came from gray
I walked with rain today
I laid with sun today
The love of women just the same
I laid with sun today