i’d rather hear the roar of machines

than the inner beasts of man

i’d rather smell the burn of tires

than the quiet fire of souls

i seek an emotion that must be pure

not conflicted and cracked to splinters

yet i forego notions of completion

to become one with life

is neither one or the other

darkness slips into light

and i do not accept my mind

numbed to the facts of life

but indulge in fantasies beyond my measure

so terrible and alone

and when the last breath escapes

i see my body of work

and silently weep for the pain

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winter1

i felt the snow outside my window before i looked

a new and yet so familiar quietude

settling in the air

calm and cold

stalled me in my doings

a smile appearing on my lips

as i walked to the window and peered outside

to a scenery, crawled under a white duvet

of hibernation and serenity

filling the spirits

with a joy gladly revisited

 

He looked at her and there was something in his glance; the power of it almost frightened her. It was that emotion that had been steadily building between them ever since the night he had appeared at her window. A feeling beyond love, beyond passion. It seemed to lay its fingers on her very soul, causing her to shiver with breathless delight. Wendy still did not fully understand that part of herself he had awoken. It was too vast and dizzying to contemplate. The depth of her feelings towards him was boundless, unrestrained, almost terrifying in its disregard for limits.*

 

and i wonder once again

will anything ever touch me?

have i grown so accustomed to this inner world

that i have grown estranged to the outer one?

as if every unseeable, untouchable molecule inside of me

is more tangible

than anything outside my skin

as if every ghost of imagination

is more real, more feeling

than anyone i meet otherwise

a sensitivity split

have i lost my mind

or lost myself to my mind

or is it one and the same?

i may never know

because

i can never be sure of my own answer

 

we are all made of sadness and stardust

but i pity those who only wrestle meteors

and wish for shooting stars

they do not see the beauty in being

nor accept solitude

the sharp edges of the meteors

grating into their hearts

making them react to others

with elbows made of gravel and rock

and they do not see that every star that falls

is every tear from the ones they hurt