Andreso
The baby itself will define the words contained within his name. Everything else is properly named and defined.
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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse

I found myself singing to myself again

in front of the window I use as a mirror

I can't see myself as clear as I see the only tree

I can't hear myself as clear, as deep, as I hear it on my mind. 

Amidst the wilderness might lie a stone

as hard as my heart's core

both might break as the voice overtones

finding out for a way to go. 

I found myself singing to myself again

in ashed veil, wearing black, 

the timing's perfect

the verse is weak

but it's a shell

wearing down. 

The weight is heavy, 

not heavier than the roots

but heavier than the rain outside

flickering the mirrorlike window. 

Outside my temple I breathe in

reality breathes in

the reality where I sing

sad songs to a faded view of myself

but who I am to criticize the powder in the grey snow?

Maybe it's just an instance

maybe a trance 

or a self driven lullaby. 

Maybe it's that I'm ahead of myself for an instant, 

maybe my hands are heavy

I'm unable to reach penance in the mist I'm standing, 

maybe my feet are also heavy. 

My voice breaks when I'm unable

but my voice isn't famous for it's melodies

nor the strings of a broken piano. 

My voice tweaks when I'm a fable,

wearing donkey ears

and long black clothes

as if I was a lethal presence

and anywhere my voice bounces

heaven and hell rises. 

Amidst the wilderness might lie something pure, 

crystal pure

divine

as the spirit arises. 

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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse
I found myself singing to myself again
in front of the window I use as a mirror
I can't see myself as clear as I see the only tree
I can't hear myself as clear, as deep, as I hear it on my mind. 

Amidst the wilderness might lie a stone
as hard as my heart's core
both might break as the voice overtones
finding out for a way to go. 

I found myself singing to myself again
in ashed veil, wearing black, 
the timing's perfect
the verse is weak
but it's a shell
wearing down. 
The weight is heavy, 
not heavier than the roots
but heavier than the rain outside
flickering the mirrorlike window. 

Outside my temple I breathe in
reality breathes in
the reality where I sing
sad songs to a faded view of myself
but who I am to criticize the powder in the grey snow?

Maybe it's just an instance
maybe a trance 
or a self driven lullaby. 

Maybe it's that I'm ahead of myself for an instant, 
maybe my hands are heavy
I'm unable to reach penance in the mist I'm standing, 
maybe my feet are also heavy. 

My voice breaks when I'm unable
but my voice isn't famous for it's melodies
nor the strings of a broken piano. 

My voice tweaks when I'm a fable,
wearing donkey ears
and long black clothes
as if I was a lethal presence
and anywhere my voice bounces
heaven and hell rises. 

Amidst the wilderness might lie something pure, 
crystal pure
divine
as the spirit arises. 




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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse

A floating spider web carried by the wind 

is ahead of me,

a flying potato skin, 

radio station frequencies,

hermit crab thoughts,

lip gloss in shady colors, 

politic narcissistic achievements, 

jailbait skinny infractions, 

mathematical problem books, 

a nihilistic point of view of birth, 

hanging gardens in tales from the past, 

a glowing stick, 

a thermometer under a child's tongue who called in sick, 

seaweed and seals, 

great mountain peaks, 

a salad bar, 

wooden spoons, 

Entwistle's bass riff, 

the thoughts of my divorced parents, 

the verses in modern rap, 

the beats in modern trap, 

a rat trap filled in with poisonous bread, 

the stinking cellar liquid, 

a spoiled girl trying to put on a Barbie's dress, 

a mistress in government office, 

the mother of birds, 

a cactae grown in an apartment, 

the coconut shell, 

the coconut water, 

fiber cookies, 

raw recipes, 

and a flag that stands out for a millennial kingdom, 

are ahead of me. 

Only a bubble filled with dark gas, 

rooted in a jellyfish dream, 

always sinking

in the collective thought of mice society, 

inside an empty can of chicken soup, 

were left behind. 

Oh time burdens me to breathe ahead and behind, 

will I arrange my personal bible in alphabetical order? 

or chaotic stripes printed on my back, 

will carry the truth, 

of all that's past

and anything to come. 

Light beacons, 

scented candles, 

swollen torches, 

buried in mystique. 

The shade arises as the sun goes down, 

the shade arouses when skin is fertile, 

the shade's romances in memories catalogue, 

an impression of me carrying a bag in the peak of twilight. 

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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse
A floating spider web carried by the wind 
is ahead of me,
a flying potato skin, 
radio station frequencies,
hermit crab thoughts,
lip gloss in shady colors, 
politic narcissistic achievements, 
jailbait skinny infractions, 
mathematical problem books, 
a nihilistic point of view of birth, 
hanging gardens in tales from the past, 
a glowing stick, 
a thermometer under a child's tongue who called in sick, 
seaweed and seals, 
great mountain peaks, 
a salad bar, 
wooden spoons, 
Entwistle's bass riff, 
the thoughts of my divorced parents, 
the verses in modern rap, 
the beats in modern trap, 
a rat trap filled in with poisonous bread, 
the stinking cellar liquid, 
a spoiled girl trying to put on a Barbie's dress, 
a mistress in government office, 
the mother of birds, 
a cactae grown in an apartment, 
the coconut shell, 
the coconut water, 
fiber cookies, 
raw recipes, 
and a flag that stands out for a millennial kingdom, 
are ahead of me. 

Only a bubble filled with dark gas, 
rooted in a jellyfish dream, 
always sinking
in the collective thought of mice society, 
inside an empty can of chicken soup, 
were left behind. 

Oh time burdens me to breathe ahead and behind, 
will I arrange my personal bible in alphabetical order? 
or chaotic stripes printed on my back, 
will carry the truth, 
of all that's past
and anything to come. 

Light beacons, 
scented candles, 
swollen torches, 
buried in mystique. 
The shade arises as the sun goes down, 
the shade arouses when skin is fertile, 
the shade's romances in memories catalogue, 
an impression of me carrying a bag in the peak of twilight. 


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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Hangover anatomy.

Through the hole of an empty bottle

a rolled parchment paper contains

a list of past afflictions made

by the firstborn of our family:

1) I was born here, not there.

2) I grew up here, not there.

3) Problems grew with me, here. While I was wishing being there.

4) I went there and it wasn't what I expected.

5) The postcards sent showed a paradise beach, but when I reached there was just a blasfemic preacher thorning minds with verbal misery.

6) The giant palm trees were doomed, and so was I.

7) Nothing there to envy but the gone past.

8) Tortured minds of tortured children torturing cats and dogs and birds and strange coastal flowers.

9) Never ending heat.

10) My tears were vapour.

11) People stared when I wore long socks.

12) Forty days later there were still stories about plagues. I realized the plague were their minds.

13) Iconoclast slavery everywhere. I still didn't understand who that old man wearing gold threaded robes was.

14) Fifty days later I saw here. And she was plagued. Our children plagued, all but one. Henry. Our firstborn.

15) We both hid and were immediately found by the priest. Fucking old jackal.

16) The taste of rum sickened me, but the effect was the only reason that kept me alive for the following weeks.

17) There was a voice in the prison gutter. A voice I found familiar. My hair was grey. My hands were striped. The chains were rusty.

18) I escaped and found the beach filled with bodies, and the bodies filled with flies.

19) I came back to prison to liberate the gutter voice. It was Henry, he grew up as the only free mind in this island.

20) I was old now. But he was a strong adult. There were little boats. He took one and went away.

21) I went to the rum cellar again, to drink loneliness till death.

22) The bottle's now empty and there's nobody left to grief with. She's gone, her body's gone, Henry's gone and I'm alone. Me and the island, alone.

I rolledthe parchment back to the bottle

I felt weak as I tasted my tears

I remembered that now and then

I sometimes drink alone.

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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Hangover anatomy.
Through the hole of an empty bottle
a rolled parchment paper contains
a list of past afflictions made
by the firstborn of our family:

1) I was born here, not there.
2) I grew up here, not there.
3) Problems grew with me, here. While I was wishing being there.
4) I went there and it wasn't what I expected.
5) The postcards sent showed a paradise beach, but when I reached there was just a blasfemic preacher thorning minds with verbal misery.
6) The giant palm trees were doomed, and so was I.
7) Nothing there to envy but the gone past.
8) Tortured minds of tortured children torturing cats and dogs and birds and strange coastal flowers.
9) Never ending heat.
10) My tears were vapour.
11) People stared when I wore long socks.
12) Forty days later there were still stories about plagues. I realized the plague were their minds.
13) Iconoclast slavery everywhere. I still didn't understand who that old man wearing gold threaded robes was.
14) Fifty days later I saw here. And she was plagued. Our children plagued, all but one. Henry. Our firstborn.
15) We both hid and were immediately found by the priest. Fucking old jackal.
16) The taste of rum sickened me, but the effect was the only reason that kept me alive for the following weeks.
17) There was a voice in the prison gutter. A voice I found familiar. My hair was grey. My hands were striped. The chains were rusty.
18) I escaped and found the beach filled with bodies, and the bodies filled with flies.
19) I came back to prison to liberate the gutter voice. It was Henry, he grew up as the only free mind in this island.
20) I was old now. But he was a strong adult. There were little boats. He took one and went away.
21) I went to the rum cellar again, to drink loneliness till death.
22) The bottle's now empty and there's nobody left to grief with. She's gone, her body's gone, Henry's gone and I'm alone. Me and the island, alone.

I rolledthe parchment back to the bottle
I felt weak as I tasted my tears
I remembered that now and then
I sometimes drink alone.
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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The holographic scenery of being

We reached the speaker in a blank set

dressed with only a white silk mask

it told to us to be

we asked the whereabouts

somewhere. 

So how does it feel to be? 

We felt something within

tempted to abstraction of soul

DNA chords to be played

touch your hands

and feel how it feels to be. 

We've been where we've been

in the richest of soils

moist and hot

dry and cold

We'll be where we'll be

The one and true form of being. 

What about us? 

Where am I?

Where have you been? 

I've missed the smell of your hair

I've just been somewhere missing truth. 

Did you just pressed cancel? 

Is loneliness the saddest prison? 

Who deposited my core cell in the deepest cell of being? 

Is it me now with the white silk mask? 

Are these questions ever to end? 

I've felt attracted to dreams

are dreams attracted to me as I am attracted to dreams? 

I thought I was next to you

but it was just a thought

now I'm just tempted to abstraction

covered yourself in expressive lines

and their expression is sad

as the loneliest heir

deepened in its own dreamt kingdom

delivering castles to unexistent peasants

just being king. 

I thought I was next to me, but I wasn't me

I was dreaming of me being me

There I set me free 

And here I am once again

as a hologram

a dreaming hologram

with DNA

trying to remember where I was

when I was with you

but maybe it wasn't really me

not the hologram nor king. 

So maybe I'm a stone wishing for a flower to grow in the top of my head, 

and teach the stones that we the stonekind have heads, 

and teach the stones that now we can be beheaded

but I'd rather be set on a circle of stones

just being. 

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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The holographic scenery of being
We reached the speaker in a blank set
dressed with only a white silk mask
it told to us to be
we asked the whereabouts
somewhere. 
So how does it feel to be? 
We felt something within
tempted to abstraction of soul
DNA chords to be played
touch your hands
and feel how it feels to be. 
We've been where we've been
in the richest of soils
moist and hot
dry and cold
We'll be where we'll be
The one and true form of being. 
What about us? 
Where am I?
Where have you been? 
I've missed the smell of your hair
I've just been somewhere missing truth. 
Did you just pressed cancel? 
Is loneliness the saddest prison? 
Who deposited my core cell in the deepest cell of being? 
Is it me now with the white silk mask? 
Are these questions ever to end? 
I've felt attracted to dreams
are dreams attracted to me as I am attracted to dreams? 
I thought I was next to you
but it was just a thought
now I'm just tempted to abstraction
covered yourself in expressive lines
and their expression is sad
as the loneliest heir
deepened in its own dreamt kingdom
delivering castles to unexistent peasants
just being king. 
I thought I was next to me, but I wasn't me
I was dreaming of me being me
There I set me free 
And here I am once again
as a hologram
a dreaming hologram
with DNA
trying to remember where I was
when I was with you
but maybe it wasn't really me
not the hologram nor king. 
So maybe I'm a stone wishing for a flower to grow in the top of my head, 
and teach the stones that we the stonekind have heads, 
and teach the stones that now we can be beheaded
but I'd rather be set on a circle of stones
just being. 
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Written by Andreso

I'm coming bleak 

in a straightened line

that a hand cannot erase. 

Do you feel me? 

Clocks will burst again

in homemade shrines. 

I saw the love growing on trees

as tea leafs 

as he left home. 

And then I left

thought myself as an adventurer

'til I got scared. 

A scarred truthful boy

showed my a song

a song that shovels pain away

a song played by loners 

painted black as my favorite pants. 

Do you feel it growing? 

I'm coming clean, 

never killed

but every time I died I died. 

Every time I whispered

somebody tried

my mother tried

to dissipate angst into crystal shards

and bury them next to the shoveled pain

but the grave was hollow

as it grew again. 

It's hard to erase the void in blood, 

between lowered voices 

and water beds. 

It's hard to erase the bruises on soul, 

between aerial chicken deals, 

and lily pads. 

It's hard to erase the future promises, 

when the fire burns the feet, 

always two steps away. 

Where's joy hidden? 

I looked inside a mark, 

inside a crystal core embraced by dry branches, 

inside a cave 

inside a mind. 

Gimme a hand and cry for me, 

Gimme a hand and fly away, 

Gimme a hand with an ace pair, 

Gimme a hand, alone despair, 

Gimme a hand of sudden emotion, 

Gimme a hand for the evolution of revolution, 

Gimme a hand so that I know I'm not alone

Gimme a hand or a foot or an elbow, 

Gimme a hand for a raise

Gimme a hand for jailbreak

Gimme a hand for a ham sandwich

Gimme a hand for preventing a blazed witch of bursting into flames

Gimme a hand, a tooth or a toe

Gimme a hand, cause I can't go

Gimme a hand so I can sing again

Gimme a hand, I pay with a hand. 

I'm coming as the darkest part of a circle, 

that one belly button

and the thread that stitched the ache of aging. 

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Written by Andreso
I'm coming bleak 
in a straightened line
that a hand cannot erase. 

Do you feel me? 
Clocks will burst again
in homemade shrines. 

I saw the love growing on trees
as tea leafs 
as he left home. 

And then I left
thought myself as an adventurer
'til I got scared. 

A scarred truthful boy
showed my a song
a song that shovels pain away
a song played by loners 
painted black as my favorite pants. 

Do you feel it growing? 
I'm coming clean, 
never killed
but every time I died I died. 
Every time I whispered
somebody tried
my mother tried
to dissipate angst into crystal shards
and bury them next to the shoveled pain
but the grave was hollow
as it grew again. 

It's hard to erase the void in blood, 
between lowered voices 
and water beds. 

It's hard to erase the bruises on soul, 
between aerial chicken deals, 
and lily pads. 

It's hard to erase the future promises, 
when the fire burns the feet, 
always two steps away. 

Where's joy hidden? 
I looked inside a mark, 
inside a crystal core embraced by dry branches, 
inside a cave 
inside a mind. 

Gimme a hand and cry for me, 
Gimme a hand and fly away, 
Gimme a hand with an ace pair, 
Gimme a hand, alone despair, 
Gimme a hand of sudden emotion, 
Gimme a hand for the evolution of revolution, 
Gimme a hand so that I know I'm not alone
Gimme a hand or a foot or an elbow, 
Gimme a hand for a raise
Gimme a hand for jailbreak
Gimme a hand for a ham sandwich
Gimme a hand for preventing a blazed witch of bursting into flames
Gimme a hand, a tooth or a toe
Gimme a hand, cause I can't go
Gimme a hand so I can sing again
Gimme a hand, I pay with a hand. 

I'm coming as the darkest part of a circle, 
that one belly button
and the thread that stitched the ache of aging. 


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Written by Andreso

This is not a genuine nightmare

it is an unrehearsed product

of bewidth growth

and mass extintion.

This is not an orthodox way

it be a waveless line

of pickup voices

and startup noises

and claxons

as time passes by.

These are not a thousand hoorays

but mind confusing hurricanes

posing as hurticanes

as a blindfold of feeling

asking where is it now.

Delusions as baby food

and kindness cravings as pills

it gives me chills

and switly erases wills,

does it even care?

Who were you rather than who am I?

Father of time

mother of voidless seconds.

Where were you

and why?

This is not the political truth

it is a metropolitan dream

under currents of depotism

grinding souls

harder than them grinding fresh dried coffee beans

and they stick the brains out

asking how does it feel

and well

It sucks sometimes.

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Written by Andreso
This is not a genuine nightmare
it is an unrehearsed product
of bewidth growth
and mass extintion.

This is not an orthodox way
it be a waveless line
of pickup voices
and startup noises
and claxons
as time passes by.

These are not a thousand hoorays
but mind confusing hurricanes
posing as hurticanes
as a blindfold of feeling
asking where is it now.

Delusions as baby food
and kindness cravings as pills
it gives me chills
and switly erases wills,
does it even care?

Who were you rather than who am I?
Father of time
mother of voidless seconds.

Where were you
and why?

This is not the political truth
it is a metropolitan dream
under currents of depotism
grinding souls
harder than them grinding fresh dried coffee beans
and they stick the brains out
asking how does it feel
and well
It sucks sometimes.
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Challenge of the Week #60: You have just discovered a new lifeform. Write a story of 200 words or more. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Andreso

Something beneath Grandma's luminous corpse.

Winter's cold breeze gives what it takes, and we were set on a single floor house with a courtyard in between. Generations come with a different number of children. Grandma had three: my father, my uncle and my aunt. My father had two, my uncle and aunt each had three themselves. At that time we were eight grandchildren, two male, six female. Grandma got sick and lost her ability to move, or talk, or even to breathe. But sickness respected the light in her eyes. It was Sofia's birthday, the firstborn of my aunt. And she was always particularly connected to Grandma, she looked a lot like her when she was young. That day, instead of cake or alcohol, we had numerous gnostic and catholic rituals to wave her soul away. She held on to us until she heard the last words from all of her grandchildren. I told her that I loved her and that there's nothing to fear. She was spirit strong, that led to a successful fifty year marriage, 'til death did them apart. 

We kept her for another day in the deathbed, her sisters came from the city with their children (all grown ups) and some of their grandchildren that were close to her. They all waved goodbye to a peaceful looking beautiful corpse. It wasn't agonic to anybody, but it was kind of sad to all of us. She had a glass stand filled with toy frogs and ornamental frogs. That was her leap. I closed my eyes and saw essential light spores jumping with grace taking the form of a frog straight to a big white star. Then it was all tears and liquid laments. 

The discovery day came with the funerary service taking the body case of my grandma away. Between the wrinkles left on the bed, I found an egg. And it began cracking lightly. A little amphibian face looked at me, with the same look grandma gave me when I told her not to be afraid. It was kinda like a frog with little feathers on it. The sky outside the window was clear. And I thought clearly for the first time in days. I took the feathered frog within my hands, we heated. It tried to jump, but was still a little baby creature with no developed survival abilities. I took it to the roof where I looked at the stars. I lived on a city with no visible sky, and I loved to see the sky every time I visited my grandparents. For the time we were there, the feathered frog and I, taking a deep look to the shiniest stars, it had developed greater feathers with a golden tint on the tiny hair that feathers have. It jumped from my hands and expanded a hummingbird like wings, landed on my cheek and whispered to my ear in some language foreign to mankind. I took it with my hands once more, it stared into my eyes, gave me a smile and flew away into the sky with gracious movements until it was just a tiny spot disappearing between the stars. 

That moment I realised that stars are alive. And I also realised that my Grandma is a big one, the one that looks like a feathered frog, always in a leap. 

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Challenge of the Week #60: You have just discovered a new lifeform. Write a story of 200 words or more. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Andreso
Something beneath Grandma's luminous corpse.
Winter's cold breeze gives what it takes, and we were set on a single floor house with a courtyard in between. Generations come with a different number of children. Grandma had three: my father, my uncle and my aunt. My father had two, my uncle and aunt each had three themselves. At that time we were eight grandchildren, two male, six female. Grandma got sick and lost her ability to move, or talk, or even to breathe. But sickness respected the light in her eyes. It was Sofia's birthday, the firstborn of my aunt. And she was always particularly connected to Grandma, she looked a lot like her when she was young. That day, instead of cake or alcohol, we had numerous gnostic and catholic rituals to wave her soul away. She held on to us until she heard the last words from all of her grandchildren. I told her that I loved her and that there's nothing to fear. She was spirit strong, that led to a successful fifty year marriage, 'til death did them apart. 

We kept her for another day in the deathbed, her sisters came from the city with their children (all grown ups) and some of their grandchildren that were close to her. They all waved goodbye to a peaceful looking beautiful corpse. It wasn't agonic to anybody, but it was kind of sad to all of us. She had a glass stand filled with toy frogs and ornamental frogs. That was her leap. I closed my eyes and saw essential light spores jumping with grace taking the form of a frog straight to a big white star. Then it was all tears and liquid laments. 

The discovery day came with the funerary service taking the body case of my grandma away. Between the wrinkles left on the bed, I found an egg. And it began cracking lightly. A little amphibian face looked at me, with the same look grandma gave me when I told her not to be afraid. It was kinda like a frog with little feathers on it. The sky outside the window was clear. And I thought clearly for the first time in days. I took the feathered frog within my hands, we heated. It tried to jump, but was still a little baby creature with no developed survival abilities. I took it to the roof where I looked at the stars. I lived on a city with no visible sky, and I loved to see the sky every time I visited my grandparents. For the time we were there, the feathered frog and I, taking a deep look to the shiniest stars, it had developed greater feathers with a golden tint on the tiny hair that feathers have. It jumped from my hands and expanded a hummingbird like wings, landed on my cheek and whispered to my ear in some language foreign to mankind. I took it with my hands once more, it stared into my eyes, gave me a smile and flew away into the sky with gracious movements until it was just a tiny spot disappearing between the stars. 

That moment I realised that stars are alive. And I also realised that my Grandma is a big one, the one that looks like a feathered frog, always in a leap. 
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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse

así el viento susurro las palabras

el puente colapso.

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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse
así el viento susurro las palabras
el puente colapso.
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Written by Andreso

I was there, sitting right next to my trilobite alarm clock waiting for it to ring and announce wake up time. It might sound stupid stating at time going by, but everyones mind is disastrous and if I get the time right at its first, the day's managing will be right on spot.

It was a weekend day, light clouded, windy, a sight masterpiece itself. My phone rung. It was a newspaper reporter asking what it felt like. First I wondered, then I remembered that Christian Lötherforher had died last night on anti depressants overdose. Now I was number one and it sucked.

I felt stupid myself, I had considered I was a normal person in terms of physique and carnal anhelations. But then it came the tests, and when they all finished they said I understood everything about existence but Lötherforher's mind. I know that mind's gone. I understand that. The next moment I spent it wishing I had worn a bow tie for that special's day ocasion. Then I remembered there was nobody to celebrate with. All my friends called me a complex incomprehensible loon. And it was sometimes true.

But they just can't understand that I come from a humble home with a fixation for heirlooms and ripe antiques. Every object had its story, as I had as an object. But I'm a human compounded by everything a human's made of. A subject objectified by the other subjects just because I've provides my head thought and thought even in my dreams. And I always dreamt a normal life without being pointed, but I guess its something valuable when I present it in my curriculum vitae.

I had to grow up next to stock boys and mini market managers that could spend hours talking about that blonde haired girl that brought the milk on Saturdays. I had to grow watching the sun glaze and translating it to math, music and words. I had to grow to do things a normal man wouldn't do. But now that I do I wish I was stupid enough to avoid the focal attention on me now that Lötherforher is gone. So yeah, I miss Lötherforher and his manuscripts about life and life forms, I miss his face in the cover of the magazines. I miss myself as second, now that I can't get rid of my thoughts, I won't be able to get rid of your attenttion.

I'll just wait for another baby to take that title from me. Maybe act stupid once and have some friends or fun or that things people can talk about for hours like football and gossip. But that, for me, for now, is just a plain sheet with occasional lines that would cross or gather or collide, just as me scratching in my book things I think like this trying to write a thank you speech. So thank you for calling me smart guy on first grade Stew!

And also thank you mother, father, Herbert and my childhood's porcupine Stevie, for accompanying me in this painful and solitary process. Thank you, thank you and thank you too.

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Written by Andreso
I was there, sitting right next to my trilobite alarm clock waiting for it to ring and announce wake up time. It might sound stupid stating at time going by, but everyones mind is disastrous and if I get the time right at its first, the day's managing will be right on spot.

It was a weekend day, light clouded, windy, a sight masterpiece itself. My phone rung. It was a newspaper reporter asking what it felt like. First I wondered, then I remembered that Christian Lötherforher had died last night on anti depressants overdose. Now I was number one and it sucked.

I felt stupid myself, I had considered I was a normal person in terms of physique and carnal anhelations. But then it came the tests, and when they all finished they said I understood everything about existence but Lötherforher's mind. I know that mind's gone. I understand that. The next moment I spent it wishing I had worn a bow tie for that special's day ocasion. Then I remembered there was nobody to celebrate with. All my friends called me a complex incomprehensible loon. And it was sometimes true.

But they just can't understand that I come from a humble home with a fixation for heirlooms and ripe antiques. Every object had its story, as I had as an object. But I'm a human compounded by everything a human's made of. A subject objectified by the other subjects just because I've provides my head thought and thought even in my dreams. And I always dreamt a normal life without being pointed, but I guess its something valuable when I present it in my curriculum vitae.

I had to grow up next to stock boys and mini market managers that could spend hours talking about that blonde haired girl that brought the milk on Saturdays. I had to grow watching the sun glaze and translating it to math, music and words. I had to grow to do things a normal man wouldn't do. But now that I do I wish I was stupid enough to avoid the focal attention on me now that Lötherforher is gone. So yeah, I miss Lötherforher and his manuscripts about life and life forms, I miss his face in the cover of the magazines. I miss myself as second, now that I can't get rid of my thoughts, I won't be able to get rid of your attenttion.

I'll just wait for another baby to take that title from me. Maybe act stupid once and have some friends or fun or that things people can talk about for hours like football and gossip. But that, for me, for now, is just a plain sheet with occasional lines that would cross or gather or collide, just as me scratching in my book things I think like this trying to write a thank you speech. So thank you for calling me smart guy on first grade Stew!
And also thank you mother, father, Herbert and my childhood's porcupine Stevie, for accompanying me in this painful and solitary process. Thank you, thank you and thank you too.
7
1
0
Juice
51 reads
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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Bring fractal fatality

and overdose with me.

10
3
0
Juice
47 reads
Donate coins to Andreso.
Juice
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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Bring fractal fatality
and overdose with me.
10
3
0
Juice
47 reads
Login to post comments.
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