are dreams memories

situations we can’t control

drooping eyelids

fantasies

the difference between

time and space

between sheets and nostalgic reveries

do we dream about our lives

or alternate ones

a scattershot

of what we obsess about

are dreams memories

has this happened before

or is this deja vu

drunkenness or the moon’s

pull or maybe just a magical mystery tour

Rippling tide tickled in

Foaming cream embellished

frothing the creature

embraced within

curiosity piloted me

toward sodden shape

kissed by eddies

bathed by ocean tears

dusted with cinnamon sand

bedecked by sea creatures

flecks of sea worn shells

I extended my hand

to brush off the grains

recoiled in horror

threw caution to wind

excised the seaweed

sheltering her nose

pale lifeless eyes

resigned to fate

abandoning life

fearing its pursuit

too titanic to swim

through her misery

tide flowed out

taking the flotsam

the dregs of her life

leaving no traces.

I wondered with pain

if she had drowned

but my pith

sank with certainty

suicide with the tide.

#suicide #SoddenShape #Challenge #StrongPoem

Legs numb-boots hanging dumb

Dizzying elevation

Primordial isolation

Panoramic & glum...

My voice is cracking

Emotions straining when

Uttered-evoked

As I down my last bottle

& draw my last toke...

Things arent what they're supposed to be

Social expectations still cling

All overly imposed on me...

Cascading kinetically-

Spiraling rapidly...

Pondering poetically-vividly my misery...

Glass-rock eyes absorb the glow

Of an electric skyline towering madness below...

In an endless second my soul is flaring

Whirlwinded devotion to free-falling motion

After hours flew by idle-vacantly staring...

Ass so cold from

The stoned-gothic parapet

Where my mind is

Frothing & freezing all of it...

'If you think you have issues

Then dude grab some tissues

Nobodie's problems

Scale greater than mine...'

So...

If you feel

Or try & reveal

By layers you peal

In some futile appeal...

Before you go on

Just know man...

This is my moment in time

That no one can steal

My final act

Off stage & for real...

As I claw at the stress

I do so ironically confess:

'I'm talking to myself'

There ain't nobody left...

& there ain't much sense in

Comparing My hell...

A somber chuckle lightens some gravity

Of what lay below-beyond & in front of me

Look up-look down

It's all the same absurdity...

A savored & precious-

Deep labored breath

Where only I can press

The emptiness that I

So rigorously suppress...

Stubborn raging-ever caged in

Life abating-frustrating-hellbent

Fabric flapping-

Winter-winded-

Face slapping-

Neck snapping descent...

The good / The bad

The happy / The sad

I gave all that I had-

I'm spent...

Heap of mortality

Impacting concrete

Pooling puddle of peace

Afterlife complete...

Life & Her Art-

Death deepens Hearts-

Connected / Apart

Connected / Apart...

Infanticide-Homicide-

Ecocide-Genocide...

Deep Inside

My ever loving-looming Suicide...

Worldwide-nowhere to Hide-

Deicide totalling 'Cosmicide'...

Words-words-words

Carefully crafted

& so delicately fabricated

Fom starving Spirits

Abdicated & Emaciated...

Thoughts & Fingers-creatively interlaced

Expressing Lines which are

So often hard to face...

A small push forward-

The Hero / The Coward-

Scurry-hurry

Filthy rats race...

Envy this Object

Falling through Space...

So, I've heard that you're writing something new?

Uhm... - grumbles from the laptop.

Anything good...? - asks the friendly meddler.

Oh, yes. Very interesting, a lot of plot, action and romance/comedy and a lot of... - keeps talking, gesticulating wildly with her hands up in the air, her eyes still on the laptop, eyebrows furrowed as she tries to make a character do as he's told... and failing.

Facing definite rebellion as she writes.

That sounds great ! - unnecessary enthusiasm from the listener.

Sure, sure... - the sound of angry taping against the keyboard fills the room.

So how's it going to end ? - another question to interrupt the writing process.

Hmm... got absolutely no bloody idea... - click, click, click... tap, tap, tap on the laptop.

But aren't you the writer... the author of the story? If not you, then who, right? - The meddler sounds confused and dubious at the same time.

She finally looks up, her glasses reflecting the blue screen in front of her. She looks calmly and smiles for the first time this evening.

Oh, honey... I have no idea... I make this up as I go... didn't you know? - her smile turns darker and seductive somehow.

Why are you looking at me like that? - He asks nervously, loosening his up his tie.

No reason... just came up with a new character... a victim in a suit... perfect... now the rest of the story finally makes sense.

She looks one last time at him and starts to write again. A new lead to her story unraveling before her. Her characters filling up her head with new lines and a lot of snide comments.

The "author" taps away, the smile still on her lips.

I stood in the dark, blind to the world around me. I tightened my grasp on the hand that was leading me. Scared of losing my way, I clung to it with desperation. For he alone, could see. I begged him to take the blindfold off. "It's not nessacary," I pleaded for the light of day. He responded with an air of annoyance, "trust me Cara." I had trusted him, in fact, I had trusted him with my heart, but this situation was new to both of us. He pulled me in front of him, so he could guide me through a narrow space. "Please, can you take it off?" I tried yet again, hoping for a different answer. "No, we don't have time," there was a hint of anger in his voice, "if you don't shut up, we'll get caught." I opened my mouth to object, but quickly shut it again. I could hear the voices of my kidnappers somewhere far off, and the smell of gunpowder was still strong in the air. I knew if I wanted out of here, I had to trust him. So I let him continue to guide me through the dark.

Some women's everything, is a gospel.

She has a ministry of a mouth,

Her eyes be the pews

The conversation be a scripture of truth

Be the twin verses of advice

Be the Quran of self correction.

Everything about her be God's work

Be Krishna's beatufiul fight

Praise be to Allah for her breathe and bones

For her in all her love

In all her sadness

In all her anger

In her immortal mortality

This

This much flawed holy

Has to be

Pure

Blasphemy