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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

FRIEND

You are

So alive

With each breath

And each step

And whoever told you

That you couldn't win

Of the demons you knew

And your fear to survive

In a world where you find

The fear of living to surpass

That of death and indeed, everything else

But you are so alive, friend

Heartbeat at a hundred twenty

Walking in the shadows

Running through light

I wonder, though

Where to

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
FRIEND
You are
So alive
With each breath
And each step
And whoever told you
That you couldn't win
Of the demons you knew
And your fear to survive
In a world where you find
The fear of living to surpass
That of death and indeed, everything else
But you are so alive, friend
Heartbeat at a hundred twenty
Walking in the shadows
Running through light
I wonder, though
Where to
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

NO EULOGY FOR THE LIVING

Praying without belief, with desperation

For there to be a rabbit hole to fall in

And to be swallowed whole

Disappearing in a cloud

And the white smoke to shroud you

Chains of a sorrow

Imprisoned in the past

Drawn toward what could have been

And why you must own this suffering

But why have you not learnt

To ride the waves instead of going under

To transform the pain into an energy

That drives you when the sun goes down

To see the gray dimmed sunlight

Falling on the floor of the cave you hide in

To set the sadness free as a black horse rider

Who comes to meet you when he wants to

And who leaves when he feels it is right

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
NO EULOGY FOR THE LIVING
Praying without belief, with desperation
For there to be a rabbit hole to fall in
And to be swallowed whole
Disappearing in a cloud
And the white smoke to shroud you

Chains of a sorrow
Imprisoned in the past
Drawn toward what could have been
And why you must own this suffering

But why have you not learnt
To ride the waves instead of going under
To transform the pain into an energy
That drives you when the sun goes down
To see the gray dimmed sunlight
Falling on the floor of the cave you hide in
To set the sadness free as a black horse rider
Who comes to meet you when he wants to
And who leaves when he feels it is right
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

REVERSED RUINS

Why would I blame you?

It is not as if you destroyed

The things I loved and the life I wanted

It is not as if you taught me

The rules of self-destruction 

And neither did you let me down

When I needed you the most

And neither did you let me drown

When the waves were too high to swim in

And you never disassembled me

To see if you could put me back together

But only, in your blinded eyes, better

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
REVERSED RUINS
Why would I blame you?
It is not as if you destroyed
The things I loved and the life I wanted
It is not as if you taught me
The rules of self-destruction 
And neither did you let me down
When I needed you the most
And neither did you let me drown
When the waves were too high to swim in
And you never disassembled me
To see if you could put me back together
But only, in your blinded eyes, better
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

ROSES

I want to hold on

To your beauty

But I am drowning.

The self-doubt overwhelming

Can we pretend to not know

The history I come from

I want to share your

Time and photographs

But you're smiling

To another. And I think

That this is the way

In which this should have happened

I want to walk with you

Each step into the future

But we're growing old

Apart. I want to give you

A crown of roses

But you do not want

The thorns

And the garden is flowering

With all the flowers you discarded

Affectively, as the birds fly

And love spreads quietly

From this rejected heart

Lover, though you're heartless

It is my love that tells me

To wish you well. I hope

You may be in springtime

That you, who whisked away

The beauty of these flowers

May blossom too, as the roses

Growing blackly in the shadow

In this garden of our past

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
ROSES
I want to hold on
To your beauty
But I am drowning.
The self-doubt overwhelming
Can we pretend to not know
The history I come from

I want to share your
Time and photographs
But you're smiling
To another. And I think
That this is the way
In which this should have happened

I want to walk with you
Each step into the future
But we're growing old
Apart. I want to give you
A crown of roses
But you do not want
The thorns

And the garden is flowering
With all the flowers you discarded
Affectively, as the birds fly
And love spreads quietly
From this rejected heart
Lover, though you're heartless
It is my love that tells me
To wish you well. I hope
You may be in springtime
That you, who whisked away
The beauty of these flowers
May blossom too, as the roses
Growing blackly in the shadow
In this garden of our past
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Philosophy

ANATTA

I am no one

Though not nowhere

Yes. I am still only

One person of many

But though I'm small

My strength derives

From sheer invisibility

One day. I will be

No one, everywhere

The first thing on your

Subconcious mind

As you wake up, each morning

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Philosophy
ANATTA
I am no one
Though not nowhere
Yes. I am still only
One person of many
But though I'm small
My strength derives
From sheer invisibility

One day. I will be
No one, everywhere
The first thing on your
Subconcious mind
As you wake up, each morning
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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. 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 Elisabeth

THE OPRESSORS, AND WHO THEY ARE

And in another hundred years, people will ask each other: 'Did you know one of them?' The people we cast out, and called inferior and superfluous, because we thought we were better. The walls we built between us and them made us feel safe, surely. It allowed us to forget, for a while, before the eye of the world saw and accused us grantly of great injustice. But we had a million reasons, each unanimously understood by our peers without even being voiced; it was that kind of thing we agreed to agree on without questioning. Asking too many questions was that kind of thing that got you a one-way ticket to the side of them anyways, and you could be sure that they wouldn't be too welcoming after all we'd done to them, naturally. 

So we censure our words and keep our opinions our own, to safe ourselves and our families. And so we silently take part by being witness to something other, a cruelty that makes us wince during the day and scream when our sleep mingles with nightmares, and we do not interfere. We read our texts with barren voices when asked to, as actors voicing Judas's betrayal, rejecting the defenseless because we are too afraid to be rejected ourselves. In a way, we are oppressed by this trickery imposed on us, but this we too cannot acknowledge, because to do so would be to side with the enemy, and enemies are dealt with swiftly. We both know that they are never seen again.

A hundred years is a hundred too many. I want to ask you this question now: did you know one of them? The men and women we told to go away, because their cultures did not resemble ours closely enough, because their views were counter to our own, because we felt we could not relate to them? Did they really deserve that fate? Or is it, in fact, us, who deserve to be rejected by the world for having agreed silently to such a thing unspeakable without a word of protest?

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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. 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 Elisabeth
THE OPRESSORS, AND WHO THEY ARE
And in another hundred years, people will ask each other: 'Did you know one of them?' The people we cast out, and called inferior and superfluous, because we thought we were better. The walls we built between us and them made us feel safe, surely. It allowed us to forget, for a while, before the eye of the world saw and accused us grantly of great injustice. But we had a million reasons, each unanimously understood by our peers without even being voiced; it was that kind of thing we agreed to agree on without questioning. Asking too many questions was that kind of thing that got you a one-way ticket to the side of them anyways, and you could be sure that they wouldn't be too welcoming after all we'd done to them, naturally. 
So we censure our words and keep our opinions our own, to safe ourselves and our families. And so we silently take part by being witness to something other, a cruelty that makes us wince during the day and scream when our sleep mingles with nightmares, and we do not interfere. We read our texts with barren voices when asked to, as actors voicing Judas's betrayal, rejecting the defenseless because we are too afraid to be rejected ourselves. In a way, we are oppressed by this trickery imposed on us, but this we too cannot acknowledge, because to do so would be to side with the enemy, and enemies are dealt with swiftly. We both know that they are never seen again.
A hundred years is a hundred too many. I want to ask you this question now: did you know one of them? The men and women we told to go away, because their cultures did not resemble ours closely enough, because their views were counter to our own, because we felt we could not relate to them? Did they really deserve that fate? Or is it, in fact, us, who deserve to be rejected by the world for having agreed silently to such a thing unspeakable without a word of protest?
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

AIRDIVE, OR VOLUNTARY FALL INTO A PLACE OF POETRY

When the love of T.S. Eliot

Reminds me of the stillness

And the patterns in a music

That is heard as from afar

And I am haunted by these words he wrote

Dust on a bowl of rose leaves

That should not ever be disturbed

And it seems to me quite clearly now that

Eliot dear is a ghost of air

And my mind a haunted house

And we are inevitably bound together

When I am running, eyes closed

Over a glass bridge that stretches

The great precipice of nothingness

He speaks softly and I know it's true:

This is the death of air

And I find I cannot breathe

As I did before, and the atmosphere

Turns to liquid nitrogen

And in minutes I have turned

Into the dying surgeon

Caught in his lines of poetry

Suspended in mid-air

And my story unended

As long as I am falling

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
AIRDIVE, OR VOLUNTARY FALL INTO A PLACE OF POETRY
When the love of T.S. Eliot
Reminds me of the stillness
And the patterns in a music
That is heard as from afar
And I am haunted by these words he wrote
Dust on a bowl of rose leaves
That should not ever be disturbed
And it seems to me quite clearly now that
Eliot dear is a ghost of air
And my mind a haunted house
And we are inevitably bound together

When I am running, eyes closed
Over a glass bridge that stretches
The great precipice of nothingness
He speaks softly and I know it's true:
This is the death of air
And I find I cannot breathe
As I did before, and the atmosphere
Turns to liquid nitrogen
And in minutes I have turned
Into the dying surgeon
Caught in his lines of poetry
Suspended in mid-air
And my story unended
As long as I am falling
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Stream of Consciousness

ANGER MAN

In the end it all comes down to chemistry, of the uncertainty of what happens when you put two things together and see what emerges. The beauty of distillation. And what do I do with the anger and resentment? I take the beating of my heart, the sensation of low oxygen, the pins-and-needles on my cold skin. Then I hold it over a fire until it nearly burns me and I pour it over the page to paint a picture of you. Suit man, with your checkered shirt, and the smile you bought in a convenience store. Economist with a critical eye in finding other people's flaws and pointing them out neatly (and blaming others for any he may have himself). Talks a lot but says very little, to hide he has truthfully very little to say. Agrees with everything you say, leaching, and then appropriating what was honestly somebody else's opinion. You are a hollow man, built from my anger, a symbol of mindlessness, the corporeal form of the concept I have fought so long in myself. And the echoes of your voice in my mind will die out soon enough, as will the anger, for who can truly carry hatred for an unreal man?

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Stream of Consciousness
ANGER MAN
In the end it all comes down to chemistry, of the uncertainty of what happens when you put two things together and see what emerges. The beauty of distillation. And what do I do with the anger and resentment? I take the beating of my heart, the sensation of low oxygen, the pins-and-needles on my cold skin. Then I hold it over a fire until it nearly burns me and I pour it over the page to paint a picture of you. Suit man, with your checkered shirt, and the smile you bought in a convenience store. Economist with a critical eye in finding other people's flaws and pointing them out neatly (and blaming others for any he may have himself). Talks a lot but says very little, to hide he has truthfully very little to say. Agrees with everything you say, leaching, and then appropriating what was honestly somebody else's opinion. You are a hollow man, built from my anger, a symbol of mindlessness, the corporeal form of the concept I have fought so long in myself. And the echoes of your voice in my mind will die out soon enough, as will the anger, for who can truly carry hatred for an unreal man?
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

WISDOM OF FOOLS

An old man of the upper class

Resting in the upper circles

Society has granted him - a name tag

On his office door, written in gold letters

As is the color of his mind and soul

But it seems to him a pity

That a golden boy such as himself

Should lower his towering status

And talk to fools, talk to me

Hatred born of ignorance

With sweet words so contorted

I am portrayed as fool by you

And unworthy of your wisdom

Or the smartness of your words

But as you question my capability

I must say, if I have failed today

And not been quite as competent

And the job not done perfectly

So did you, sir, on the subjects of

Sympathy and humanity because

Only a fool shares his knowledge

Unwillingly

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
WISDOM OF FOOLS
An old man of the upper class
Resting in the upper circles
Society has granted him - a name tag
On his office door, written in gold letters
As is the color of his mind and soul
But it seems to him a pity
That a golden boy such as himself
Should lower his towering status
And talk to fools, talk to me

Hatred born of ignorance
With sweet words so contorted
I am portrayed as fool by you
And unworthy of your wisdom
Or the smartness of your words
But as you question my capability
I must say, if I have failed today
And not been quite as competent
And the job not done perfectly
So did you, sir, on the subjects of
Sympathy and humanity because
Only a fool shares his knowledge
Unwillingly
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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 Elisabeth

THROUGH THE EYES OF ANOMALY

'I knew it,' Jake sang, triumphantly, peering intently into his microscope. His two labmates were not impressed, as he always exclaimed stuff like that. There was this one time his jubilant shouts could be heard echoing all over the thirteenth floor, and when they all came rushing to see what the hell the big deal was, he had said: 'Oh, well, I isolated some of the prettiest little beasts from Joe's watch,' - pointing at the elegant bacteria under said microscope and dangling the expensive watch carelessly around. 

But Joe was actually having a bad day, which is why he looked up from his computer and snapped: 'Look, Jake, unless you've discovered little demigodesseses dancing the tango through your looking glass, could you please shut up?'

Which annoyed Jake immensely. People were telling him all the time to shut up, and for no apparent reason, too. 'Actually,' he said, 'no. If a man wants to talk aloud sometimes, on important occasions, he should be allowed to do so, if not for his own amusement, then at least for his mental health.' 

'Shut up, Jake,' Joe repeated. 'Or show me the dancing goddesses.' 

'You're just a blasphemous bastard,' Jake said, disgustedly. 'I bet you eat custard for breakfast each morning, with little sprinkles on top, like a three-year-old.' 

'What the hell has my breakfast got to do with it?' Joe wanted to know. He could feel a sudden surge of real anger coming up. The one thing he had endless respect for and never messed around with was his breakfast. With his thirty years of age, he had already managed to divorce three women (- it might have been the long nights he'd spent with his collection of erlenmeyers and what the wives had invariably called his 'chemistry set'-), but he'd never missed a loving encounter with his breakfast. And here Jake was, accusing him of a capital offence like that. 

'You know, what a man eats for breakfast says a lot about what kind of person he is,' Jake said, knowing exactly how much value Joe attached to the sacred first meal of the day. He just couldn't help himself. The truth was, that there hadn't been anything interesting under his microscope. Not for days. It drove him nearly crazy, the lack of discovery, as if he was watching the same old movie over and over ('A Day In The Life Of Jake W. Smith'). The only thing he got a vague feeling of triumph out of, was making sure that Joe never found out. 

But Joe suddenly didn't want to fight anymore. His bubble of anger surfaced, made him scowl a moment, and then took all his liveliness with him. He stared at the sky through the large windows at the other end of the lab, his face completely void of emotion, his shoulders hanging like dead birds. If Jake hadn't turned back to his microscope to check if he had perhaps missed a miracle, he would have seen Joe rise, suddenly, his mouth dropped open, his blank face now the canvas for a portret of a surprised man. As it turned out, between the two of them, Joe was the first to discover the Anomaly. He found himself drawn to the window, but his feet were weak from the shock and it took him forever to reach it. Then, staring at the wondrous thing that filled up the sky and finding himself unable to speak, he fumbled forever too for his phone. Two eternities thus having passed, he dialled the number of Jake, who snapped from his microscopy staring duties and answered the phone with a short: 'Yes?' 

But there was only breathing on the other side of the line.

'Damn it, Joe, what kind of filthy joke is this?' he said angrily. Then, getting up to see where Joe was calling him from, his eyes fixed on the thing that was, minutes later, dubbed the Anomaly, or the Anomalous Eye; and he ran towards the window, where Joe still stood wordlessly, gazing up like a little boy seeing a spaceshuttle take off.

Instantly the boredom-inspired argument was forgotten. Jake witnessed himself placing an arm around his trembling colleague; it all felt immensely strange, as if it weren't really his arm, and Joe wasn't real, either. Everything felt that way, suddenly, looking at this impossible eye that filled up the entirety of the sky with its brilliant blue iris and the gloomy darkness of the pupil that hovered and blocked the sun. It was an eclipse like none before and the city lay in a sudden darkness that neared night under that all-seeing gaze, and the air seemed to have cooled substantially since the eye made its majestic appearance.

'I see,' Jake said, at last, not because he wanted to, but because the silence was becoming too much to bear combined with the heaviness of the dark cloud that was spreading over the streets below. 'We have been discovered at last.'

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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 Elisabeth
THROUGH THE EYES OF ANOMALY
'I knew it,' Jake sang, triumphantly, peering intently into his microscope. His two labmates were not impressed, as he always exclaimed stuff like that. There was this one time his jubilant shouts could be heard echoing all over the thirteenth floor, and when they all came rushing to see what the hell the big deal was, he had said: 'Oh, well, I isolated some of the prettiest little beasts from Joe's watch,' - pointing at the elegant bacteria under said microscope and dangling the expensive watch carelessly around. 
But Joe was actually having a bad day, which is why he looked up from his computer and snapped: 'Look, Jake, unless you've discovered little demigodesseses dancing the tango through your looking glass, could you please shut up?'
Which annoyed Jake immensely. People were telling him all the time to shut up, and for no apparent reason, too. 'Actually,' he said, 'no. If a man wants to talk aloud sometimes, on important occasions, he should be allowed to do so, if not for his own amusement, then at least for his mental health.' 
'Shut up, Jake,' Joe repeated. 'Or show me the dancing goddesses.' 
'You're just a blasphemous bastard,' Jake said, disgustedly. 'I bet you eat custard for breakfast each morning, with little sprinkles on top, like a three-year-old.' 
'What the hell has my breakfast got to do with it?' Joe wanted to know. He could feel a sudden surge of real anger coming up. The one thing he had endless respect for and never messed around with was his breakfast. With his thirty years of age, he had already managed to divorce three women (- it might have been the long nights he'd spent with his collection of erlenmeyers and what the wives had invariably called his 'chemistry set'-), but he'd never missed a loving encounter with his breakfast. And here Jake was, accusing him of a capital offence like that. 
'You know, what a man eats for breakfast says a lot about what kind of person he is,' Jake said, knowing exactly how much value Joe attached to the sacred first meal of the day. He just couldn't help himself. The truth was, that there hadn't been anything interesting under his microscope. Not for days. It drove him nearly crazy, the lack of discovery, as if he was watching the same old movie over and over ('A Day In The Life Of Jake W. Smith'). The only thing he got a vague feeling of triumph out of, was making sure that Joe never found out. 
But Joe suddenly didn't want to fight anymore. His bubble of anger surfaced, made him scowl a moment, and then took all his liveliness with him. He stared at the sky through the large windows at the other end of the lab, his face completely void of emotion, his shoulders hanging like dead birds. If Jake hadn't turned back to his microscope to check if he had perhaps missed a miracle, he would have seen Joe rise, suddenly, his mouth dropped open, his blank face now the canvas for a portret of a surprised man. As it turned out, between the two of them, Joe was the first to discover the Anomaly. He found himself drawn to the window, but his feet were weak from the shock and it took him forever to reach it. Then, staring at the wondrous thing that filled up the sky and finding himself unable to speak, he fumbled forever too for his phone. Two eternities thus having passed, he dialled the number of Jake, who snapped from his microscopy staring duties and answered the phone with a short: 'Yes?' 
But there was only breathing on the other side of the line.
'Damn it, Joe, what kind of filthy joke is this?' he said angrily. Then, getting up to see where Joe was calling him from, his eyes fixed on the thing that was, minutes later, dubbed the Anomaly, or the Anomalous Eye; and he ran towards the window, where Joe still stood wordlessly, gazing up like a little boy seeing a spaceshuttle take off.
Instantly the boredom-inspired argument was forgotten. Jake witnessed himself placing an arm around his trembling colleague; it all felt immensely strange, as if it weren't really his arm, and Joe wasn't real, either. Everything felt that way, suddenly, looking at this impossible eye that filled up the entirety of the sky with its brilliant blue iris and the gloomy darkness of the pupil that hovered and blocked the sun. It was an eclipse like none before and the city lay in a sudden darkness that neared night under that all-seeing gaze, and the air seemed to have cooled substantially since the eye made its majestic appearance.
'I see,' Jake said, at last, not because he wanted to, but because the silence was becoming too much to bear combined with the heaviness of the dark cloud that was spreading over the streets below. 'We have been discovered at last.'
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