Tag Archives: love

Tragedy

I think it’s one of the most terrible things to feel in life.

Overwhelming love

turn into blinding hate.

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The Slow Drift Away…

The slow
Drift
Away
Begins on harsh whispers
Never fully formulated
But ever present in the eyes
Violently screaming the unspoken truth
Oh so loud-
-SO LOUD it’s left creating
The slow
Drift
Away

(repeat)

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Refrigerator Magnet Poem: 20

IMG_4242

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by | August 8, 2014 · 11:00 am

Refridgerator Magnet Poem: 19

20140731-061449.jpg

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by | July 31, 2014 · 6:17 am

Tanka: 22

simple sun. show me

love. show me strength in numbers.

show me your secret.

“we all need a change of view,”

he said, “we all need some change.”

 

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Filed under sangretti

Yellow

I miss running my hand over my shoulder and chest and neck
And wincing in pain slightly
Looking in the mirror
at the bruises your teeth carefully planted
In hateful love-
A fit of wanting love.
I Used to hate them so much too
But now
Even that specific pain has faded away
Like your face and voice and your smell.
I have nothing left at all
just the fading yellow discolouration
on my heart and soul.

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“sit alone on that river bank till I forget that I can talk”

I fallen in love with every book I’ve read.

I’ve fallen in love with every girl I’ve seen.

I’ll never know if I’m a good writer, I don’t think anyone ever does. I just want to write prose and have people think I wrote down words with purpose – intent. Interest in one’s self is a characteristic a writer needs to have to find importance in their writings; I’m far from interested – or interesting for that matter. I think a good prose comes from a clear mind, not excluding a drunk or drugged mind, but a clear mind in the sense of just knowing at least the next ten words you want to write before you write them. This allows you to think twenty words ahead and begin to plan for the next thirty. I’m at fifty now.

A good writer writes poems for years and switches to prose to try and prove something to himself. Or vice-versa, impossible to say. Chances are he’ll turn back to poetry (or prose), become a critic, an advertiser, a wino, a bum – whatever. He’ll write. Hopeful something might happen tomorrow.

That was fifty.

This is America, with liberty and justice for all.

I’d be happy writing if I just actually could write when I want and not just when my head is too full of words to allow for proper thought anymore and I just have to write to keep from having to carry around a bag of nouns and verbs behind me everywhere I go. Imagine if an accountant could only add numbers when he had thought of so many numbers he literally spewed abstract decimals to his friends while convulsing on his dinning room floor.

The first two lines are the best part of this piece.

I need too practice more.

I’m a long way from the road I want to be on but I’m closer than I ever have been before.

Bird Murder.

 

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