love from afar

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I have to love from afar.
Or at least that’s what I’ve come
to believe. I’m a strange one.
I set hooks in people
near and far
that never quite give up
their grasp.

So… this here is a beautiful
reminder of how magical
and miraculous
life in this universe can be.

live through so many tears

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how many tears through the years can I cry?
how many prayers to the lord must I try?
still the pain tears at my broken heart
sometimes I feel,
I was cursed from the start.

all I could hold, all
I could see, so full of promise
each day reaching out before me
once… now there’s nothing
lost as if you never saw me.

how many tears through the years
can I cry?
how many tears until my heart runs
dry?

sometimes I wonder
if someone hears
why must I live
through so many tears?

Ok, I’m gonna go eat pizza now

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Metaphor: noun
2. something used, or regarded as being used, to represent something else; emblem; symbol.

Poetry: noun
1. the art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts.

To ponder: our waves of senses of sight, smell, taste, touch and hearing allow us simply to experience reality, as it were, through metaphor and poetry. Not as it is. “We” cannot become something else, someone else, nor even our past or future selves. The paradox of identity is that in order to experience who we really are (the universe, eternal, etc) we must learn that our senses are by nature figurative and intoxicating. It has nothing to do with the amount or frequency in which we indulge.

The tragedy exists even at rest; at rest is the opportunity to become sober, to be free of inertia and let balance be, rather than waiting, bracing for balance to balance you or trying to balance yourself.

fragile at best

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happiness, and more than that—
deservedness—
is fragile at best.
For me it is, and has been,
almost wholly
dependent upon others’
whims.

It was my own fault, for living
my life in such a way, but when
I decided to stop?
Oh, how the mountains crumbled;
the rivers ran with blood;
somewhere, a baby cried
for the last time.

That’s what happened to me
back in August, when I moved out.

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