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If I Could Give You the Stars and Outer Space

What sort of love is this?
Do you think of me when the morning dew hits?
In my arms do you feel any bliss,
A sudden need for a kiss?
There is love, but of what kind?
Confused passion for we are blind.
We are the scars left on another over time.
Or have we settled-assuming true love we’ll never find?
I feel no warmness from you.
When times of happiness are seldom few.
Why do we return expecting something new?
My inmost thoughts you pretended you knew.
I don’t want love like your movies on lifetime.
You should already know me without a lifeline.
I wish we had met at the right time,
Never really felt you to be all mine.
You fight yourself from change.
Both of us can’t seem to act our age.
But I somehow found a way,
Into my soul- things I cannot convey.

If this is what I’m left with,
I’ll have nothing at all.
Love has become some myth
Leading me unto the Fall.

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It Twitches and Festers

The levee’s been pushed to a brink,
If caught in the midst a heavy heart would sink.
Tears from heaven pour down hardened rain.
if only such a thing could wash away the pain.

Quiet and somber I feel your despair.
The shell of a man forewarned to beware.
And still she told me she gets what she wants,
Shifting emotions nullified if the past still haunts.

Our love is a cauldron mixed of bitters and sweets.
While my once wicked ways through your scars it seeps.
Aches in my chest from happiness divest;
Too little, too late—what once was, now irate.

Forgiveness a thing only measured by time,
and through it all I just wish you were mine.
To you I seek to do good—for all I repent
but kindness is misunderstood with outcry’s of resent.

Are you the dawn that had already set,
or the sunrise I never knew I had met?

Painting by William Blake
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From Bitter Submergence, Loving Enlightenment.

This life it weighs on thee.
Bound to material,
the physical we endure combatively.
Earth-born all is ephemeral.

Ancient works uncovered,
only intensify a burden.
We are fallen angels unfeathered,
—of that I am certain.

Two into one, of three we be.
Yet unto one a return,
and of three they see.
Of transcendent planes we yearn.

Mortality the prescription,
sense perception an unawakened state.
Past loves I’m missin’-
dwelling on the things I hate.
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Of those from within,
and those of without.
Some just trying to win,
others filled with doubt.

On heavens light we pretend,
the end we cannot comprehend.
Seek and ye shall find,
an aeon not bound by time.

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Love is War I

The employee working the shoe department returned, carrying 4 boxes of hiking boots. Placing them amongst the other shoe boxes near the customer, she then began to explain why he had brought out boots one size to small. After the rehearsed explanation, she remained unconvinced that smaller shoes would truly benefit her feet on a hiking excursion. The frustrations of the two parties were felt; all the while, he scanned the many items the store contained within. Two aisles for hiking socks, another for underwear, some aisles contained all the necessities for a modern camping experience, most of which were unnecessary for survival. He checked the price tag of a popular woman’s black jacket he would get her: $120. His bank account read $15.

Disgruntled, he returned to the shoe department where his lover was still trying on boots. Somehow more boxes had appeared. A new employee had begun to help her, this time he pushed the ‘one-size smaller’ envelope further by lacing the shoes and having her stand facing downward on a prop sloped stone. The couple sat back down after the dubious display—still too small.

“Do you feel that?” the salesman asked, pressing at her crammed toes through the shoe.lady-in-black
Yea” the aggravated customer remarked, half-flailing her hands in frustration.

Her present company began to feel uncomfortably frustrated with her; knowing that the salesman was pushing his agenda too extensively, yet her exacerbated body language wasn’t helping the situation. The couple took their leave, as she had not settled on a shoe.

“I need a break.” the salesman remarked to the his coworker as they made way to the exit.
“Did you hear him? What an asshole!” speaking softly solely to her other.
“You are kind of difficult to deal with, if spoken honestly.” he lashed back at the ignorance of her body language and condescending retorts.

She stood her ground, knowing she was in her right regarding the individual size of her own feet. He was understandably aware, mentioning the salesman was in fact pushing his methods too heavily. After all, the customer is always right, as they say, and if she had the money to make a purchase, why would one hinder that for the business. Once they returned to the vehicle, an argument ensued.
She, stating he never is on her side; he, stating she is infuriating beyond degree.
The dispute shifts to offenses from prior occasions.
He, accusing her of laziness for not wanting to cook with him; she, recalling his dishonest deeds from the past. A discord of silence enveloped them entirely on the way home prior to the climax of their anger.

At her apartment no words were uttered, and yet the frustrating ill temper creeped.

“Should I leave?” he asked, wondering if there was anything to salvage, perhaps some sympathetic apologies to be shared.
“I don’t care!” she snapped back.

The pain from her comment turned him bitter and black. All emotion left him. Packing his things, the familiar thing of it all made him believe this was the last time. They both knew they were in their own individual right to feel this particular way. Walking out the door, then toward the gate of the complex, she strode behind him, carrying her canine compatriot.

“What are you doing?” quietly asked, as her feet came to a halt while he turned to answer.
“I’m leaving you, what does it look like?!”  they verbally contended softly, being as they were in between balconies and fellow tenants.

Her beautiful face welled with tears while his passions fleeted him. Be strong, act tough—you don’t need this shit, he thought to himself. Tired of pursuing him, she let go. Tired of running, he drove off.

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On Love

What is Love? Ask him who lives, what is life; ask him who adores, what is God?

Percy_Bysshe_Shelley_by_Alfred_Clint_crop.jpg

I know not the internal constitution of other men, nor even thine, whom I now address. I see that in some external attributes they resemble me, but when, misled by that appearance, I have thought to appeal to something in common, and unburthen my inmost soul to them, I have found my language misunderstood, like one in a distant and savage land. The more opportunities they have afforded me for experience, the wider has appeared the interval between us, and to a greater distance have the points of sympathy been withdrawn. With a spirit ill fitted to sustain such proof, trembling and feeble through its tenderness,

I have everywhere sought sympathy, and have found only repulse and disappointment.

 

Thou demandest what is Love. It is that powerful attraction towards all we conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves, when we find within our own thoughts the chasm of an insufficient void, and seek to awaken in all things that are, a community with what we experience within ourselves. If we reason, we would be understood; if we imagine, we would that the airy children of our brain were born anew within another’s; if we feel, we would that another’s nerves should vibrate to our own, that the beams of their eyes should kindle at once and mix and melt into our own; that lips of motionless ice should not reply to lips quivering and burning with the heart’s best blood. This is Love. This is the bond and the sanction which connects not only man with man, but with every thing which exists. We are born into the world, and there is something within us which, from the instant that we live, more and more thirsts after its likeness. It is probably in correspondence with this law that the infant drains milk from the bosom of its mother; this propensity develops itself with the development of our nature. We dimly see within our intellectual nature a miniature as it were of our entire self, yet deprived of all that we condemn or despise, the ideal prototype of every thing excellent and lovely that we are capable of conceiving as belonging to the nature of man. Not only the portrait of our external being, but an assemblage of the minutest particles of which our nature is composed; a mirror whose surface reflects only the forms of purity and brightness; a soul within our own soul that describes a circle around its proper Paradise, which pain and sorrow and evil dare not overleap. To this we eagerly refer all sensations, thirsting that they should resemble or correspond with it. The discovery of its antitype; the meeting with an understanding capable of clearly estimating our own; an imagination which should enter into and seize upon the subtle and delicate peculiarities which we have delighted to cherish and unfold in secret; with a frame whose nerves, like the chords of two exquisite lyres, strung to the accompaniment of one delightful voice, vibrate with the vibrations of our own; and of a combination of all these in such proportion as the type within demands; this is the invisible and unattainable point to which Love tends; and to attain which, it urges forth the powers of man to arrest the faintest shadow of that, without the possession of which there is no rest nor respite to the heart over which it rules.

Hence in solitude, or in that deserted state when we are surrounded by human beings, and yet they sympathize not with us, we love the flowers, the grass, the waters, and the sky.

In the motion of the very leaves of spring, in the blue air, there is then found a secret correspondence with our heart. There is eloquence in the tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and the rustling of the reeds beside them, which by their inconceivable relation to something within the soul, awaken the spirits to a dance of breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious tenderness to the eyes, like the enthusiasm of patriotic success, or the voice of one beloved singing to you alone. Sterne says that if he were in a desert he would love some cypress. So soon as this want or power is dead, man becomes the living sepulcher of himself, and what yet survives is the mere husk of what once he was.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1818

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World’s Apart

I’d dilute the love I hold for you, if spoken verbally.
For what beats within so sacred—words destroy eternity.

Taunting lover! How you turn me this way and that.
Not meeting my gaze, constant pursuance on His mat.

Look once—let me drink the blackness of your iris.
Look once I plead, you’ve stirred in me a crisis.

Oh, how much I loath and despise the physical.
And yet without the material, we would rise helical.

Intertwined in space; existing for each other.
Both of us love, neither of us lover.

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Farewell

This is how we say farewell.
All the love and moments vanish,
to the toll of a wedding bell.

Take my hand, take my love,
Kept me away, lead me astray.
Never had the chance, nor the say.

Cowardice, with that yellow heart.
Will I play the villain, when you
speak of me to your fresh new start?

Nothing-it meant nothing at all.
If professing your love is so easy,
don’t come around, don’t call.

After everything he had put you through,
the tears, the pain,
All I found was something True.

Goodbye my displaced Queen.
Seek thy unhappiness, misfortune may marry.
Just like you, I bid adieu, from behind a screen.

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The Key of Mysteries

A stapled man on a cross is not the Son.

The Goodness of Light be the Anointed.

A pentagram is not evil.

The fear of it is evil.1411134753055

A man in clouds is not God.

Sense perception be thy Epoch.

A baphomet is not the Devil.

The terror of an image be thy Archon.

Pretentiousness and spite,

Humility and altruism.

Synonymous in all of Us.

The Last shall be First,

The lowest the Highest.

From decent, ascension.

From darkest to brightest.

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Not Without What’s Within

I spent a year in torment and another in limbo.
Between bottles of scotch and an earful of bimbos.
I had sworn off sentiments and living for others.
Woe’d the stain of women, including my mothers.
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But something had come and graced the inner light.
To live and die for my beloved man’s celestial right.
Then out of the ashes my heart is reignited.
A personage like myself has been sighted.
Despite her beauty and our emotional volatility,
perhaps a time to explore untapped tranquility.
Whatever to come, let us seek to embetter ourselves-
and place our bitter pasts on these dusty shelves.
Together we strive for a better world to live in.
So let us go forth; but not without what’s within.

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Devil On My Shoulder, Angel Adjacent

tormentA man had placed his hand on my right shoulder. The rings and watch on his hand play and dance in the sunlight. He whispers in my ear that he is glad I’ve chosen to disregard others, “Why bend for these creatures that would not stir for you?” Turning round to gaze at the faceless voice, he appeared in illustrious garments, a suede custom suit entreated anyone to believe him of important stature. He smelt clean; lustful. Hair sleeked backwards, bringing your eyes to his affixed gaze of yellow green retina.

She turns away. A tear falls from her eye, perfectly timed so there was a chance I wouldn’t notice. But I did, however. As she walks away, she doesn’t glance backwards at my moistened retinas.

The unknown accomplice hands me a cigarette and lights it with a golden embroidered lighter: “Forget her. Let’s grab a drink, my new friend.” His oratory flowed so smoothly from his tongue that I could not bring words to agree nor deny, but rather began to walk with him

Sitting amongst the sots, the 2nd drink came and went as quickly as the first. After some time, he signals a familiar woman to keep me company. She sits very close, she make’s men forget about the world. A reached hand is placed in lap, whispering softly into my ear. Estranged sounds exchanged, we leave together anyway. He gazes out, from behind a pool table He smiles, and I smile back, a curt nod is shared.

Upon awakening, I take notice to the ceiling, shadows move and patterns fold. Moving my head carefully, as to not provoke pain, a strange woman by my bed pulls up her pants, kisses me passionately with cigarette stained teeth, and swiftly leaves. He walks past her unnoticed, enters my room, lavish in appearance as last observed. A gloominess follows “See? Did you not enjoy yourself?” When I speak, the scents of liquor, nicotine, and foreign saliva expel from my words:

“I figure not. Although, I am still unsure of myself.”

Turning left, I take notice of the picture frame sitting on my nightstand. Me smiling next to an angel. The thought of better days resonates within. Closing my eyes, the memories grasp me refusing to let go, constricting the mind. I feel myself moving to the back of my mind. A hand falls on my shoulder. With eyes half shut, I take in a different man not recognized. He is tall, thin, weak in appearance, and dressed in unappealing  worn clothing.
“Would you not rather live for her, than anyone else?” a sweet love radiated in him. The sun had shone upon his eyes, lifting one into rapture.Words become difficult to bring forth.

“She still cares for you, she does.” he says. “Remove yourself from any equation; live for her.” The sleek man in the corner of the room proclaims that love is a weakness, “A sickness, like a passing cold.” ominous vibrations extrude form his voice.

The man to my left stands, a blinding light shines from his cavity. They glare at each other, ready for battle eternal. Shadows danced on the ceiling, forming many hands they extend toward the light. A pushing and pulling, splitting and tearing at the center. The fighting reaching a pinnacle, brings a blinding crashing brilliance. Knocked back to the ignorance of bliss, I am fast asleep, dreaming of days when there was fullness of heart.

I awaken, but falsely, feeling weak, somewhat sick.

And the men, but gone. “Just another dream,” I admit.