100314A
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Love is not what you really wanted,
but you knew how to use the word,
and you knew how to use it loud and often,
the way a battle cry stirs a wayward soul.
I had wanted you to want it,
the way I had always wanted it to be.
I wanted it whispered long and soft,
the way it comes to the earth in spring.
But that is the way that some take it over.
The way that some take it on and take it up.
A magic word along with please and thank you.
Never really giving for anything they got.
That is the way the world always was.
Perhaps how the world might always be.
Anyone might say that they love anyone,
and most mothers love their little soldiers.
That's how people tend to get what they want,
by repeating the words to a popular song.
There may be no harmony to the medley.
Some always sing out of tune and go wrong.
Life is that sort of ugly little game,
that most of the living learn to play badly or well.
You find you are given enough to lose,
but rarely given enough of anything to win.
That is the way the notes are usually played,
and you wonder where the love really went,
as you look at the stars and moon as heaven sent,
while you look for answers you never really get.
You wonder how it all came to be,
and what made it happen the way that it did.
You try to find answers that are not made up,
but that's a verse no one has written yet.
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100314B
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I always tend to look,
among the garbage and the treasures
at what reminds me of you,
even though we have never met
and I do not know your name.
I sometimes find things
that remind me of your beauty.
Placeholders and tokens.
Things to cherish with that sadness
that remains constantly the same.
What remains is what one can hold onto,
when all else is gone, and all have left.
Reminding me of all of that wanting,
to hold you, and to hold onto you,
letting you make me a prisoner to your beauty.
I wanted to show you something
that I had never noticed before.
Wondering if you might see it too,
and ending up missing you,
in knowing that you are not there.
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150314A
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It seems that all the dreams I have
are the dreams I cannot afford.
It leaves me in the role of an undertaker,
constantly tasked to burying the dead.
I had wanted for other duties,
but it all tends to cost what I do not have,
making for all the storybook lives
that I never have a chance to live.
Not only do I have to bury each one,
but I have to put stakes through them,
to keep them from rising from their graves,
in their repeated efforts to consume me.
After that I get to be the sole mourner,
weeping my tears at the grave sides.
They are all unmarked graves,
and no one ever leaves any flowers.
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150314B
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It is not that one stops loving.
Instead one stops being slaughtered,
after several close encounters,
with all that romantic anticipation
providing a head full of ideas,
as to what it could have been like.
An imagination is a dangerous thing,
that can destroy an entire lifetime
with countless false hopes and false starts.
It is somewhat better to be beaten
by the brutality of hard, cold, facts,
as to why reality is mostly cruel.
If not immediately, then eventually,
something ugly always tends to intervene.
We really did miss our best chance,
while we both remained able to imagine
the world we never really lived in,
but a world that might have been.
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150314C
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Feeling something like a prisoner,
waiting for supervised parole,
and a way out of the hole into the light.
A chance to do a few of the things,
that otherwise could never be done,
and some that were put aside.
The same feeling as being hungry,
but feeling unable to eat,
having been too starved, for too long.
Hoarding various symbols of freedom,
that refer to other lives, not really lived
by anyone whom one really knows.
The difference that always comes
between words and silence,
where it is impossible to speak
of what is really being done.
No longer filling time with turning ideas
over and over, for lost and buried treasure.
One can dig that way for answers,
and never really find what one is looking for.
It takes something more than persistence,
to break through the wall to escape
all of that too painful mediocrity,
of the all too persistently commonplace.
For some it is love that provides for a chance
to know what it really feels like to get away,
from the incessant grind of the too usual.
I looked at you, as if you could set me free,
but knowing that you were not the one,
who could get me out of the mess that I am in.
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150314D
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I was never lucky,
as to becoming more beautiful
as I happened to age.
Time took its toll anyway,
threatening monstrous consequences
along with the usual deterioration
of this or that customary detail.
There are so many types of damage,
and so many ways for it to be incurred
that one loses track of most of it.
It simply accumulates
and builds up in effect,
as a peculiar type of attrition
that is then habitually suffered.
Then you realize what it was,
that you were always looking for,
but never really found in life.
It was that quest for a feeling
that you once knew, but somehow lost,
in exchange for that broken heart
that you pieced together so many times.
The heart being a metaphorical device,
which keeps so many from the dark truth,
that it is all about much more
than a few rhythms of life,
including the pulse and those genital motions.
In youth it is like a tightening noose
that everything seems to hang from.
We learn to overcome that feeling
of the heart choking on its sorrows,
and all that intense pressure of burdens
that one doubted that one could ever carry,
all weighing down against most anything
that began as sudden exaltation
into all that anticipation of pure joy.
Time teaches mostly what was lost,
because it could never really be found,
and if it was ever near it slipped away,
by some cruel twist of chance and fate,
at some naive moment of time
that is perpetually marked
by various forms of cruel intercession.
There remains that vain hope in mind,
that one could somehow get it all back,
by some miracle, or magic,
that defies all logic, and science of life,
as life exists under those scalpels
of endless rational scrutiny,
and setting a caged animal free again.
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150314E
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When you cannot get away,
to anywhere where you really want to be,
you try to escape,
in all those various ways
that human ingenuity has tried to create,
for those very same reasons.
You try to escape the pain
for which there is no cure,
contemplating various terrifying endings.
You watch your lifeline shrink,
being gradually eroded,
by the torrents of events,
that eat at whatever you once had,
that you might have believed in,
as really going for you.
Giving up on immortality is harder,
because it involves giving up
on most of what you wanted to do.
Measuring the looks from strangers,
and taking into account
how much of you has disappeared
from anyone else's viewpoint.
You find you have become invisible,
to anyone you would want to see,
vanishing without a trace to their eyes.
No longer able to cross the thin line
that passed as a personal border.
You start to feel that strange paranoia,
as if there are guards at the gate,
with orders to shoot to kill,
anyone who tries to cross over,
in any type of more intimate approach,
including yourself if you dare
make even the slightest clandestine move
against any really attractive targets
so as to get inside, past the wall.
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150314F
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They make me write about us,
because they do not let us be,
beyond the words on the page.
I only wanted to love you,
but I had to write about you instead,
as if that would annihilate the truth.
Perhaps it would be different
if I knew who you really were,
instead of imaging that I know you.
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