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Subject: Poems: 190518 - May 19th, 2018
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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190518A
------------
To be young again,
and make different mistakes.
A chance to get with
different wrong people
for different wrong reasons.
Everything would be different,
and aimed at having more fun,
realizing life is far too short,
no matter how you stretch it,
and that is reason enough.
--------------------------------
190518B
-----------
This broken marionette,
still feels like dancing
some sort of broken dance,
but there is no one left
to dance with.
These rattling bones
on strings,
have nowhere left to go.
So they sit in a heap
pushed aside into a corner.
That wildness in dry bones,
that does not let them rest,
filling with cravings
for something more
and never finding enough.
------------------------------
190518C
-----------
You say it is given,
and I say it is taken away.
Every day seems like that,
always spent hunting,
or maybe it is only scrounging
for something or other
that one does not have any of.
Working very hard on becoming
some sort of malcontent,
that is more malcontent
than any malcontent
that was ever known
being utterly malcontent
as to how it all goes.
The lilacs are blossoming again,
their scent being that sweetness
that life so continually denies.
Their brightly clad beauty
defying all the ugly brutality,
that so constantly defies escape
to anything actually soft and gentle.
Spring seems as poisoned as ever,
with all those built up hopes,
as to that one clandestine meeting
that changes everything.
Any hope proving as short lived
as the blossoms on cherry trees,
torn to pieces in a cruel gust of wind.
---------------------------------------------
190518D
------------
Watching old films,
to try to find what is lost and missing.
They seem so full of clues,
but not enough to identify a suspect.
A long line up,
but nothing really outstanding
as to finally solving the mystery.
You feel so out of character,
no matter which role they make you play.
If only you could actually choose
your own part,
the way you dreamt of being able to do
when you were too young to know better,
and being programmed with television.
You feel you could slide right in
between the pages of some life stories
an impressionable mind polluted with freedom,
and all sorts of lovely seeming possibilities.
You could really have lived in there,
which is more than you can ever say
about what it is like to live on the outside.
I mean you feel that you really could have
really LIVED in there.
Nothing that you get on the outside
coming even a stone's throw closer
to anything resembling really living.
You got left outside in a hard rain,
until it seems that you rusted away.
The irony of someone actually going
under cover
and becoming a credible story line.
Artists, poets, film makers,
were granted a sort of fictional right,
within some sort of historical context
that we can no longer really comprehend.
It all seems to other worldly,
as if none of that could ever really have been,
anything more than crazy imagination
broken loose and running wild
someplace other than anywhere.
It makes me want to escape into their past,
and forget about the future.
---------------------------------
190518E
-----------
Clouds are always gathering,
somewhere,
and pushing their way in
across someone's horizon.
Feeling greyed out,
into some sort of infinite blur.
Where the text dissolves
into incomprehensible.
Whatever I could want
never wants me.
It is a proven certainty,
defying all possible statistics.
Easier to get free lessons,
on wrist slitting made easy
than it is to find anything
that seems really worthwhile.
It is that type of place,
and you have to get used to it
being that way,
or it will drive you crazy.
If it looks and sounds good,
it is certain to be an illusion.
Someone else's rocking horse
is your wooden stake.
Only the Tin Man was lucky,
but he felt he was missing out
on something very special
that all the others already had.
Now you start to get it.
(Hint: Wooden stake and heart.)
Somehow it goes together
like horse and carriage.
The theory is simple, and untrue,
that they cannot hurt you,
if you do not feel anything,
when the stake goes in.
----------------------------
190518F
-----------
They know
how to inflict the worst of it,
in terms of what you hoped for
and never had any of.
That is the clearly demarcated area
where they get at you,
because you cannot hide it,
and you cannot live it.
So they have you pinned,
right there, in between,
and they get to tear you apart
for every little bit of imagination.
They can press you there,
the way a leaf can be pressed
between the pages of a book,
until it becomes a brittle page.
It does not really matter what
you might be imagining,
and they do not really care
about darkness or light.
Hide yourself as well as you might,
but you will always leak out,
trying to make something real
that isn't yet.
That is when they have you,
targeted in their sights,
and that is when they pull the trigger
letting that bullet fly.
--------------------------
190518F
-----------
All that you needed
was a perfect score
of zero.
A zero might actually get you
some of what others get,
instead of only centred out.
To be a zero
is to actually be something
more than a permanent record.
Once that record is playing
no one will want to hear
that annoying background noise.
Everything you ever said is wrong,
and the cut throats running the show
want you gone.
-------------------
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