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A Grocery Store In The Middle Of A Pandemic

I walk on spongy moss, orchestral in its brilliance,

It sings as heels clatter on top of the

Nature as white as linoleum,

And the mushrooms growing between my toes

Tell me there is something wrong with this bog.

I want to reach for the mushy peaches and rotting apricots

Hanging from dancing tree limbs, a dionysus away,

I want to suck on the plums’ intoxication.

Instead I place them, delicately, in crinkled plastic,

In the suffocating machine,

In the nature killer,

In the thing that strangles the frogs.

It is cold here.

It is dead, pinkish flesh behind glass tanks,

The periwinkle scales of the saltwater swordfish

Skinning me, raw, rubbing salt and paprika, and

dried basil in the wounds. It is cold here. It is 68 degrees.

I want to start taking my baths in the lobster tank.

I want to glow red, rubber between my fingers, clenched in permanent fists

Not strong enough to break the glass. I want to be

Hardbacked and sought after and sold for $14.99 each.

I drape myself in the gemstones, softly misted every hour on the hour,

Rutabaga on my clavicle,

and peppers in my hair

And carrots behind my ears,

And the mushrooms that grow between my toes whisper,

And point me forward, towards the doors that open

Into the real world. It is warm there. It is not stale bakery donut scented.

It is not hard moss floors, it is real moss floors

Where the lobsters want to take baths in the ocean with the swordfish.

It is warm there.

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“I say, teach me who you are, Azrael,

And the dark angel rose in the sky,

Stretching his wide wings over me.

The earth shuddered beneath an unknown breath,

The chalices of trembling flowers closed,

And the world was suddenly blotted from my sight.

Yet there were still things,

As I heard the weightless crowd

Of dark hours passing by.

And, as if inside me, roses were growing.

In the distance, sphere sang,

Stars were living.

When there was something like a dawn,

And I saw once again Azrael’s great wings,

Which closed and descended from the sky

With all the immense night in them,

He smiled as his fleeting shadow,

Like a bird, pursued its customary song,

Or an enchanted wave, immobile on the shore,

Suddenly beat like a wild swan.

And I saw a sunbeam, arrested on my hand,

Tremble, and gently resume its course.” - I say, teach me who you are, Azrael, by Charles van Lerberghe (1861-1907)

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Close your eyes darling

stop looking for answers that don’t exist

Questions aren’t so bad

They don’t lead to pots of gold

Sometimes they lead to roads

Travelling is a beautiful experience

The vast, dark, empty void can’t hurt you

As a matter of fact

It’s a calming view

I promise I won’t let you fall in

I know you wonder

You wonder all the time

Wandering in those thoughts of yours

But darling you need to rest now

Lay your head on my lap

I promise I won’t move a muscle

As you fall into a hazy serenity

I’ll watch over you

As your jaw unclenches, finally giving the hardworking circuits in your mind a break

I know the future can be violently daunting

Darling I’ve been there

My dearest, you need to sleep

Those breathtaking, dazzling eyes of yours

Seem to dim with every passing day

As the bags under them darken with your baggage

I know how exhausted you are

Emitting that fiery passion day after day

Leading us all to happiness

Can leave you barely flickering

Close your eyes darling

It’s ok to rest

I promise I’ll take care of you

Questions aren’t so bad

But we’ll need energy to solve them

I know you fear the dangerous uncertainty at our door

I promise I’ll protect you

Darling, please just close your eyes

We still have many travels waiting for us

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Si forse a volte la mia testa comincia a girare troppo, tanto da farmi perdere di vista i contorni nitidi della realtà a me intorno.


E mi incammino fra meandri di pensieri inutili, non richiesti, innecessari, strade buie e solitarie, soprattutto solitarie, soprattutto poco chiare, ho paura e sono viva, sono viva e non vorrei.


Chiamalo “disequilibrio chimico”, se vuoi, chiamala persistenza cronica di una tristezza innaturale, lo sento nelle vene come una vecchia malattia.

Per me resta l'eterno ritorno ad una strada che non ho più voglia di seguire, in cui entro, da cui poi esco; non voglio più avere vent'anni, dammi la maturità d'esser consapevole dei miei limiti e delle mie necessità.


“Things go smoother when I loose control”

Peter Cvik

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to move on is to grow

to move on is to grow:
yet we can barely accomplish either on our own
we know the way to go
yet we follow those with their eyes closed

i’ll follow you, encourage you
we’ll be steadfast in our way

and as we make it back to where our lives branched off
we will take the path we should have taken all along

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I’ve often said that all poetry is political. This is because real poems deal with a human response to reality and politics is part of reality, history in the making. Even if a poet writes about sitting in a glass house drinking tea, it reflects politics.

—  Yehuda Amichai

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Where do I even start with you?. I was so excited about something new. I liked the way you talked to me, the way you looked at me. You looked at me with intention and intensity. Your eyes penetrated me before any other part of you did. Every time I saw you I got excited and anxious. My body aching for your touch. You made me laugh but never made me moan.

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I feel numb when I look at your photographs.

I know what happened to you was abhorrent.

An emptiness swells within me.

Expelling pure fear.

Lowering adrenaline.

Capping it off so I can cope.

It brews beneath the surface.

I want to feel this.

I stare blankly.

You look kind.

I like your hair and makeup.

Desensitised by your murder.

If you can be shot for no reason whilst you sleep,

what is next for me?

How can this be allowed to happen?

Without justice,

No black women is guaranteed the right to live.

The protection of safety.

We do not live in a just world.

A thriving and innocent life has been lost.

I’m cracking because you are the last to be remembered.

I empathise with what your last moment may have been like.

You didn’t get a choice.

You deserve to still be here.

How many like you have we lost?

If I am tired,

you must be exhausted.

Sleep well,

Breonna Taylor.

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three glasses down
your can, stolen in the palm of my hand
sand still nestled between my toes
concrete nibbles into my flesh
only to be found the very next day
from dancing alone, to waking up
alone, again, nothing new
where i find it’s time to walk away
from sparkling glasses
pick my poison, and put it back
my day is over, and the party
has passed

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Ich führe Krieg mit mir selber. Der Engel vs der Teufel. Herz gegen Verstand. Was mache ich falsch? Was mache ich richtig? Was ist der Sinn des Lebens? Fallen, Aufstehen und weitermachen. Nicht alles glauben, was man hört, sieht oder gesagt wird. Mindset stärken durch Bildung und durch die Lektionen und Erfahrungen im Leben. Nicht aufgeben und sich durch jeden scheiß durch Kämpfen, denn das zeigt ob du stark oder schwach bist.

Can Makaveli

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