You return like autumn and I fall everytime, dying just like the leaves.
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I can feel it when I sleep.
I feel it when I walk.
Gnawing at my heels.
Even in the most soothing of lights, I can't sit still.
Voids have a nagging, clawing and cavernous way,
of begging to be filled.
"Voids" © Fleur Poetic 2023
Image Credit- Daniel Jensen on Unsplash.com
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Lust
Seated behind me, he pulled down my lacy thong.
Mature hands running down my body.
He may be almost twice my age, but I see nothing wrong.
He is charming, he is handsome, he doesn't have anything to prove.
He rubs my skin like it is silk.
With dominance, he makes his next move.
Sometimes I think he can read my mind.
The art of bringing my dreams alive.
Pulling fantasies that have sat in my head for years like they were extremely easy to find.
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Party Behaviors
At the party, a light turned on
inside one woman and it shone
through her skin and shirt.
A man brought a private
darkness with him. He climbed
inside it but still we heard his voice.
One person bent the air,
warping what we saw
making things seem to wiggle,
making us giggle. And some of
a verbose fellow's words became
visible and rose to the ceiling,
full of gas, helium, perhaps.
Only briefly did I become a
turtle so as to be left alone.
Hans Ostrom
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there's a string that binds
before it divides
two people, and their stories
tie a knot, make them stay
decide how long it lays
look for signs, then cut it loose
clean, no time to fray.
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pincb0nes, from "dirts under her pink pillowcase"
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I'm at the point of overthinking. What happened doesn't feel real. As if the entire memory was in my head. They didn't love me & I became lost.
G.A23
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It was a beautiful night,
We walked away
And the night walked with us.
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“The Last 500”
she came
i was broke
in my insecurity
i almost choke
she was kind
i was a pleaser
i might not be enough
my soul was in a freezer
she was a soul
didn’t take much
she left with smile
my heart she touch
my last 500
it changed my life
she is the best
worthy to be my wife
she is so kind
loving this beast
she is much enough
i deserve the least
but she gave me the most
i had nothing to give back
when she asked for nothing
i knew she was the one i lack
but because what followed
it changed my destiny
i did not fulfill my responsibility
i have committed a felony
i miss you my honey
we are a twin soul
without you
fulfillment has a hole
i wish her the best
i will miss you babe
because of you
i am in complete shape
i pray to god
to keep you safe
you are the one
who made me brave
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Question: what if I repeated the line “mom is pissed” to emphasize the longitudinal suffering of being parented by someone who is angry?
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Summer
How I love the crisp cold of a dying summer
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Keep Me Closer
broken glances nestled between gaps of closure
clenched fists and laughter
false smiles for broken lover
heart ensnared in sleeves now folded
memories fade with fondness smothered
yet still
call me your friend and pull me ever closer
is it my name you'll call when the world is over
“Keep Me Closer" © Fleur Poetic 2023
Image Credit- Gaspar Uhas on Unsplash.com
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A friend asked me once
A friend asked me once, truth or dare, why are you so obsessed with keeping things to yourself?
I said, i didn't know. Said, i don't think about myself that much. But that wasn't true. How could I tell her, that think about myself constantly. It is an obsession, and I fear it is taking over my life.
Because sometimes I get sick, thinking about myself. I get sick; disgust, shame, rage and grief is sitting on my chest, crushing up my troat. And I try to breathe but I won't let me.
Sometimes I think I'm pretty, but then I raise my hand in class.
I want to scream and shout out to the world, that this is me, that I am here, that I exist, though sometimes it doesn't feel like it. But my existence never feels right, something is off. I don't feel right to me. My life isn't for me, I can't bear it, I want out. How do you escape from a prison without damaging the bars?
I think I'm merely a product of hatred for everything around me.
And in my core, there is nothing but shame.
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Balzac's Ghost and the Crucial Detail
Honoré de Balzac, 1799-1850
She brought the wrong clothes to Paris,
which wasn’t as warm as imagination.
She borrowed a sweater and a coat
from me; also shoes, and the heavy socks
that made them fit. My sweater, especially,
seemed to enjoy having her wear it
at cafés, brasseries, and markets. I
explained all this to Balzac’s ghost
at his residence on Rue Raynouard.
Although I wasn’t speaking French,
he understood instantly. I went on
to observe that almost everyone almost
everywhere works hard and life slips
past so fast and then suddenly
you’re a ghost listening to a tourist.
Yes, yes, said Balzac’s ghost, but
tell me, what color is the sweater she
borrowed from you? Green, I said.
That, he said, is today’s crucial detail.
Hans Ostrom
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It felt as if I was aching with every beat of my heart, with every passing second, thoughts came flooding in, in new shades of pain each time.
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Devoid of trust
two hands
opened my heart
so long it was devoid of trust
that layers had to be rubbed off first
and the clouds from which
rains of disappointments descended
dissolved through the light of your sun
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