Unfound

Nobody really knows
Nobody can peel
Or grate
The layers
Away
Nobody can look
Find
The underneath
The inside
It’s too damaged
Too complex
Soul-encompassing curtains
Slide across
To reveal
Nothing
The stage is full
Of black-painted windowsills
Which come to show more windows
Behind more curtains
Truth disloyal
Still all-veiled.

Don’t Panic

DON’T PANIC.
Really now, don’t panic. Does writing to yourself constitute panicking? Just don’t do it. There. No. Don’t panic.

Words are Jumble
Words are fun,
especially when they dart meaningless dagger-points at unsuspecting pages of a book of SANITY.

So, don’t panic.

Oh look! A potato!!!

Oh look! A potato!!!
So velvety
So porous
Mutilated
a la knife and fork
Fork and knife
Knife and spoon
Piercing through the coagulated meaty sauce
Fleshy find
Mash it
Smash it
Play with it in your fingers
Toss it through
the un-transparent window.
Through the broken-glass.

Find it in your sleep
And dream of mushy landscapes.

Written by: Flameheart

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The Social Realm

How often have you been interested enough to wonder, but not interested enough to ask?

Sitting next to various people today, on benches, in waiting rooms, I pondered the question myself. At one stage I could feel the heat radiating off the body beside me, but did not turn to look; did not even steal a glance. Maybe, out the corner of my eye, I sensed a male, with ash blonde hair, but that was it.

How often do we sit beside people without saying a word?
How bizarre are bench situations?

Another stage brought another wandering corpse. Well, they might’ve been, for all I knew about them. Only, out of the corner of my eye, I sensed a brunette, mid-height female, with a blue shirt. The wanderer sat a few seats down from mine although what she did, I could not tell, because I wasn’t interested enough to look.
I wasn’t interested enough to ask.

So, I decided to read my book. Reading is not exactly what happened though. Instead, I sifted through words, each one as weighted as the next. Clearly, I was not interested in reading either. My attention wandered. I wondered. I checked for my lift, which still hadn’t arrived, and attempted a few more pages of the book. It didn’t work. The pages were scanned without meaning, and the words were just patterns to my eyes.

Looking beside me, there was another specimen, right beside me. I glanced very fast and quickly looked away. All I had seen was the brown, straight hair, belonging to a person of the other gender who happened to be wearing a black jacket: the comfy type of jacket, like a sweater.

How could I possibly handle any more of this awkwardness? I mentally slapped myself for not having the courage to take a proper look, but before my skin could increase its socially awkward temperature any more, my lift arrived. I climbed in and we drove off, as I gazed out the window at all the faceless bodies around us. “I see your friend was sitting on the bench outside,” said my dad conversationally.

“Oh! Really?” Oops.

I had been just interested enough to sit.
Not interested enough to look.
Not interested enough to ask.

Written by: Flameheart

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The Logic Fantastic

I want to pour:
release
the words onto the page, but then I remember:
teeth need to be brushed and business attended to.
Logic overcomes the situation like a python,
twisting and bulging,
divulging
nothing.

Have you checked your e-mails?
The snake increases its might.
e-mails
stare.
I glare:
to-do list waiting in the wings.

Ignoring the potentially lethal hug,
my pen is picked up.
Who cares?
A bug?

Free verse escapes, as aeroplanes of thoughts
compete for the narrow landing strip.
Suddenly, a slimy, long, muscly creature
emerges:
raises its head,
infumed.
Only, I’ve brought my Charming Clarinet
and play the pet a tune.

Written by: Flameheart

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I wanted to write

A moment ago,
I wanted to write

essays of the sea;
great stories of a golden quest;

the truth;
the best;

waves upon the kitchen floor;
treasures in your beating chest;

tales of way and wow and woe;
tales of passion
tales of ‘go’

all of it,
none of it,
strong or light:

a moment ago,
I wanted to write.

Written by: Flameheart

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Poetry

Poetry,
like inspiration from a seed,
scent
away to a heavenly place.

Heavenly words.

You smell of
fresh-cut roses.
I put you in a vase.

You envelope;
gasp
into the glass haven;
grow
as poetic branches
shudder
and
shatter
the shards.

Your vines
embellish
the kitchen counter;
awaken
the sombre stove:

a light.

Written by: Flameheart

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