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 Oct 2014 Chris Shantel
Rupal
Sadness, Pain
is temporary,
always  passes away...

Joy, Happiness
is temporary,
always passes away...

Kindness
is permanent,
people always
remember
an act of kindness...
Surreal messed up poem. Only my friends will get the references.

Weaponized turtles
Moaning Myrtle!
Platform 9 and three quarters
Oops, wall is out of order.
Now you’re concussed
This makes you crazy enough
To take a flying car (because you’re fool)
To a snake infested hog with dermatology problems school
Adhesive sloths!
Polka dotted moths!
Oh wait, that sounds like butterflies
With this poem, literature dies.

I apologize, I just felt like writing something absurd and I am really REALLY tired and my brain pattern is weird, and I read too much harry potter…
OSTRICH ATTACK!!!
Hey, I told you I was weird.
I apologize, I just felt like writing something absurd and I am really REALLY tired and my brain pattern is weird, and I read too much harry potter…
OSTRICH ATTACK!!!
Hey, I told you I was weird.
I think of those people,
time and time again.
I tend to think of those,
who left me with much pain.

They tend to be the people,
that started like a dream,
I used to think they were,
the nicest I have seen.

They brought a lot of laughter,
and smiles and jokes my way.
They were the kind of people,
I really wished would stay.

I got used to their presence,
and I felt more secure,
I slowly let them inside,
I opened up my door.

But it was wishful thinking,
to wish that they would stay,
Because, just like shooting stars,
they passed and flew away.

Leaving behind those memories,
that were not meant to be,
Just like a piece of hot iron,
they left a mark on me.

I don't see them any more,
but if I did, I'd say,
"Thanks for the times you made my day,
by having the right words to say.

"Thanks for genuinely,
pointing out the flaws in me.
Though it was gradually,
you played a part in changing me.  

Perhaps we are not meant to last,
Only to be a memory of the past.
Even though we drifted apart,
you'll always have some place in my heart."
To those who I got close to at some point in time, but have since drifted from.
A candle is never quite the same,
after it melts with the beauty of a flame.
Emanating such blazing warmth,
enchanting in its glimmering form.

It's just like intimacy,
being known in vulnerability.
Being held in warm embrace,
as they gently stroke your face.
Soft kisses planted on your cheeks.
And the moment your lips meet.

Certain things I wish I never felt..
For once they are felt,
they are never forgotten.

And I am never the same.
Desires once awakened cannot be silenced.  They can be ignored, controlled, but the fact remains that, you know that they exist.
Driving down the road
1994. Daughter 13.

Song on the radio
not to my taste.
So bad, Dad had to comment.

"That sounds like garbage"
Said I to daughter #1
"Yes it is" came the reply.
"And you like that?" Said I.
"Yes I do." said she.
"Why?  It is garbage!"
"Yes it is." Said she.
"Listen to it. It sounds like garbage."
"That is because it is." said she.
"I never heard such garbage before"
"It is a new song." said she.
"It is still garbage."
"Yes it is." said she.
"Why do you like garbage?"
I Like their music." said she.
"Their music?" said I
"Yes. The groups name is
     GARBAGE."

Who knew.
Obviously not Dad.

(c) Dad
Oct. 2014
Fortunately garbage did not last long.
I guess it was taken to the dump.
I'm sorry for being a natural disaster.

I'm sorry the way my mood changes turns you into a quiet rumble of thunder, always dragging behind the lightning bolt until the full force of nature's fury is pounding down on your head.

I'm sorry for skidding into your world like a golden-tinged summer daydream and leaving it like a levee breaking.

I'm sorry for writing about you so much that your name is carved into my fingertips like water shapes a rock formation -- my journal probably wouldn't weigh so much if all my baggage wasn't crammed inside it.

I'm sorry that I can only write in figurative language lately but the concise truth is like walking barefoot on ice and after a while it's so cold it burns:

I never really loved you.

But admitting it means hailstones of lies battering my already-crumbling storm shelter, all our sunny afternoons grayed out by cloud cover.

And I'm sorry beyond all the weather metaphors in the world, but I can't bear that.
Wrote the backbone of this in the ten minutes given during class, then tweaked it a little bit at home, but it's still 100% based on that overdone "girl like a natural disaster" thing. Got me out of my writer's block a little bit though.
Dear Edgar,
We've never met,
But I know why you walked the streets
Of Baltimore at 4 am.
I too walk the streets of my own mind,
Hearing the raven's cries
And walking up at midnight to the sound of a tell-tale heart
Wondering if it is nothing more
Than the bells in my brain
Or the black cat running up the alleyway.
Dear Edgar,
We've never met,
But I know why you walked the streets
Of Baltimore at 4 am.
I took have whisked into the shadows
An inky cloak upon my back
Wondering whether my heart feels more like a pit or a pendulum
Or whether I will fall like the house of usher,
A gold bug
In the masque of red death.
Dear Edgar,
We've never met,
But I know why you walked the streets of Baltimore at 4 am.
Never more
William Wilson.
And silence- a fable,
Or is it?
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