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he touched my arm
as he paid for his latte —
i smiled as he talked.
he’s going to budapest.
same time as me.

he asked if i could
recommend things to see.
easy.
the ruin bars,
the chain bridge.
the gellért baths,
if you like steam.

i could be your guide —
i didn’t say —
i know a great place
i could take you.
it doesn’t need a ticket.
conveniently,
it’s located
in my bedroom.
this one is about the crush who wanted to explore budapest, and made me consider becoming a private tour guide.
Spicy Digits Jul 16
I thought we were strangers
As much as we were strangers to
Everyone around

I thought you were just
A story untold,
A future ideal

My little self dreamt of you
Pretended you were a hero

She saw you under the bed
In the backyard
In the furled faces
Of a million flowers

I knew you were of this
universe, well-known
But wasn't convinced
We'd ever meet in the flesh

But we've met many times
You and I

In the corner of my shoe closet
Running down that street, bruised.
We met in a cafe on Rue de Seine
On the 4-hour bus rides at 3am

We sat together, utterly content,
On the floor of old libraries
Inhaling stories and scents
Of cedarwood and vanillan

I saw you dancing
When I was dancing
Awkward nerds
You took my hand, pulling

Your kind, fractalled face
Kissed mine a thousand times
Your voice saved my life

In awe at the depth of your knowing,
I'm grateful we're still alive.

X
An old man, he once told me,
'Bout a place the mind could see.

About a land of sound and color,
Where I'd finally be free.

And he took me on a journey;
Showed me things the eyes
Can't see,

Taught me lessons that would
Come in dreams,
And follow life with me.

And when I climbed
Atop my mountain,
The horizon greeted me,

And I realized that I had
Closed my eyes
To the beauty before me.

And now, at night,
I see the stars, and I can smile
And reminisce,

And I remember that old man,
Who taught me things
I might've missed.
A short poem about an old hippie who was my first trip guide. Acid saves, man. And the changes of brings can be the most positive you may feel.
1DNA May 29
The night in your eyes,
Guides your sight.
Poetry and science!
Reece May 29
A trusted advisor,
A friend,
Someone you can rely on,
Through thick and thin.
Someone to hold out,
A guiding hand,
Someone to cheer you on,
When you reach the end.
There’s something special,
Knowing someone believes in me,
Despite everything.
It gives me hope,
That perhaps one day,
I’ll become something!
All because of a few words said,
From a mentor, a trusted friend.
A good teacher can be your greatest friend.
I know I’ll never fit my skin.
It’s tired, worn, useless, thin.
A star's glow trapped in my eyes.
Buried in dark, I see no rise.

The weight in my chest,
from poison in my breath,
Plays the hymn of my soul,
On the strings of my death.

My shadow, a wanderer,
where light dares not tread,
Dreams forged in the gallows,
where demons are fed.

Each song, a lament.
Quantum sonnets ignored.
In the endless night,
bound to the darkness I hoard.

My pulse-heavy hand,
Strums as loud as it can.
My heart beats a rhythm,
Erratically unplanned.

My rhythm of chaos.
My melody pure.
My quivering voice.
My lyrics, unsure.

But the echoes swell,
As they scream in my mind.
Like a serpent in Eden,
I'm dark and divine.

Deep in this garden,
where a serpent has right.
I wonder the blackness.
Trying to carve out my light.

If only for like souls,
Lost deep in this doubt.
Seek me, I beg you.
Let me guide you out.

Though I may be worn,
my heart may be scarred.
My ways questionable,
my body may be charred.

Seek me in the deep,
Though darkened my path,
I'll carve out my light,
And threaten no wrath.

Seeing through won't be easy.
And hope becomes a foe.
This darkness instills,
A foreboding woe.

Find me in the blackness,
My warm heart, my cold hands.
You'll know my voice,
when the hair on your neck stands.
Always read more than you write,
Enjoy more than you dislike,
Critique less than you praise,
But critique none the less.
Though if you come to doubt,
Sing more than you are silent,
Walk more than you are still,
Then pick up the pen once again.
If you somber, write all that is sad,
Yet if you rejoice, write only the praises of the sun,
Though if you laugh, soon you will cry,
Only to know the beautiful cycle of life.
A pocket book for every new poet.
God
God doesn’t cause good or bad to happen
God allows good and bad to happen
God allows his creations to cause good or bad to happen
As it serves his purpose to teach us right from wrong
For such is the will of God
Holy God and father in heaven guide me in the truth
Come what may
His light guides our way,
Shining on all His beloved,
Sweet. cannot be beat.
Fiath for all.  Feedback welcome.
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