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Tony Luxton May 2017
An unwelcome shock to see them again,
their faces no longer a part of the place.
His memory oiled by how things were
back then, in nineteen hundred and when?

Existence now seems full of persistent
memories, though there are false ones too.
Does he rely to much on them for what to do?
When people tell him words that chime,
should he so readily comply?

Should he trust himself to think things true?
Use his knowledge or review his ideas?
Retry those memories beyond a reasonable doubt,
seek out the false ones, chuck them out?
Rafael Melendez Aug 2016
There is only so much a man can write before he is someone else entirely. So leave him be while he is still himself. Run away.
Beinghonest Feb 2016
He lost everything -
But he was able to recover it all,
Because he still had one thing :
**HIMSELF
Never lose yourself - no matter what...

-just being honest
Chloe Dec 2014
Every night,
we were skin on skin,
soul on soul,
pain on pain.
I only knew him through heavy breaths
and vulnerable ***,
but I still let him slip away.
It hurts to say,
you can know someone so intimately,
from head to toe,
yet be blind to the emotions behind
every kiss.

But I should have saw his downfall,
because happy people don't
show up drunk at 3 AM,
begging to be touched,
begging to feel alive.
12.13.14
Mary Christopher Jun 2014
I wanted to be the one who saved him
And maybe that’s the saddest part,
That I wanted to save him
But failed.
I kept trying, but I never could

And I know that’s kind of horrible,
That I didn’t want him to be himself.
I wanted him to be someone else

Someone he wasn’t
And never would be
And never could be
Even if he tried

I wanted him
But I also wanted someone else
So I tried to make him be both

But of course I failed
Because each of us
Has only one life to live

So if someday
He becomes someone he’s not
I will know

And I will hate it
Because now I realize how beautiful
His own self really is

And I would never wish him to be someone else
Not now
Not anymore

Because I am me
And he is he
And that’s all we’ll ever be

And knowing that is a strange sort of beautiful
That not even the best writer could put into words.

m.c.c.
about a friend of sorts...
Ahmed Usman Apr 2014
An artist paints himself in memories
and long lost dreams of yesteryears
lying in a field of laughing daffodils
he waters each with endless tears

Placing a box of love that never was
with shaking hands upon the shelf
wondering why it’s so hard to find
while he cannot love or find himself

Recklessly navigating a sea of sorrow
wishing to dive into its deadly deep
but lacking the courage for even that
a child slowly cries himself to sleep

— The End —