there’s always been a certain feeling
quite difficult to name—

discomfort, most likely,
or a vague,
blurry,
unhurried sense of fear.

a worry
that perhaps you can tell
that the floor was swept
and the carpet vacuumed
only minutes before your arrival ,

anxiety
making suppositions
about your x-ray vision
and delicate opinions.

perhaps you can see
the layers of sweat and blood
behind every painted wall,

perhaps you can hear the sound
of arguments and sweet nothings
seeping up from the floorboards.

i’m sure you mean well,
that you’ve brought some sort of lasagna
and cheesecake for dessert,

yet i cannot shake the feeling
that you are invaders
from a foreign land,
here to take
and take
and take
and take
everything your eyes land on.

this shakiness is formidable,
this unraveling so easy to do,
but i am not one to succumb
to anxiety’s follies—

so i open the door anyway
dissect the chambers of my heart,
throw open the shutters,
offering every bit of my soul,

my voice echoing
off every beam and wall and ventricle,
the word soaring into your ears:

“welcome!”

Thanks

I really don't know why I can't stop,
why I smile when I see your name appear.
I swear to my core and will until I die
you're no longer welcome here.

So stop with your jokes, opinions, and smiles.
Your attempts to get back in.
I hope that you'll find that you can hurt me with words.
But even with the worst ones, you'll never win.

You're the reason the sun is scared to shine.
You're the reason I hate trying new things.
This town is a graveyard because of you.
So what's the point of making yourself King?

Every word you say is an unwritten tombstone,
the songs you sing have no tune.
But just like a fly to a light,
I long to be burned again by you.

I pick up a pen-
And set it down again.
This calling of writing has
Its own friction,
Pulling me back-

Into my own retreat.

That's the most beautiful thing anyone said about my writings.
I love you too for saying it for reading for caring and intuiting it's my truth..
Your poetic profile name Paris is beautiful
Paris is engraved in my soul from another lifetime
a DEJA_VU to me it seems

Although several great poets love my work too you expressed how it helped you be better person.
Surely what you've written
helped me profoundly too.

Sorry if my questions were irelevant insomnia does that to me I rush the second thought
not the spontaneous first.?
I must learn this virtue.

Assume most likely I have been reading all of your work
from my memory bank.
Do not fear me I do not betray
anyone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Paris Hlad: commented on,
"Deity Mine Thee."
"I think this is favorably reminiscent of E.B. Browing - "Whoso loves,
believes the impossible."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Answer-
Elizabeth Browning makes a great poetess.
I am here with my old Scarlet Letter A memorized old scripts learning how to read and write myself.
To me anything placed in God's hands apeaces
"Whoso loves believes
the impossible."
         I am after the opportunity to speak up writing about my inner truth my life.
For what I regret most is
what I didn't say back them to change my life.
but disclosing ones truthful innermost feelings is apeacing.

I learned from you that one has only one quick small chance if ever given one, to communicate effectively to let a dear one know they matter dearly.

What's impossible with men is possible with G**. is apeacing
~~~~~~
Paris Hlad commented on:
"Ratoncito blanco,"
        To Karijinbba:
Thank you for your kind words.
I have read a bunch of yours, and I believe I am a better person for having read them.

You have more than wisdom on your side - You have truth and a deep understanding of the existential paradigm, which is to say that you think about much bigger themes than most people do -
A true artist."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear...Paris Hlad  
Thank you I am no artist
just sharing a long overdue truth
So welcome read me thank you.
I am truth an open book. Eternally greatful.
~~~~~~~~~