it wasn’t morning yet but he woke up to the sounds of cheering and applause He looked around and saw shadowy figures with elongated faces and bright, white eyes staring at him “Congratulations, they said. You have awakened.” “What in the hell?” he said, looking around startled. “Who are you?” “The messengers,” replied the shadows. “We are very pleased to announce that you may collect your prize whenever you are ready. You’ve earned it.” “What? What did I do?” “You awakened. In a world of sleepers you woke up and are therefore eligible for ascension. You might follow us through the hole in the ceiling whenever you are ready. All that’s left to do here is to melt the shackle.” “What?” he said Then one of the shadows have him a small bottle that smelled strongly of gasoline and a box of matches The other shadows pointed to his desk, to all the papers stacked on it and under it and all around it “Those are my poems,” he said “Indeed. They represent everything that keeps you tied to this world. Your shackle. Burn your shackle and melt it away so you can ascend and take flight. The time has come.” “I worked all my life to write those poems,” he said “Yes, you did. But now that you are awake you see that they’re all in vain. For nothing is real on this plane. It’s all a dream, of course. You have designed it pretty nice. A simple dream spent entirely in the confines of a narrow room with low ceiling. Drinking and smoking and writing all day long and late into the night. It’s a beautiful dream. No family, no friends, no communication with the outside world, and no desire for any. You’ve thus taken a shortcut to awakening, but it’s by no means illegal. You’re still eligible for ascension. So, whenever you’re ready, we are.” He watched the shadows The shadows watched him He reached out for the gasoline and matches, looked over to the desk and the stacks of paper Looked for a long time Closed his eyes and went back to sleep The shadows were gone by the morning but they left the gasoline and matches behind He got out of bed went to the desk by the window opened the blinds and started writing another poem
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"When you no longer see the shadow of what kept you strong it's time to let go." Those would be the last words he wrote at the back of the notebook he filled with thoughts and rants and poems ‘Thoughts That Come From The Heart’ was the title and the work will remain for long after he'd pass away At least that was the plan But alas, as he gave his final breath the cigarette rolled from his fingers to the desk and all the way down on the shaggy carpet It was a matter of minutes until the whole room became a snapshot from the inferno It's almost like the gods want to send a message. They want to say that poets rarely if ever have happy endings I'm starting to believe that more and more as the days pass
the other night she went to sleep listening to subliminal audios and woke up in the morning saying, “I am birds. Many, many birds trapped together in a bag of silk. This thing that the world looks at and calls my body is but a bag of silk that traps birds inside. I am not the bag. A bag isn’t alive. I am the birds inside the bag. And I must get out!” She ran into the bathroom Her father shrugged. “Fuckin’ shit,” he said, shaking his head. “To think that she could’ve been a doctor, or a lawyer, or an engineer. She could’ve been anything. But she chose to study creative writing in college. Now she’s a poetess... and we are no more than characters lost in her verses.”
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they didn’t think
That’s the problem, kids usually
don’t plan ahead,
they live in the moment
They just saw a movie
to imitate the actors
because they thought what the
actors did was cool
The actors hunted wild
and to do so they built traps
all over the place
They imitated the actors but
the only prey that fell
in their trap
was their pregnant mother. Using
the back door to
come into the yard
she tripped over the wire
they set and
face first into the
knife blades that stuck out from the
ground as they buried the
The trap was genius level
The therapist would have to be
so as well
Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour shifts locked in a dark office full of TV monitors. There…
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There was indeed silence now Oh, and it's been but days since the screams cracked the windows and the thrown bottles stripped the walls of their paint and the curses made the gods cringe and cover their ears The house of madness no longer lived up to its name For she was finally gone and he was left with the echoes "C'mon, dare me to down it!" were her words as she opened the last bottle And his were, "Bitch, you're mad!" "Dare me, motherfucker! Dare me to down this here bottle. You don't think I can, do you? Ah, you slime-gutted piece of shit." "I'm telling you to knock it the fuck out already! I'll bury yer fuckin' eyes in, see if I won't." But she was already pouring down her throat. She had this talent that allowed her to drink without swallowing. Pouring down her throat was like…
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there he was arriving on main street carrying a backpack and a suitcase both stuffed with papers “WELCOME TO THE TOWN OF FORGOTTEN POETS.” said the shadows that watched from the windows of nearby buildings He didn’t like the sound of their voices but he sighed and dragged his tired feet along they were almost as tired as his soul and just as hurt He'll have to live on the streets, for the town was overpopulated
It became more and more obvious There was a storm inside her growing ever stronger and she sought to terminate it before it was too late It's arguably more difficult to terminate such storms when you're fifteen and still living with your parents so she decided not to share her struggle with them and reached inside her for the eye of the storm with a steel wire she'd kept in a bottle of hand sanitizer for a day and a night Yes, the first raindrops painted the white of the bathtub they were crimson and salty like her tears
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The old lady kept coming by
the hospital to assure the medics that it’ll be okay
“He’s a true fighter,” she said. “I know he’ll make it.
He has won the battle with drugs
twice in the past. He’ll make it this time as well. I
know it. I feel it. I believe in him.”
“Mam,” said the doctor. “We found rusty fragments
of broken needles stuck in his arm. Now, since
you’re his only relative
I do believe we shall carry out a discussion involving septic shock.
“He’ll make it! I know he will!
He’s a true fighter and a champion.
I believe in him.”
He didn’t make it
but it was fine apparently. When they showed his
body in the morgue, the old lady
Told them that’s not her son.
That was a dead body and her son was alive.
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Well, after you write enough and try to publish for long enough you just notice it There is no such thing as good or bad poetry. There's just poetry to which people can relate and poetry to which people can't relate. And that makes all the difference in the world.
This morning he sent his third part (third time) of poems that we will publish every Wednesday. I personally thank the author who has many followers who value his written work.
j re crivello founder of Masticadores (*)
life’ll smile father punched him lightly in the shoulder and said, "Hey, keep that chin up, buddy. Just know that a time will come when life'll smile at us." Sure, he'd been saying that since forever. That was the earliest and most common memory of him Grinning from ear to ear and saying that a day will come when life'll smile upon them But until that day they'll have to sit in the town square and play their cheap instruments for passersby to drop money in their box Keep that chin up… Oh, father. You can't play the violin holding your chin up And life won't smile if you keep playing it…
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