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Always so much to say, but often lacking the appropriate time, words, arena, or audience. So notions, thoughts, theories, feelings, sentiments, confessions, ideas, hopes, fears and truths that are so much less dangerous, less powerful, when left in mental bondage, captured and entangled in the confines of the ever-broadening, (yet, strangely suffocating in its perpetuate state of maximum capacity) mind. So errors that I've found and have circled in red in the rough(est) draft of life, but I refuse, even still, to go back and edit it to pardon it, excuse it, fix it with a band-aid with simple words, simple utterances of reality, of fact, of opinion, of emotion New skin can't move the scar. The mind moves too fast for emotions to keep up: a saving too wonderful to praise. Push it aside as a laugh beats a tear to the punch. Laughter life's sole redemption, more often than not. Laughter my favorite murmur of defeat. It is never an option to tell you what is on my mind. History repeats itself, but you cannot fool me twice. To have you toss salt when I showed you how deep the wound was it cannot happen twice, and therefore, it is never an option to tell you what is on my mind history repeats itself, while the future remains unstated altogether. Who would be foolish enough to let a past that did not want them sabotage a beckoning future? "Not I," said the girl, glancing over her shoulder for a second too. is a dangerous thing an infection of the mind that eats away at reality but just the gray matter. Jet black and stark white were always my forte my comfort. The greater the polarity the lesser the confusion. The lesser the confusion the greater disillusion. So, you, I must demand the shades of gray. I need them. Avoiding them is not an option, as it is nothing more than a lie. A destructive truth always trumps a mollifying lie. But self-destruction doesn't lie comfortably across the heart. It is never an option to tell you that I you. That your imperfections make you perfect. That's not for you to know, to hear, to wonder, or suspect. Who are you to know the elusive truth? It isn't yours to conjecture. It isn't yours, because when it was, you did not. So now it is mine, but only in theory, as most elusive things tend to be. And it is never an option to tell you, until history repeats itself. looking for free sex tonight Singaporeso since you posted a poem i post this one in response. i you enjoy it as much as i did. Monologue for an Onion by Suji Kwock I don't mean to make you cry. I mean nothing, but this has not kept you From peeling away my body, layer by layer, The tears clouding your eyes as the table fills With husks, cut flesh, all the debris of pursuit. Poor deluded human: you seek my heart. Hunt all you want. Beneath each skin of mine Lies another skin: I am pure onion pure union Of outside and in, surface and secret core. Look at you, chopping and weeping. Idiot. Is this the way you go through life, your mind A stopless knife, driven by your fantasy of truth, Of lasting union slashing away skin after skin From things, ruin and tears your only signs Of progress? Enough is enough. You must not grieve that the world is glimpsed Through veils. How can it be seen? How you rip away the veil of the eye, the veil That you are, you who want to grasp the heart Of things, hungry to know where meaning Lies. Taste what you hold in your hands: onion-juice, Yellow peels, my stinging shreds. You are the one In pieces. Whatever you meant to, in meaning to You changed yourself: you are not who you are, Your soul cut moment to moment by a blade Of fresh, the ground sown with abandoned skins. And at your inmost circle, what? A core that is Not one. Poor fool, you are divided at the heart, Lost in its maze of chambers, blood, and, A heart that one day beat you to death. interracial sex
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