Autumn is Tamed Egos

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Autumn feels like how it appears in colors:

rosy yellow, young brown, and fading green.

It is that comfort. That effortlessness.

Of listening to songs you love when you are a kid.

Accidently finding your once-lost-favorite treasure.

Waking up without a struggle. Easy. Without any rush.

Letting go of a long-held grudge.

Hugging your anger with tenderness.

Making peace with your own guilt.

The art of enjoying being not in control.

It carries a patience to start over.

Discarding your graceful green, to be beautiful.

A never-ending forgiveness.

Autumn is tamed egos.

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Beyond the Stage

Behind the unsung curtain,
the performance was to be readied.
Shadows were escaping.
They knew that,
we’d be the stars.

Our acts were raw.
Partied by costumes made from a blanket we shared,
all of it; of feelings, of wrongdoings, and of whatnot.

altogether.

From the first gaze,
the audience collapsed their hearts.
On the very first note,
souls were carried to a place
beyond the stage.

We’d be telling each other that;
to be there,
is an invitation to be passionate for a change.

To be scared to surrender, and to admit that:
we cannot be more applauded than this
.
To be gathering ovations,
regardless of failing life and be failed.

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to Bed With Fire

In retrospect,
It was not at all incipient.
The first ignition,
was more than seeded,
maniac enough.

A rush of fire bloomed,
nearly unready,
to bear in me,
a sweeping fiery roses of blazes,
over-blossomed.

Enraged. Almost insufferable.
It melted down all,
prematurely, way too quickly.

It was somewhat frightful.
Yet, we met in it.
Not sure how consciously.
For me, partly bravely: risking.
But haven’t we, already? Then, than that?

Then came these intruders, disguised as a safeguard.
“Do we burn the same?”
A longing to foresee. Ahead of reality.
“Will we run out of fuel?”
and another,
“Will I suffocate alone in the ashes-
in the end?
Clear enemy: delirium.
Yet, still well-nigh impossible to ignore.

While still yearning for answers,
I’ll serve the waves of bright flashes and flares,
If it burns, i’ll surf with it.
But, if it does not, i’ll bury it, peacefully.

To accept to let go,
but to also give it a go.
Without giving in or up.

Being aware that,
some days were colder than another.
Darker than before I was without you,
some nights, the thoughts were louder than the truths.

Nevertheless, it burns dearly,
or nevermore is not silly.
I’ll feed the flame, certainly.
I’ll bed with it, nonchalantly.

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A Trite Night

Vincent was playing in the back of my head
Starry starry night…
As I cried out to the people I have hurt
for a rather cloudy help
to survive this yet another trite night.

“Sometimes we do things for our own good and other people get hurt,”
Gloria shared her sense.
As I counted what I have given to life
to only discover the false and fault,
having hearts of theirs wounded as the result
of me, taking love for granted…
“That is what I thought so,” James concurred.

Now I understand,
Ellie sang.
What you tried to say to me.

To start sweetly, to be longed for,
to end sourly, to be left out with a bitter aftertaste
a medicine prescribed for this crime.

Better be an abandonment,
one wished it was that after all,
but one can only doubt oneself.
And how you suffered for your sanity.

Is this how this uneventful night will end?
With lights coming from the corners of
windows that are always curtained
with anxiety, memories, and wishes?
Don continued, how you tried to set them free.
I stopped. I let the world move forward, this time.

Because nevertheless,
the sun does not care if you died that night.
But these people you hurt. Those with love for you.
They care more than the sun,
there they are before the morning after,
stars during an ungodly trite night.

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Blooms and Dies

Carrying your truth is benign,
a flower it was, until into houses,
through unwelcoming doors and shut windows
you start throwing them,
to get in.

Oblivious that flower could rot…
It blooms and dies and pollens
and it dies, inside the shelters not yours.

But a truth can be a venom,
a tear, a wet sunshine, a word undescribeable.

Just because all worlds are created in anger, it does not mean everything must blast they way you want it

In your garden, can’t you see?
Soldiers and seamstresses and prayers and sinners,
marching side by side,
as they generalize
they ostracize

Sorting flower by flower
until left one color,
it leaves.

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