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    poetry


    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    10:59 and i wonder if writing, or more so, the need for writing will come back to me. maybe i will find myself sitting under a great tree, somewhere in scotland, where a mist obscures my view. maybe the mist doesn't obscure it too much to see a hare run for cover. there are hares in scotland, right? maybe i only see patches of green, or heather, or thistle, or the leg of my man in a kilt (if i could ever get him in one). maybe the sound of pipes come through, an imagined mixed into real.

    somewhere, i lost my voice. not sure why.

    ...Created 2017-10-05 10:16:10

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    10:02 and the word has indeed gone mad!!!!!

    also - really sad about tom petty. he was totally on my bucket list.

    though, not sure if I ever want to attend a concert again.

    ...Created 2017-10-03 09:03:18

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    10:05 and leaves fall like they mean something. something more than i think they mean, at least.

    all i know is - paigy was so excited to see them escape from their stronghold. if she could've done a dance in that moment, she would've.

    ...Created 2017-09-30 09:20:01

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    4:21 and (sigh).

    ...Created 2017-09-28 15:21:26

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual



    i notice her flowers, how they rot in a blue ball jar. not an old ball jar, mind you, but a remake, the kind that comes in a pack of four for less than a tenner at the local everything-is-made-in-china-store. anyway, the line - she never does give them proper burials - it comes to me and sticks; a mental note. a future something or other to work on. add to. or not.

    and her flowers, they rot. they always rot. they will stay there in murky, smelly, stem rotting water until someone else throws them away.

    i realize it's about importance; what takes precedance. i suppose for her a proper burial isn't even a thought. she doesn't see them. dead. alive. picked. bought. sent. cut. i wonder if she has ever truly enjoyed the precious scent of a purple petunia that smells like colorado.

    i watch the early morning mist rise up from the river; enough to see a random fish jump or leaf float by like it's the beginning of fall. i go back to the flowers, or what were once flowers; a small bouquet; an arrangement made; a gathering of: black-eyed susans, russian sage, honeysuckle and lavender; paired with: bee balm, gerber daises, snap dragons and spearmint. the only thing left alive now are the ribbons necktied around the jar. how they unfurl with the sun; become polka-dotted burlap fronds and something to consider.


    tbc

    ...Created 2017-09-09 05:42:22

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    i notice her flowers, how they rot in a blue ball jar. not an old ball jar, mind you, but a remake, the kind that comes in a pack of four for less than a tenner at the local everything-is-made-in-china-store. anyway, the line - she never does give them proper burials - it comes to me and sticks; a mental note. a future something or other to work on. add to. or not. and her flowers, they rot. they always rot. they will stay there in murky, smelly, stem rotting water until someone else throws them away. i realize it's about importance; what takes precedance. i suppose for her a proper burial isn't even a thought. she doesn't see them. dead. alive. picked. bought. sent. cut. i wonder if she has ever truly enjoyed the precious scent of a purple petunia that smells like colorado. i watch the early morning mist rise up from the river; enough to see a random fish jump or leaf float by; like it's the beginning of fall. i go back to the flowers, or what were once flowers; a small bouquet; an arrangement made; a gathering of: black-eyed susans, russian sage, cone flowers and lavender. with a mix of: honeysuckle, gerber daises, dragons that snap and spearmint. the only thing left alive are the ribbons necktied around the jar. they unfurl now with the sun; become polka-dotted burlap fronds. and i love her anyway.

    ...Created 2017-09-09 05:09:46

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    5:01 and i notice her flowers, how they rot in a blue ball jar. not an old ball jar, mind you, but a remake, the kind that comes in a pack of four for less than a tenner at the local everything-is-made-in-china-store. anyway, the line - she never does give them proper burials - it comes to me and sticks; becomes a mental note. something to work on. add to. or not.

    and the flowers, they rot. they always rot. they will stay there in murky, smelly, stem rotting water until someone else throws them away.

    i realize it's about importance; what takes precedance. i suppose for her a proper burial isn't even a thought. she doesn't see them. dead or alive. picked. bought. sent. cut. i wonder if she has ever truly enjoyed the precious scent of a purple petunia that smells like colorado.

    i watch the early morning mist rise up from the river; enough to see a random fish jump or leaf float by, like it's the beginning of fall. i go back to the flowers, or what was once flowers; a bouquet of butterfly bush, russian sage, snap dragons, lavender, lambs ear, black-eyed susans, honeysuckle and gerber daises. the only thing left alive are the ribbons necktied around the jar. they unfurl in the sun; become burlap fronds.


    tbc

    ...Created 2017-09-09 04:20:40

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    4:33 and i notice her flowers, how they rot in a blue ball jar. not an old ball jar, mind you, but a remake, the kind that comes in a pack of four for less than a tenner at the local everything-is-made-in-china-store. anyway, the line - she never does give them proper burials - it comes to me and sticks; becomes a mental note. something to work on. add to. or not.

    and the flowers, they rot. they always rot. they will stay there in murky, smelly, stem rotting water until someone else throws them away.

    i realize it's about importance; what takes precedance. i suppose for her a proper burial isn't even a thought. she doesn't see them. dead or alive. picked. bought. sent. cut. i wonder if she has ever truly enjoyed the precious scent of a purple petunia that smells like colorado.




    ...Created 2017-09-09 03:58:52

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    3:49 and i notice her flowers, how they rot in a blue ball jar. not an old ball jar, mind you, but a remake, the kind that comes in a pack of four for less than a tenner at the local everything-is-made-in-china-store. anyway,the line - she never does give them proper burials - it comes to me, then sticks. i make a mental note thinking maybe it's something i could work on later.

    ...Created 2017-09-09 03:15:43

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    10:23 and have at it. it's all you get.

    ...Created 2017-08-17 09:23:37

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.

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    January 10 07
    131,497 Poems
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