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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: 2nd Drafr Re: Illusions and life and suchdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: lori_tab
    ASL Info:    27/f/alabama
    Elite Ratio:    4.33 - 1752/1517/481
    Words: 505
    Class/Type: Misc/Misc
    Total Views: 613
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2889



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    dots2nd Drafr Re: Illusions and life and suchdots
    -------------------------------------------


    Concerning my disease being shed. This is not entirely true, you see the disease, though disguised, is ever present. The disease is not any specific substance in which I could ingest, rather a weakness in myself that hinders me from continuing on in the world with contentness at the very least. I wish very much I knew an antidote for this. Oh what a clever solution that would be!

    From the preverse thighs that were once used in more athletic and intellectual pursuits, games like Volleyball and dancing, there is now a desire. Like a desires, it consumes her, becomes her, erases from his grion up every innocent beauty that was the girls own. Oh how lovely she was, how boundless, delightfully like a blank canvas. When her picture began there were bright colors, dashes of pink and carribean brush strokes that would create tiny fairy wings lifting her into the heavens, exposing her beautiful and poetic spirit into the air. A lovely angel descending on all of us, crying tears of happiness and at once sadness for every lack of compassion in the wretched world below her. And it was below her, for we were all insignificant under her feet. Insignificant to what she could have been.

    Note all the distractions, note love, note every problem that destroys and corrupts her lovely legs. Note them, and realize that it is not the fault of distraction and love, but of desire. Desire for beauty,giving her sensitivity to his pain. Desire for love, that gave their relationship importance. Desire for significance in her meaningless life to defend the love that she sacrificed her developing art. She would have been a masterpiece. For now her canvas is ugly. In time, we all hope, it will evolve and be more perfect than one could imagine. This perfection is a hope. This perfection, though flawed is only a masterpiece from it's temporary deformity.

    The other lady occupies her time with life. She tends to those she loves when she can, appreciating greatly every second of sincere affection.

    The boy, poor fellow, is alone now, confined inside his own head, left to clean the scattered pieces of his broken heart. Words could not describe the depth of the pain that he feels. We all watch him and hope that his pain will evolve into a healthy bode of inspiration. The lady and the one with notable thighs, and I with my disease try to help him with the pain. But we are poor with a broom, we have no skill to walk the length of the halls, sweeping and sweeping. Collecting particles of dust that in previous months would reside on his dear lover. Now he sits, upon sitting he waits. Whathe waits for he only has vague ideas. They tell him in time he'll feel better, they tell him this is an oppurtunity to express his own desires. He doesn't know where to begin, so for now he sits, he waits.





    Submitted on 2007-03-07 13:35:48     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      Which part is mine???
    | Posted on 2007-03-07 00:00:00 | by Raivn | [ Reply to This ]
      All I have to say Jazmine is that you can have your opinions. You're entitled to them. But did you ever think maybe I wasn't so great before? You know why those legs stopped playing volleyball? Because they weren't good enough to make the team. Maybe they did succumb to desire. But didn't yours as well? Desire isn't all that the relationship is made of. You, a patron of Love its self, should know so well. Before, what was I? A writer. A drug user. Someone going crazy. I stopped writing, yes. But that's because I can't write when I am happy because every happy piece of Literature seems to be the same. Maybe that gives you a clue as to why I wrote so much before. What did I do then but dwell on my parents drinking and drugs, bad things between siblings, and I do believe you know what I am referring to. Sad things. I don't write, because there are rarely any sad things to dwell on. Still those present fears, and regrets, but they are under a newer light. They don't seem to mater so much any more because it isn't all that's there. And finally, someone made me feel like it was ok. (And by such I mean the sibling thing.) I did drugs before. I wouldn't have stopped if Derrick hadn't. And I only stopped then because I had no connections. Well, school is back in now and I have them again. You know why I don't do them? I imagine you could guess. Because I have a reason not to. He is my reason not to.
    I was so close to going over before. To just leaping and falling into a pool of genes that all of the members in our family seem to share, or at least the women and Uncle Jonny. I was always so sad in my head. I cut, the drugs, the stupid things with Samuel. (And if you'd like to point fingers, dear Jazmine, remember the first time you cut. Why I did drugs in the first place.) I was so close then to just losing it. I really thought I was crazy, and I think that if he hadn't come along, and I hadn't grown to trust him like I did and talked to him about all of it I would be crazy by now.
    I don't know, maybe you can't really tell exactly how things have changed, seeing as how you hardly ever come around anymore, but I think they are better. Maybe you would prefer for me to continue to do drugs, cut, worry about everything and drive myself crazy. Maybe then I could call myself a writer again? I think I'd rather call myself happy.
    | Posted on 2007-03-07 00:00:00 | by jessie thomas | [ Reply to This ]


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