Game of love

Love is just a game; relationship is the board we play on.
The goal is to see how long you can last.
Sometimes you have to play and sometimes you have to pass.
It is a game we all play and have a few losses but many seem to fold to cut their loss.
You will nver win big you don’t fight the bosses.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

just a though about love in this day and age.

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The Gallery of the Soul

Statues that fear nearby mirrors,
wary of these obelisks in granite smears.
They say to themselves:
"Such creatures must surely be of old fiction!"

Canvasses left, still dripping,
beneath broad lamps of artificial light.
They never quite dry;
but they do become hardened, like molded bread.

Dauntless fools in paint and nude;
they dot each hall and carry on at no one.
When, and if approached,
they scurry all directions and shout out their idolatry.

There are great and hanging ornaments
with wide and gaping holes from thrown rocks.
Drowned in all their splendor,
they now hang and bleed black in mighty, roaring waves.

Among the halls the voices bicker,
with each concept so self-obsessed and sure:
a thousand senseless thoughts and words
that combine to form nothing, beyond unsettled bowels.

And then there are booths and displays
that one may then hide in with someone quite attractive.
You can't recall the piece's stage,
but you can remember the color of its floor.

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Pocket a Coin

I don't deserve to hold these riches.

Upon arrival, I set about,
and saw to it our sure descent
beneath the fields and tides of war
made by those who lay with sisters
and know us from our old estates.
We were to pass by unimpeded
by the rattles of smoke and ire,
delirious with fevered hope
of one clear exit towards our freedom.
We wished to lose none,
and chose to risk little.
We set about at the sound of battle overhead.

I was but one of many who sought to bathe in gold,
and stumbled on a tomb of glitter,
made for the taking away.

I wasn't the first, nor the last, to pocket a coin.

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Average (of) Annandale

Apparent in the amiable
extension of a joke,
Annandale will shake your hand
and then begin to blend.
Excuses self from spoken depths,
and exits every dialogue;
never with a sense of stay,
but never with a sense of go.
Annandale's empowering
sense of overwhelming self, at least,
may throw off one's true depth perceived,
at least, in terms of Annandale.
For average he, not brick in color;
though stuck to walls like mewling vines,
cannot see, though may discover
a taste for salt that follows rejection.
All it takes is a boisterous caw,
and enough to make his head feel stew;
the man aloft on wicker water -
too far beyond to fear the coldest of their shoulders.

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Painted Ladies

These many, steady galleries,
marred by passing favor, fancy;
stupid whims and painted skin.
The subjects there so caught in ruin
of self and all surroundings,
consuming like a whining vortex.
Where has all awareness gone?
Abandoned for a sense of doting,
a tripping over one's own feet -
to fall to knees and beg for her
and they and their and nothing ever.
Their burning flesh with senseless symbols,
foreign language words devoid
of languid truth, lucid dreams,
and the making of profundity.
And they weigh themselves with such decor
that screams abrupt to passers-by,
begging for a wandered eye
to linger on their highs and lows,
their curvy, sultry aperture,
their mimic of the many constant.
What's the point of all pursuit?
Where are all their invites sent?
Against the rigid stones of cores?
To the tidal pull of fronts?
A steady sip and an easy breath,
intoxicants all scant and tethered
to hands of sweat and hesitant
men who cannot be another.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

There aren't many women left that don't have stupid, gaudy tattoos.

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I knew a mannish boy named Grit
who liked to drive his motorcycle.
There wasn't much he cared to do,
but riding always felt so fine.
He knew the girls were watching him;
he didn't stop to question why.
All Grit knew was he had it easy,
and he wanted the easy to stay.

Grit would light a fire for his friends
and stay and keep them company.
He'd tell a joke with tones of voice
that felt like mirrors and prism glass.
He always would agree with you
and step down quick to raising voice.
He also had a slithered way
of slipping hands into a pocket.

For many days Grit may be a friend
until a perk may catch his drift.
And then he may step down or back
atop your head or below your skirt.
At times his grip will belie the waist
even if the time's not right;
given to the time and place,
Grit would migrate to higher ground.

Eventually, one no longer knows Grit.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Some times people are just bad.

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There was a time
When harsh winds howled
And the night breeze sighed:
When deep within something grew
And withered
To grow again...
I used to stand in awe
Wondering and perplexed
Why some things
Never remained the same
Even sometimes...
Now nothing affects me
Neither joy or sorrow
For I have come to know
The futility of this world
And its self-worshipping people.
I mingle not too much
With those who know little
And think they know all...
Instead of them I visit the saints
The sufis and the mystics
The gypsies and all those
Who like me
Are fed up of this
"Sorry scheme of things..."
But for a wound
Caused by a flower
I bother not or feel for
Even fame or power...
I wait for the time
When my Almighty
Proves once again
That He is my beloved He.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Like I have mentioned before, a few days ago, I have been through a series of deceptions and backstabs, by those who I thought would never do it to me -- the pain, aches and sorrows, the grief, the restlessness and the angst they inflicted on me, for no fault of mine other than telling them to be good. However, I have left it to God Almighty now, for He is the best of judges.

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Many Bodies

Every pretty bit, line collage with fashions stated

Why look upon, when not a word is uttered at all

Beyond the vale, a screen of witless intoxicants

Allowing you, allowing me, to exchange a word in passing

The carelessness, the rampant ineptitude

A stifling force that wires jaws to stillness

All for the best, because my words tend to be

the most vile and toxic thing to drip from my being

Endless complaining, without a reason for a frown

Desperate for someone to ask a simple question

At a constant loss, and I tend to generate

every single obstacle that needs attending to

But life will expire, and soon thought will cease

Worries and woes can no longer burden me

Below the tousled soil, above on busted knees

Eventually I think, I'll find the end that I seek.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Let's get sad all over again.

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