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She looked happy, her life ahead of her. I was but a man she had forgotten in a lifetime lost in memory. I flip through her Instagram, twitter, and Facebook. Is it strange for me to want to relieve such fond times? All I want is to move forward(more)
I turn off the lights
Unplug the machine in spite
no more time tonight.
All in one instant
I felt her, two souls as one-
now escapes my reach.
The rain fell today
,but Daddy did not come home.
- the soldier was nice.
The sky is an open canvas with a hint of blue.
I stare and survey the trees animals and sun.
The rabbits go about their business, birds feeding
Their chicks, ants tending to the queen. I continue to stare, my eyes wandering aimlessly
Trying spy for something – anythin(more)
We left our hope here. The waves carried with them our past - our culture. All is lost and forgotten in the depths of she who takes, and gives little.
Her eyes are what kept me close, for without them I would be lost to my vices.
Invisible are the demons that play summer melodies in my head.
I once lived for the fast life. Everything about the postmodern age goes by fast with its trends, viral videos, and hashtags. However, when I come home to my small town in Nebraska it’s the slow things – the small things – that seem to have the lasting impact.
The battle has ended and I stand alone
The sun in the east, with a soft red tone.
I see my dead friends, with tears and I bow
I whisper softly, “it’s all over now.”
I wish to open this window of mine.
I want to see the world outside this room.
Its vibrant colors dancing on my gray walls.
The summer air brushing my face painting my cheeks red.
But alas I cannot. (more)
The edge of reality before me
My future is gone, no longer I see.
Voices fill my mind, like a tsunami.
Everything behind me, nothing ahead.
Now to the cliff, with a call I dread
One voice now said, “Ready to jump.”
We rush the beach – like mad dogs in the heat of summer – just to stay alive. The beaches of Normandy where riddled with tank traps, barbed wire, and machine gun fire. It was as if Dante’s morbid fantasy came to life.
The pouring rain comes
At dusk; broken-hearted is
He who waits for morn'.
The dunes surround me. They hug the landscape cradling it softly as if to hush silent cries of distress, my distress. I am trapped by these dunes never knowing where to go, or where I've been for all the dunes look the same to me. I’m burning up; my(more)