The unknown..

Over a Cup of Tea

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She was the kind of cold, that wouldn’t be measured by the temperature. Her fragile heart being torn. Trust, shattered. Was I bitter? Absolutely. Hurt? You bet your sweet ass I was hurt. Who doesn’t feel a part of their heart break at rejection. You ask yourself every question you can think of, what, why, how come, and then your sadness turns to anger. That’s my favorite part. It drives me, feeds me, and makes one hell of a story. But it isn’t even about rejection. It is about the soul wrapping agony. Yes, the misery. She became a memory. One, that always pinched me. Pierced my heart. She became a story, I wouldn’t read. One, that stings the soul. She was hurt. Dejected. She felt the pain, way too much. Yes, she was kind. She was narrating, …how do you run and play when you feel like there are…

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Tune mere jaana, Kabhi nahi jaana; Ishq mera, Dard mera!

Over a Cup of Tea

“But I love you, for those thousands of smiles my lips cherished because of your heart felt presence. I love you, just like the poet loves his beloved in the verses though he’d never be appreciated for taking people into fantsies. I love you like a writer who loves a character, raise it and kills it, but still never forgets it. I love you like the sad autumn’s leaves, which are being crushed under the lovers’ feet in that lonesome garden. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” While moving her…

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Digging Words

loweeda web

My father loved the sound of words and the rhythm of sentences. He had stock phrases that he would repeat on specific occasions, more for the sheer delight of saying them than for any inherent purpose. My mother’s musings about what to make for dinner would be met by the suggestion of “pheasant under glass”; if she wondered what to wear to an event, my father’s perennial response was “your blue chiffon,” which I do not believe was ever part of her wardrobe.  I quite often enjoyed these pronouncements and the flair with which they were delivered, and whenever I laughed at hearing one of them, my father would lament that he was nothing more than “an endless source of amusement.”

It was the choice of words that amused me, though, even more than my father’s presentation of them – the progression of vowels and consonants in succession, the music…

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Falling apart..

We write, write about surrenders, about blames. I never knew about silence or words. And then you came to give me a reason to write.
Give me a chance to be a stranger again, a chance, in which I will never make a mistake again and we will never fall apart.Every time I had a reason of hating you, I had one of loving you, and I loved you more.You are at once both the calm and the chaos of my stormy mind, I shut my eyes and all the things vanish away until there’s only you.
I don’t know what I’m searching for, but whatever this is, it’s not enough.You sometimes think all you need is love while all you need is someone to teach you how to fall in love with the chaotic world inside you. somedays I am caged within, I try so hard to escape the thoughts that consume me, I feel trapped in myself barely alive, barely awake.How much will you endure silently before you break??

The Joys of Waiting

Elizabeth Fountain, Author

I hate waiting. Most people I know hate waiting. Life is full of waiting: we wait for loved ones to come home, we wait for movies to start, we wait in lines at groceries, banks, or the DMV. We wait to hear the results of tests at school, and the results of tests about our health.  Right now my love is waiting to find out if a new job will come through, unable to make commitments until he does. As writers, we wait for the muse to strike, we wait to hear back about a submission, we wait to see if anyone will discover our work, and we wait to learn if they love it as we do. All this waiting creates an often excruciating sense of anticipation, anxiety, or dread. It puts us in a state of suspended animation, of limbo: we understand, while in this limbo, why Dante…

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Pastime

Tales for Life

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You would not believe the shock I felt when I passed by the gallery that winter during my lunch hour. I recognized his name right off. I pushed the door open and took it all in, wondering if it was true.

When we first met Sully was camping next to us, his tent sagging in the middle, his kerosene lamp throwing off a weak light. He was rooting around for something, I couldn’t tell what since he was half-in and half-out of his tent. Maybe that’s why it was about to cave in.

I walked over, licking my fingers clean after enjoying BBQ chicken legs I’d made for me and my two boys. He stuck his head out and looked at me, then the tent collapsed. I stood with hands on hips and watched it fall in on him, nothing more to do but see if he could put it back up right. I found it funny…

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Patient

Sara Khayat

I am metal.
My bones
broke and
mended
bent and
borrowed
woven
with titanium to
keep my spine
standing tall.

I am patient
swinging my legs
off the icy
exam table
as I absently
read the
posters lining
the walls.

I am transparent
X-Rayed and
displayed
along hallways of
doctors’
offices.

And I love them.
All of the people
brought together
by operating tables
spending their time
correcting my
spine and
placing the bones
in my ankle

Crying in waiting
rooms sleeping in
arm chairs
biting their nails
down to the skin
I love them.

All of the people
who felt by my
side wasn’t a bad
place to spend
their minutes, hours,
and
days.

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