Tumbling: Erroran93 Reponse

Not an avalanche but a landslide no thinking just going forgetting punctuation direct translation unto the page a link between my head and my brain faster than instant messaging a spew of incohesion hoping to form something of the assortment of letters that we have been taught have meaning to us only no one else the language expands and is seen differently we cannot share our own experience because others do not have our experiences to understand whatever that word means.

Same Old: All Creation Wept Response

The human condition Ah, woe is ti hear about those that are suffering day in and day out.
Woe is to hear of the familiar complexity that so entangles the human heart. Boring is the balance of good and evil that renders humanity neither angel nor demon, but an usurped amalgamation.
And as I relate once more the mundane experience of savage inner conflict and turmoil, of the writhing storms that toil endlessly behind my mask.
My audience yawns repulsed by my minstrel's tale, neglecting this take, the new perspective simply because of the yellowed history book that unfolds from my words.

Make-Up Breakdown: Heart to Heart Response

I'm done with love. Not the emotion, the feeling, the decision, but what it entails, what is expected from it. I'm done with hear-say and elaborate reverse psychology, with secretive double meanings, constant pondering, all strings attached. I'm done with expectations of gifts and  expanded courting rituals.
I want heartstrings, the relationship of two beings, of caring for each other. I want whole love. Not perfect, only perfected flawed love; for love is  only as much as the sum of its parts. I want it that way.

Apostrophe Catastrophe: One Art Response

Oh Muse! Awaken in me and tell the tale of that which has already been spoken for.
Oh Muse! Your days are many,  your stories are old, and I am but another mouthpiece for your aged truths.
Oh Muse! Speak and let us hear that which has poured over our ears for so long without end.
Oh Muse! Go back to your slumber for the race of man needs your stories no longer.
Oh Muse! Observe this well,  when men reflect themselves upon the page, and break the cyclic stories that play the same with different names.

Disunity: Mending Wall Response

After a rain, I take a walk back down to the backyard side and observe and sigh at the fence that has fallen down and the rocks scattered thereof.
And I use my weary hands to repair this divider,  restoring rocks to their unnatural state, attempting to dam the creekbed with pebbles,  yet knowing that the rains will come again.
I use my weary hands to separate,  to establish a line not to be crossed But the rains know no bounds,  the only law they follow is gravity, and so they pass over all, connecting all.
Yet we fight on, clashing with an unyielding force hoping to divide that which is connected in more ways than we can separate.
Mountains and riverbeds rocks and oceans trees and hills Fences and walls and borders and lines, divide those which are all one.

Eye of the End: Of Mere Being Response

When at last we settle down and cease the endless churning of thoughts cascading round and round our head like washers spinning
At the end we still ourselves waiting for the finale we accept, don't think of worries in that blessed final hour
For we have run the race strolled the walk lent a hand provided a solution
In that final time we rest for we have no more essence over which to think suspended in the stasis of mind
We humbly accept that which befalls.

Cherry Blossoms: To An Athlete Dying Young Response

Where now are the shouts and stomps and claps and cheers exulting your name?
Where now is the victory meal, celebration that tastes so sweet, commemorating your achievement?
Where now are the lights of the stadium shining on you, illuminating your achievement?
Where now is the medallion of gold, solid and cold,  signifying your honor?
Where now are the whiffs of sweat, burning in your nostrils, evidence of your determination?
The stands are empty. The meal is done. The lights are off. The medal is lost. The sweat has subsided.
For the glory brought about and reveled in, passes quicker than those who run after it.