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I may be superstitious,
But it's a life I wouldn't trade.
Do I have a witness,
Of this cursed day?

Those glorified wishes,
Honestly seem fake.
A touch of intuition,
Has made me feel afraid.

No! Why? Did we have to say goodbye?
Please wait! Did it have to be today?
I've tried, To distract my mind.
But my brain, Won't seem to move away!

The pain makes me ambitious,
But I hope it doesn't stay.
Now my heart is in stitches,
I'm crying tears in vain.

Dignified or vicious,
Is she grim or grave?
My mind seems so twisted;
To it I've become enslaved.

No! Why? Did we have to say goodbye?
Please wait! Did it have to be today?
I've tried, To distract my mind.
But my brain, Won't seem to move away!

The cold light doesn't seem to fade.
Can't stop time and these endless days.
Despite the promises I've made,
I find my world has turned to grey.

No! Why? Did we have to say goodbye?
Please wait! Did it have to be today?
I've tried, To distract my mind.
But my brain, Won't seem to move away!
In memory of my dear beloved Sigyn.
empty seas Apr 2018
There is a story I was told
about a sickly girl who thought
in her feverish, superstitious mind
that when the last leaf on the tree outside her hospital window
fell and died
she would too

Her friend was horrified
and tried to convince her otherwise
as the doctor said
this pessimistic attitude
would **** her
and when her efforts didn’t work
the friend stood by her side
through the night and the storm
that shook the tree outside
to comfort her

However
that last leaf outside
never fell
surviving even through the worst storm
and the sickly girl
became sickly no longer

And as the friend found out
while helping the doctor
gather one of his dead patient’s things
this sickly, drunkard man who had died
she learned
he had heard the sick girl’s story
and
this stranger went out that stormy night
(even though it would guarantee his death
sooner than it would’ve been)
and painted that last leaf on
so that sick girl
would have hope

So I ask you
Are you the sickly girl?
superstitious and waiting
for your last leaf to fall
Are you the friend?
Desperately trying to give your friend hope
but being there when all is lost
Or are you the stranger
Realizing that you need to do something with your limited time
and expecting nothing in return
I don’t know who I am, though
Ankit Bhardwaj Mar 2018
I live in a nation where the cow is worshipped,
and there is no king regnant,
but it’s funny, how the cow feast on crap,
and the farmer becomes a peasant.

I live in a nation of aye men,
who say aye to a baloney,
of media which protects the cow,
but let the peasant starve slowly.

I watch daily, the television debates,
where logic is razored by bigotry,
and no talks about the peasant,
gagged into silence by the authority.

I witness a bathtub getting sensationalized
when a mid-aged celebrity died,
the debt he’d laden of the dried crop,
no rain never did the sky cry.

He later worked as an indentured laborer,
for a landlord who drinks the cow’s ****,
as a saffroned monk says it’s healthy,
way to the eternal bliss.

A student who sloganed for freedom
from the maw of poverty.
My media says he is a traitor,
and so is the entire university.

At least, let’s agree to disagree,
that is essential to a republic,
let freedom of speech not be seldom,
and never shall it cease to exist.

The peasant must die soon,
and no more shall he crouch in dread,
may someday he incarnate as a cow,
roams free on the city streets, and feast on free bread.
trf Mar 2018
Teeth chatter and butts raise above seats,
Riding pickups atop the corduroy road,
Thunder claps of rubber bass beats,
Slapping the undercarriage's rusty odes.

The tires rhythmic riffs are risky,
Clavinet keys echo wood beams over muddy water,
Walter Murphy drinks a Fifth of Beethoven's whiskey,
Leaving superstitions for Stevie to Wander.
Heather Butler Feb 2018
another sleepless night my red
eyes tired and tried
i let your words fall
over my body like ashes

dust to dust i have buried
the bodies of those i have
loved and carried their dirt
under my fingernails back home

three thousand moths will settle in
the brickwork because the light
was on we hold our hands

against the ceiling as we drive beneath
a train a superstition when you laugh
i see the shape
of your skull behind
your skin
Blois Dec 2017
I know my mirror is broken, I know.
As long as the ocean keeps coming back
and it's blue, it's like you were here.
And I can feel you and be blown
by the wind, and be brought back,
and be tossed around. What a tiny
vision, I know, trying to save yourself
from yourself. And the future bleeds.
I know I'm wrong, I know I am.

When I try to go out, -but you try.
When I try to turn white.
I like to imagine you
looking at the back of my head,
collecting flying leaves,
sitting inside the empty end of time,
transformation, like a butterfly
bursting the bubble, just reaching out
and grabbing trees, and sins, and this is
your way of saying I wont be around,
probably, I wont.

Dear me, I became aware so suddenly
that a self fulfilling prophecy is like
a cloudless sky and it gets you down.
That there is no empty space left
in the darkness, and it gets you down.
Who can say how much prettier you will look
tomorrow, distracted, playing your part,
learning how the flapping of your wings
affect the world around you; who is to know
if you are going to rule this out
as a superstition of a heart.
Ron Sparks Dec 2017
My green-eyed first wife -
fiery temper and hair to match -
slid the wedding ring on my
finger.

Twisting on my knuckle, it
never left my hand.  I grokked
with certainty borne from intuition
that BAD THINGS would happen
should that tri-colored gold band
leave my touch.

Years, a decade and change, passed
and one day I took it off and set it
on the bed beside me.
For two seconds I was fine, but then
I couldn’t breathe.
In a panic, I put the ring back on.

But

I put it on backwards.

BAD THINGS happened.

Weeks later, soul-weary and
tired of constant fighting
I remembered my
misstep and I
flipped the ring on my finger.

Things got better.  But now I knew.  
Like peeling blistered skin after a sunburn,
I couldn’t stop.

Flip. Fight. Flip. Make up.
Flip. Scream. Flip. Sweet nothings.
Flip. Slammed doors. Flip. Makeup ***.

I forgot which direction was safe and
which was dangerous.

That marriage - that ring - is gone now.
I’m married to a blonde angel now
with a temper as cool as her hair; who
loves me more than I deserve
and knows me better than I’d like.

From day one, I refused to let the
flip
of the ring mar my new marriage.  

I flipped it on my wedding night.
I flipped it the next day on my honeymoon.
I flip that ring every day,
daring
it to curse me again.

Another decade has passed,
I flip my new ring daily.

And cringe a little each time.
Blois Oct 2017
My heart could be out getting yours.
Should be.

But superstition is what kills love.
And I'm not.

I mustn't be the music that you hear.
The lights.

I ask myself if flying also means falling.
Eyes closed.

Silence is a never ending statement.
All in vain.

While I watch you passing by the sun.
Outshined.

And you are also the moon, invisible.
Can't reach.

I undress better with words, completely.
All the leafs.

Protected by an untouched bubble.
Like a kiss.

Memories can also be driven by fear.
And the future.

I'm always found by dawn, when I'm an angel.
Maskless.

My heart could be out getting yours.
You know?

Every birth is pain, violence, and love.
Even light.

Every new love is and empty handed heart.
Until you go out.

You are inside the dream, behind the glass.
And you smile.

A No is better than a lie, you know?
You know?

When is the right time to shoot one's bolt?
Never was.

Is the mirage in the eye or in the mind?
Oh, but it is.

My heart could have been out getting yours.
It is lost.
Sally A Bayan Sep 2017
::::::::::::::::::::::::


Nary a frog croaks
terra cotta garden lamp
selfishly, glows dim.

a striped gastropod
stretched longer, out of its shell
braver....in the dark

neighbors' dogs howl deep,
gecko sings its night songs loud
bats crash...swoop their prey.....

unseen black cats cross
there's no wind, yet...leaves rustle
shadows multiply

the dark feeds the mind
superstition lives...it breathes
moon hides...........i shall, too...


Sally

copyright September 22, 2017
rrab
...it's like, my dead folks are still around when observing
    these superstitious beliefs...they had such great influence on us,
    we never forget....
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