chosen paths I glance to the side. There walks a man, His smile tentative, unsure. He trudges alongside me, On this path we've shared For what seems like Forever. The embodiment of stability, Of steadfastness, I meet his eyes, Where I glimpse occasional Understanding. I grasp his hand, So as to keep him in step with me. I know this man, The nurturing, the dependability, The weaknesses, the doubts. Comfort is his name. I glance to the side. There walks a boy, A sensual smile, that come hither look F U C K E D U P C O L L E G E K I D S ------------------------------------------------------- - t h e p o e t r y v e n t u r e - ------------------------------------------------------- Imaginative Composition bought into being..... ------------------------------------------------------- Of seduction gleaming. He dances alongside me, On a path all his own, Hands reaching to entice, Eyes daring, mocking, beckoning Me to share his path but offering No guarantees. I reach for his hand, So as not to lose sight Of something so potentially precious. I know this boy, The sensuality, the desire. Lust is his name. I glance behind me, Three sets of footsteps angling Ever closer, Sure, in time, to meet. I glance ahead of me. My vision blurs. krystalia fuckpoetry #4 May I Have This Dance? Two souls collide. Surprised, They stand startled. Mirror images, Each reaches out. Hesitation reigns. Slowly they begin their dance of exploration. Formal at first, Yet even from the beginning In perfect time. They step closer, Ever closer. Perfect partners In this dance Of life and being. Dancing on through the night, Melding, Each hoping The music never stops. -krystalia 02/98 fuckpoetry #13 They ---- I hate waking up to the realization that I've lost something. Particularly those first few moments of panic when I try in vain to remember the last place I saw it. I backtrack mentally, through people and places and time. It occurs to me that I can't remember when I last had it. The thoughts whirl faster through my mind. How long has it been since I've seen it? How could I not have noticed that it was gone? If I've gone on this long without it, is it less important than I've always thought? How will I get by without it? Will I ever find it, or is it gone forever? That happened to me just this morning. I woke up and realized that I'd lost myself. I don't know how long I've been gone, and can't remember the last time I've seen me. Luckily, I have many other selves. Fitting into one is as easily accomplished as stepping into a pair of jeans. Like jeans, some selves are more comfortable than others. The self I wear depends on my agenda for the day. My work self isn't very comfortable, the fabric is a bit stiff and unforgiving. My family self is somewhat comfortable, but a little too flowery for my taste, and too much pastel washes me out. My friend self is bright and cheery, and so comfortable that sometimes it feels as if I'm wearing nothing. But only sometimes. Then there's my alone self, the techno-age me that hungers for knowledge and, given even a few moments of solitude, submerges itself into a world of computers and networks and protocols and code.While I enjoy the way this me feels, it's still not the original me. I miss the person I used to be. I was kind and considerate and giving. I would, and oftentimes did, give my last dollar to a homeless person. They told me it was foolish and called me an easy mark, so I stopped. I no longer give money to the indigent. I no longer look at those people in their alcohol-stained clothing and toothless grins and wonder what path they chose to lead them to those ends. I no longer feel the pity and sympathy I once did. Instead I feel contempt. I was an idealistic dreamer. They told me to get my head out of the clouds and act responsibly, so I stopped. I no longer stare at the walls and daydream, my pencil tapping a relentless beat on the table top. I no longer have the willingness to swallow my fear and take the risk, the risk that quickens my heartbeat. Instead I feel apathy. I was caring and selfless, and always there for those close to me. Friends came to me regularly for advice, knowing I'd be there with a shoulder to cry on and a willing ear. They told me to worry more about myself and less about others, so I stopped. I no longer am able to offer endless hours of advice and consolation. I no longer spend hours waiting for someone's tears to dry from my sleeve. Instead I feel impatience. I was open and honest. My soul shone through my eyes. I saw nothing wrong with letting everyone know just how I felt. They told me I was leaving myself open for hurt, that I was too vulnerable, so I stopped. I no longer wear my heart on my sleeve. I no longer let you see how much your words hurt. Instead, I show indifference. They told me I'd change as I grew older, and they were right. They told me that my perception were off, that the world wasn't the perfect place I saw it as being, and they were right. I hate them for being right. Long ago, I promised myself I'd never change. I'd grow, yes, but I'd never lose the person I was. I was wrong. I hate me for being wrong. Maybe I'll never again be what I once was. Maybe, in some apathetic, indifferent stupor, I ripped apart my original self and used the fabric to build the other, diluted selves. Everyone deserves a second chance, though. So if you happen to see me out wandering in the cold darkness, please send me home. It's lonely here without me. krystalia fuck venture #431 ------------------------------------------------------- E D I T O R S: jericho@dim.com, geekgrl@attrition.org ------------------------------------------------------- to receive new issues via e-mail, send mail to majordomo@attrition.org with "subscribe poetry". if you do not have FTP access and would like back issues, send a list of missing issues and they will be sent. ------------------------------------------------------- A V A I L A B I L I T Y: AnonFTP: FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK/POETRY WWW: http://www.attrition.org/~poetry ------------------------------------------------------- (c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author. -------------------------------------------------------