I've just been to Africa.
Our trip was a rush job.
In a hazardous and chaotic cosmos,
it's another world. Entirely.
If you go to another planet,
don't plan on staying long,
they're slippery and dangerous.
I'm back now—to my weird little life,
where I’ve always been netted and safe—
in classes—swaddled in color-coded calendars.
I like books - book books, paper books.
There's something memorable to durable goods,
the physical, a hex to text you can touch.
School requires a quiet disappearance.
All at once but nothing dramatic,
just small, measurable units
moment by moment edits.
A pleasure removed here or postponed there,
things renamed “inefficient” mostly.
One can lose oneself in self-improvement.
As you get better at academic measurables,
everything else suffers.
You can streamline your personality,
to disengage with distractions—
no matter how cute they are.
.
.
Songs for this:
TiK ToK by Kesha
2 days into college by Aimee Carty
Endure
Unreasonable, unbroken
Outlasting doubt, defying hunger
Snatched from damnation, ancient souls pursue
Flesh traps, deceives, edits the heart
Continuing, burning, weaving, surviving
Secondary, relentless
Reason
With fingers crossed, he rewrites his disjointed plot,
the struggling novelist who edits as he prays.
Each character he births is and is not~
half ink, half ghost, half-truth he can’t quite phrase.
He pulls a thread of meaning; shadows lean,
waiting to see which version he’ll allow.
They move as if the margins intervene,
as if unwritten grace could shape them now.
Yet in his hands, the draft begins to breathe~
a fragile faith disguised as narrative.
He knows the lies his metaphors bequeathe,
the hopes his careful sentences outlive.
Something stirs and answers in the stilled air,
as if it’s God who leans in to meet his prayer
It doesn’t happen loudly.
No thunder, no shattered glass—
just the quiet subtraction of you.
First, your edges soften.
You stop correcting them
when they get you wrong.
Then your voice lowers—
not silence yet,
just… less insistence on being heard.
You begin to edit yourself
mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-feeling,
trimming away anything that might not fit
inside the space they’ve made for you.
Love, you say.
This is love.
But love should not feel
like translating your soul
into a language that has no word for you.
Days pass, then months—
you forget what you sounded like
before you became agreeable.
You forget what you wanted
before wanting became inconvenient.
Even your reflection hesitates now,
as if trying to recall your name.
And still, nothing looks broken.
No bruises, no smoke—
just a life tidied down to nothing.
That’s how it kills you.
Not with endings,
but with edits.
Not by taking your breath,
but by teaching you
not to need it so much.
Until one day,
there’s nothing left to erase—
and no one left
to notice.
Who put me here — I ask the Wind —
It answers with a sigh —
“The Door was opened silently —
You entered passing by”
The Truth stands like a narrow Path--
With Brambles at each side —
It asks me where I’m traveling
And why I chose to hide —
My Destiny — a folded Map
That Heaven did not seal —
Its ink is written in my Pulse
Its border drawn in Zeal —
How shall I do — what You desire —
If You refuse Your Face?
The Stars recite Instructions — yet
They speak in borrowed Grace —
And when my Task is finished here —
May I depart in Light?
Or must I knock on Heaven’s Gate
And plead my mortal Right —
Will they receive me — once again —
Or bar me from the Sky?
The Angels wear familiar looks —
But never tell me why —
What shall I wear — before the Throne —
My Dust — or borrowed Flame?
Does God require a Robe of Gold
Or only my true Name —
Is God — a Voice inside my head?
A Silence wide as Sea?
Which God are we discussing now —
Theirs — or the Voice inside of Me?
I wait beside Eternity
With barefoot trembling breath —
Until the Author lifts the Pen
And edits Life from Death.
Beginning to realize life isn't a movie, but I am the protagonist.
Only God is the director, and the one who builds the cast list.
Sometimes He rewrites the script without notice,
And shifts the scene to sharpen my focus.
There is no rehearsal in life, no second take,
No edits, no pause, just the choices I make.
The spotlight doesn't wait for me to gather my thoughts,
So i speak with conviction, ready or not.
This isn't Hollywood, I'm not here to pretend,
I'm here to become who I was meant to be in the end.
The ending may bring peace or hesitation, a moment filled with joy or desperation.
Life is not a movie, but it has a final destination.
I
forget—
like how leaves forget their tree
once autumn called them free.
Moments slip and leave
an unsettling void
for dreams to flourish.
Uninvited, wearing
the mask of memory.
A fiction sung in earnest,
stitched in gray hours—
where dreams blend into truth.
A hushed whisper:
“Beauty is truth,”—but
I wouldn’t know
if the echoes I call "mine"
ever rang—
I am built
of broken facts,
soft edits,
and pills that patch up
what my mind kindly discards—
So I wonder, if beauty is truth—
am I still beautiful
when the scars I wear were never real.
They handed me a body like a floorplan—
no doors, only expectations.
I built escape hatches out of music,
poured windows from ink.
Now I live in my edits,
rewriting the roof.
The gods are online today,
Updating their laws like software patches,
Fixing glitches in heaven while we glitch on earth,
Typing commandments no one reads,
Uploading sermons no one feels.
They scroll through prayers like spam emails,
Ignore the bleeding body in the dirt,
Reward the loudest liars,
And punish the quiet truth.
In their group chats,
They laugh at those like me —
Broken ribs, broken voice, broken trust —
Another ticket closed,
Another sinner "served."
The village bows to their screens,
Worships the edits, fears the updates,
And I,
I am just a bug in their system,
Flagged for deletion because I dared defend myself.
My innocence is offline,
My pain is offline,
Only the image matters here:
The curated guilt,
The viral shame.
The gods are online —
But none of them are listening.
Shinha, the Creator Extraordinaire
Beneath the glow of a digital screen,
Shinha crafts worlds both seen and unseen.
With passion that flows like a vibrant stream,
Turning simple moments into a dream.
From tips and tricks to stories untold,
A voice so warm, a presence bold.
Laughter ripples through every frame,
Bringing joy to fans who call her name.
Her edits dance with a lively spark,
Each clip a masterpiece, hitting its mark.
Whether gaming, chatting, or something new,
Shinha's content feels fresh, yet true.
Through ups and downs, she shines so bright,
A guiding star in the YouTube night.
Her community grows, her reach expands,
A symbol of care with helping hands.
So here's to Shinha, inspiring all,
Answering dreams with every call.
May her journey soar, her spirit thrive,
As her content keeps the world alive
Breviloquent Bree has to make every sentence concise
She edits each line twelve times; some think this is nice.
I think Bree is silly; just throw stuff onto a blank page.
If you want any of it read before you die of old age.
Mist
Wet smoke's grey filter
colour wash cloak over tones
edits nature's hues
Aqua Marine: April, 2015
(Lifelong fascination for photography :))
"I will never know how you see red and you will never know how I see it." ~ Anne Carson, 'Autobiography Of Red'
Red are my cheeks when you compliment me.
Red is the bacteria in the southern Red Sea.
Red is the blood that has been shed for freedom.
Red is the cover of Dutch yellow cheese, edam.
Red, too, the lips after lingering, hungry kisses.
Red marks the sector of bullseye misses.
Red is the power of a celebrity's walk.
Red, the color of love's angry talk.
Red is love, hate, romance, and rage.
Red is the ink that edits my page.
Red is sexuality and esteem.
Red Stars is a women's hockey team.
Red is the blood of Christ and the fires of Hell.
Red is the sound of the persistent death knell.
CLEVER
One likes to think oneself as clever
Always ironic, and with a wry grin
Yet the great leveller is often poetry
As it sorts the wheat from the chaff
And rhyme and metre can be a faff
All is fair in love, war and creativity
Such that we must take it on the chin
And abandon our high seat forever
When that thought or image strikes
As cold logic succumbs to inspiration
Did the brain have a sporting chance
It doesn’t matter what may be true
As one grasps the irrelevance of I.Q
And respects taking an emotive stance
Free verse has a sort of perturbation
Resonant with what someone likes
So, cleverness was never an absolute
And courage is needed to just let go
Some final tweaks and edits may work
After all the arrows have been loosed
The one in the target is the mot juste
Yet off to one side, other words lurk
It’s what you think not what you know
And claims of genius one must refute
Now Laying In Boot Hill Under Frozen Ground
Tony was a wicked dude carried a thirty-eight
Always raced his fast cars always cheated Fate
Carried a straight razor in his left shoe
Things that would be daring, he was ready to do
Afraid he would cut his own throat, wore a beard
But damn sure was nothing else, man never was skeered
Fought in the roughest bars that were around
Beat living hell out of every bully he ever found
Yes, he was still alive at age thirty nine
And ready to tackle any that crossed the line
Do not ask about his last fighting night aiive
Shot by a ten year old kid, took his last dive.
Yes sir, he was easily toughest dude around.
Now laying in boot hill under frozen ground.
Robert J. Lindley, April 2nd, 1970
Note. ----- Age 16, no edits.
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