What Some Refuse To Notice
Myne
Loveless Affairs

Call you up in the middle of the night
Like a firefly without a light
You were there like a blow torch burning
I was a key that could use a little turning
So tired that I couldn't even sleep
So many secrets I couldn't keep
I promised myself I wouldn't weep
One more promise I couldn't keep
Soul Asylum - "Runaway Train"


I'm a poet, you can call me B. Le. I write about everything, nothing, and anything that falls in between, read at risk I'm honest about every aspect in life so I have to add if you're closeminded you won't like me much. Poke around, I like to RP and I love conversation, if you would like to correct anything just message me with reason as to why. It can stay confidential if needed (and on perspective of piece)




Just like abstract, a memory is never right; never put together right, always fuzzy, preferring, digging for more. Holding sensory hostage and bland. Look back; see any full, perfect, developed memories? Or are they headless, without control? Dig, dig to burry the broken body, the unwanted, the confused, dig. Force it all away, don’t believe you ever solved anything yourself with decapitation, gallows and guillotine holding perfect arousal. Dig now, to search.

Mary, Mary,
Quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?



My Inspirations...

Music, fear, life, the world, war, pain, emotion, saxophones, ideas, reminders, little notes on the side, and the people that rub my conciousness. Love for those.



Beauty is the truth expressed in a way that grabs attention, intention, and understanding - even if it is not known.

Beautiful is always needed to get us through the world.

[I Won-]: : :

 [Twice!!!]

&

No, I am not straight, I praise honesty.
I write about gay and bisexual relations.
If you have a problem with that, just simply do not bother.
I do not want to hear it.

Page Graphics:
Me - that's why they're so crappy...

Check out:


The Takes, The Frames
...

[Within a Lack of Self Preserved Closure]

The graffiti on the wall
Of that store down town
That no one pays attention to
But I can't help but frown

At the waste of ability
The beauty
Oh the beauty that's invested
In the smoothly crafted words
Speaking up higher
Raising a silent voice to the heavens

If they are there that is

The words crawl up into the sky
Invest a knowledge, an answer
To the always present question 'why'

It makes you feel like everything is known
Nothing is hidden anymore
But in reality it's all hidden, masked under dust
All the beauty concealed by swamps and yet so they lore

To a poet's mind
Such as mine
Into the wild it casts away
A pen in time to the rhythm of
   A hooting owl
   Swooping to clasp and snap and kill a rat without torture
   A gun shot penetrating flesh
   And hitting into brick with brute force of mythical excitement
   A fucking hand
   Scraping against skin,
   Broken, bleeding and punching,
   Hitting and crying to the air in pain
   As that hand,
   Attached to something greater –
   Gets what it deserves
   In turn, there's nothing greater to those who believe in God
   Than another person getting what he 'deserves'.

But what calls to me more
Than the words written in paint
And blood and sweat and years of pain and loss over all these wasted fucking years

What calls to me
Is the final wishes of the dead
Absolute and so, so high numbered
A bittersweet yearning
Nostalgic and so abandoned
Rotted flower, decomposing into the ground
In front of the last bit of information left
Name, Birth date-Last day breathing and any
…Any thing at all, that one person believes
Or believed
Was good enough to sum up their life in so few words

But a life cannot be synopsized
In any capacity of words…

But that building
Decrepit and tearing at the seams with beauty
That only a few eyes can see
The graffiti painted on the wall
Faced towards the graves
Of so many people passed away in the small town
That they called home.

Love
Is nothing to compare to the passion I feel
For that image:
Bright color splashed onto a wall in meaning and all purpose…
All meaning of feeling, wealth of solitary knowledge so deep they couldn't keep it in
Vandalism in the best form, a burst of sunshine
Facing the black and white picture of a cemetery

If that's not the preservation of beauty
I don't think I'll ever understand what it truly is then.
If that's not ironic torture at all
I don't know what I would call life anymore.

[11/17/08]