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It's heard through the forest
It's heard everyday.
Another has fallen
Another is saved.
Keep your eyes open
Don't look away.
They want you to see this
They want to see pain.
Is another's gain.
Science and MathematicsTake all of your silky words
And tie them to a rock
Throw them in the ocean and
Watch all of them drop
Will they sink to the bottom?
Or will they float up top?
How deep does your meaning go,
or is it just a flop?
Your delectable honey-spice
Sure did cook up nice,
but upon the swallowing
I learned I ought to, think twice.
Don't take my silence for, grant-ed.
With eyes to the skies
And head Under water
You're a flickering light
and under you falter
You can't take the heat
Under salt water...
you bet your teeth
you better believe
I added it up.
Expunge It starts like the bristling detachment of Velcro or the arrogant snap of a rubber band on your wrist. The cringing, ripping sound, the reflexive quick sting, ringing vibrantly on in the moments after. Like a bell that tolls a beat of hours that is overlooked in the passing, then counted by recalling rhythm afterwards. Instinctually, you want to keep going, keep climbing, over rubble and debris. The day has long since ended as you move through stark jagged blackness. You check the breast pocket of your jacket for a match. You strike the little brown line, once, twice, three times and light the now apparent hallway. The match burns down to your fingertips and dies. You let the remnants of stick and ash fall on the floor of the thick carpeted rug, decorated like elevator music, and see that your panoramic view of atmosphere stays alight, and right in front of you your eyes are beholding a door in your path.
You can’t open the door by force. Your elongated appendages, unique
Purge The SoulRifts of layered satin
move and cover whole
and binding to the core
as the rift provides more
Ways to turn and toss
lessening the hold
Interwoven truths unbound
tethered to the sea
Currents carry taint away
let go of the handle
offered by the spout
Quench your thirst in rivers
clearing up the drought
Throw it all away
clothes cast upon the shore
'till ghostly skin is crystal clear
and find out you have more
~the purging of the soul~
My DearestDearest Robert,
Every night I walk the narrow path to The Door, Your Door. (I tell no one. I make sure they're not watching). They tried to keep me from you. Did you know they hid the letters? They hid them, but I found them in the attic underneath a pile of your clothes. They tried to donate those too, but I stopped them. I had a fit and I made them stop. Everyday my nightgown is damp with tears, but at night I have comfort. I know you're with me then.
Already there is talk of moving on. It's been a whole year, they say. I need to Let Go, Move On, but I'm making plans of moving in. They tire of me day after day; not dressing, hardly eating, forever staring out the window waiting for you to come home. I am such an unbearable weight to them. All I can think about is you.
I can hear your voice like a carousel, around and around again. Like children in the park. Ice cream giggles and dandelion puffs. Those ice tea chats on the front porch with your folks, the days whe
The Beginning Or The End?The Beginning Or The End?
I dreamed a dream that was in my head. I had unexpectedly taken an afternoon nap, resting peacefully in our secret place. I laid out on the softness of an old quilted blanket I often took with me when I went deep within the woods outside of the town of Chester. My aunt Lori had made it when she was just a girl and then gave it to me when I was born. Raggedy and slightly torn, it was the perfect thing to use for a picnic without fear of it getting ruined because it was already on its way out. Octagon pieces of fabric of faded reds, blues, and grays, decorated lightly with tiny daisies. The stitching was obviously done by a child, tighter in some areas and loose in the others where hands had grown tired from sewing lessons.
The sun was nigh, warming my skin through breaks in the tree branches overhead. The backs of my eye lids were swimming in crimson-orange flickering light from the shadows of the swaying trees in the comf
acousticyour soul is an acoustic
black and white picture
never yielding to release
giving shadows a new taste
of elegance, quiescent
the tranquil luminescence
that can trap a heart
in the photographic emulsion
or celluloid undertow
of slow motion
just as flammable
as a subtle combustion
kindling a rustic tongue
to move a languid expulsion
ladened with sorrows
carried like crystal shards
in a humble sun catcher
hung above a familiar window
prizing inconsequential matter
into flecks of golden dust
angel ash and face paint whispersSatellite asks you
what are you waiting around
here for, fragmented breath
and climb useless limbs
shake the withered tree
Even beauty grows in winter
death as we know it seems
the ending, the autumn, the falling
negotiates the way to
trespass frozen lips and decay
peaceful grave, climbing Jacob's ladder
Bide to wake for a message
a headache, unconventional
commitment, nautin of inspiration
deliverance is a snowflake
carpenters do not negate
Blint the architect can only talk of
steps never known,
through moss thrones
and ivy slightly awry
quiet, creeping, slow
under staircase groves
angel ash and face paint whispers
ForeverFleeting; the moments that pass, the song that ends, the after kiss, the last drag of your cigarette, the first sip of your coffee, once the car is turned off, the shades are pulled down, you blow out the candle, the last thing you see before you close your eyes, the wind that stops blowing, the world goes black. Every second. Gone Forever.
Impression; Every fleeting thing, the music ringing in your ear, the taste on your lips, the hum of a motor, the flutter of a heart, the tingle in your nose, the blackness against your lids, the wind licking your skin. Every second. Remains Forever.
InscribeOnce I knew this boy
who stopped knowing what to say,
so he took all of his problems
and left them on a page.
So I'd read between the lines
of different quotes every day.
Sometimes lyrics, or sometimes
Vonnegut, Neruda or Hemingway.
"So it goes" he'd quote,
and I never knew what to say
Instead I read the words he fed me
until they'd eaten me away.
He took all of his troubles
and stacked them on a shelf,
Too high for me too reach,
too far for me to help.
Now I'm reminded of him when
I hear a book or movie quote,
or when I see the delicate
lines and marks of music notes.
So I took all of his words
and kept them in my head.
All the work he'd written
and mostly everything he'd said.
I put him down on paper,
as he did with me,
And painted him on canvas
for everyone to see.
So to all, I show that I recall
his fading, far off face,
That only with paper we can
keep a person in one place.
i am growing wings but there is nowhere to goi am so done -
because i can feel it:
there is a fear within me,
encapsulated in my blood cells,
the fear dreams;
it breathes like a living thing.
so done with -
nightmares of text messages
and unapologetic letters
and you, walking away from me,
nightmares of the words
done with this -
because i am a nomad
(who has never left her home).
i know there are feathers growing
in the hollow of my bones.
but i am growing roots here, attaching
to this place, to this house
to the color of the sunlight as i hold your hand,
this feeling -
that i have not even started yet.
SongbirdHe hooks his arm into the loop of mine.
This is mine, he proclaims proudly.
You can't just own people, I tell him.
Their hearts flutter and batter themselves
against the cage of their ribs,
breaking themselves before they escape.
You can't own a heart that belongs to its soul,
just as how you can't own a bird
that belongs to the sky.
And the bird cannot keep the song
it still sings even when caged.
His eyes are downcast.
I know, I tell him. I tried.
But if you are quite still,
you can hear it sing from afar.
Palliation"She looked hot, when she wore skirts, but the thing is, she never really knew that she looked hot... which made it so much sexier."
He took a long drag at his cigarette and squished out the butt as the paper burned into the filter.
"So what happened?" I asked.
"Oh, she got married. I came to know about it from a friend of hers. Her friend's name was Richa, but I called her Bitcha... God, I hated her!"
He chuckled and took another swig of his beer.
"She called and told me that Swarna won't be returning, with much relish. She knew that it would leave me heartbroken. Ugh, she was such a bitch... her friend. Funny thing is, heartbroken doesn't even begin to explain it. She never even told me that she was going away to get married."
He paused and pursed his lips, as if lost in thought, gazing into the depths of the shimmering golden liquid in his hands as if trying to pour his memories into words.
"How do you describe that feeling of complete and utter hollowness? You can say
Indefinite Tidesshe speaks in vinegar riddles
and bides her time in shipwrecked
ticking off days for the boy
with stormy eyes who promised
he'd be back in a season or
two. he, who was
crafted from the leftover bits of the moon
and the meandering sky with runaway
stars lurking deep beneath his ribcage,
waiting to fall whenever he spoke
like a saint, whose divine sacraments
parted land and birthed lives; like a
sorcerer whose words launched a
thousand sunken ships but
now, she pops pills like reminders,
stabilizers that last 4-6 hours
depending on her ability to forget
and she's lost in herself
again, among faltering brainwaves
and wavering heartbeats and the
whimpering echo of her own worst fears
like: he's gone and he took all
that's good of me with him,
my weighted bones and my bated breath
and my lingering hope, too
that thing with feathers that
cries when it's plucked clean,
skeletal and bare and smooth
enough for me to rest my weary head on.
see, the ocean cracked and regurgitated
AsynchronousI am the patchwork pastel on driveways
in early June, hopscotch walkways
outlined in chalk and crimson,
worlds gently [shakily] defined
by dust and sprouting minds-
you are the April showers
and those segways to summer wildflowers
catching me in your palms of quicksilver
traipsing me through raunchy streets like
a rope you made by braiding rainbows-
dyeing tar the pretty pink of my knees.
I cling to gritty decorations
in dripped limbs all over town,
where rain paints the curb
different shades of my lost pieces,
a drainage ditch claims the color of my eyes.
I am the sullied, battered reef
lit up in barnacles like holiday lights
or a string of dead fireflies.
Drowning in apologies
for my skin that cuts your hand,
begging the atmosphere
to wear me away.
You are the jealous tide-
a thief with jewels that don't quite shimmer.
Failures pinned with tacks on passerby,
grasping at my toes in efforts that
mimic a trapeze artist
new to release and the saf
playing godi am the last paramedic you want to respond to your call.
by no means am i inept at my job- i am, in fact, the best in my precinct. my problem is sometimes i think i'm god.
the people who are drains on society - the welfare collectors, the addicts, the elderly, the people who wronged me in high school or remind me of the people who wronged me in high school; the people who cost me taxes? oops, i made a mistake. i'm sorry, mrs. doe, but john didn't make it. our team failed to correctly assess and promptly address his condition. our condolences.
i have let hundreds die on my watch. just seen the spasms stop, the light leave their eyes. i have saved hundreds as well. i am god and i choose who is repentant and righteous and allowed to carry one; i choose who is to be condemned to an eternity of hellfire and brimstone.
tell me- does this make me a bad person?
Solace of the RainIt's raining,
that kind of misty rain
that kisses your skin,
then fades away with the night.
The weather is always so fickle,
it leaves without a sound,
leaving only trails
of its petrichor behind.
Yet it leaves a screen,
of dew grass and fish-pond puddles,
filled with echoes of the sunset,
the kind that flood my mind.
So I'll wander through memories,
stumbling through, my torchlight burnt out,
'til the rain comes again,
and I surrender myself without fright.
WorthlessWhat if this is all that
we were ever meant to be;
through the darkness with no
survival instinct left? What if
we'll always be bitter and anomalous,
and what if they forget
to ever fit us with working hearts?
Don't tell me
everyone feels like they are either
going to explode or murder
everyone they meet every single day,
that they're so alone that even they
have given up caring. Because
if it's such a key part of growing up,
why are there so many people still left breathing?
You're telling me that we don't have to
be lost causes, yet I am dancing
alone in the middle of the street, eyes closed,
and they are claiming me to
be reckless, telling me I have a
But the truth is,
I just want to know if living is worth it.
firm gripYour fingers strum
the chords of my brain
a hand cupped chin
to raise me from beneath
I’d know this insulation anywhere
it feels like putting on a comfortable shirt
arms fill the sleeves
as fabric moves over skin exquisitely
for the perfect fit
I lie every time I nod my head in silence
It was anchors I needed
and fish hooks
I know the art of drowning
suspension and bleeding
The captain goes down with his ship,
but not before he sails
Now is not the time
for bravery and fear
we passed those
Twisting in my skin,
pulling tight on the ropes
into the squall
moves through and between
nothing to grasp
and press on
into the next
We’re raising the sails
and dropping them down
with corset flattery
over roller coaster wind
and a hand cupped chin
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