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It Comes in a Bottle.Love. You know it well.
Comes in a bottle, comes with a price.
Sometimes your senses, sometimes your dime,
But mostly your time.
Pain. We know it well.
Conforms to no form,
But utilises every that I know.
To be poetic, love is pain.
To be precise, pain comes from people.
You are a people.
I am but a person.
It is difficult to know a people,
But facile to know a person.
I've known persons,
Dark, bright, grey.
All alive, all breathing.
Some exhale poison, some vitality,
But all breathing.
I do not know you, creature.
You do not breathe.
You do not speak.
You do not love.
Align you not with any,
But with all.
Your shell is familiar.
Your scent is formidable.
Your speech is regrettable.
You are a people,
A phantom pain.
I am a person.
Broken, but strong.
I do not know you, creature.
Suna.i walked outside,
to greet the maiden and the mistress.
one and the same, the two.
the first which you call "the sun"
and i call my one and only,
my dearest love and fondest friend.
vitality in a word,
freedom in another.
warmth and initiative,
inciting bravery, invoking discord!
regality's crest she bears with pride.
all of sound is hers to command,
and upon her loud, abrasive call
we heed and make way for the door!
ay, she shall love me evermore.
but what of the whore?
o, devil's child.
they call you "the moon."
but, i call you my all.
my fault and my truth,
my sway and my feel,
my taste and texture.
you are as i have always wanted to be:
fearless and peerless,
uncontested in the cool sky.
of my lust you make art;
of my art, you erect memorial;
of my being, you make nephilim.
you tame inhibition,
claim master of my secrecy,
and allow me to soar.
ay, i shall love you evermore.
my moon, my whore.
of two, i see one.
neither day, nor night.
but, life and time,
It's Okay to be ImperfectThe moon
Stand Against SuicideI know the pain is perhaps unbearable,
But darling, please put down the blade.
Release your emotions through tears and smiles,
Rather than dreading these days.
Do it for the little girl, whose mother can’t be there,
Or for the boy whose father drank too much.
For the boy who can’t sit in elementary school,
Because the bruises from Daddy hurt to touch.
For the teenage girl lying face down in her bed,
Thinking, why can’t it all be done?
For the elderly man looking up at the stars,
Counting the days one by one.
Do it for the children who wonder, does it end?
For the ones who feel left on their own.
For the ones who think, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard
If I didn’t feel so left alone.
And finally, do it for one other person,
The person in front of these words.
Because you’ll never know how it gets better
When focusing on pain and hurt.
Live one more day, dear, for them and for you,
And I swear to you, problems will fade.
I know, for right now, it’s p
Unable to loveMy love was pure
I only wanted
But my heart
Because my love
Like a piece of garbage
And now I'm unable
Because the shreds
Of my shattered soul
I Thought I Needed FeminismI thought I needed feminism, when I was a little girl.
And I am very sad to admit, that this wasn't very long ago.
I thought when he held the door open for me, that he was making a big mistake.
That he was being a pompous ass, and he took my strength for a fake.
And when he offered to pay my tab, I still called him an ass.
Because I thought he assumed I was poor, and below middle class.
Or when his hard work earned him a promotion,
yet I did nothing, and the boss' ignorance to promote me, I believed was a sexist notion.
My friend really wanted feminism when she found her ex-dead drunk,
removed his clothes, and without his consent, had a pleasurable fuck.
When her parents bust into the room unexpected that night,
she said he raped her, and he was arrested without so much as a fight.
Perhaps feminism was there when I walked out into the street in pure nudity,
and shouted the my neighbors “You have no right to judge me!”
I didn't care about the children who were standing in th
MathematicsI am but the sum of my
F L A W S;
a network of
S C A R S
a disaster of
D R E A M S
a shield of
B O N E S
C A L C U L A T I O N
a void of
to the girl i lose my words aroundi have been meaning to tell you for years:
i think you’re beautiful. i have
seen nothing on earth that holds a candle
to the ocean you carry inside your body.
it spills over your edges sometimes, like
a rain shower around you, blurring your penciled-in
lines until there is nothing left of you but your natural
cliffs, valleys, and deserts.
i like that.
i have never met someone who is, somehow,
a sea and a storm at the same time.
maybe i never will again.
maybe you are the only one
who gathers clouds on her forehead
like a promise, or feels the push and pull of the tide
with her every step.
you are beautiful, honestly.
you are honest, beautifully.
it is in the way you talk, the way you hold ice
on your tongue but forget to use it—
you always forget to use it, i don’t think
you know how.
to be truthful, i’m afraid of your smile
and how it breaks over me, how it pulls
me like a whirlpool down, how it pushes me
like a current back to the surface. i’m afraid of
the certainty of imminencei.
tomorrow spills over
inevitability-rapt and enveloping,
as wakefulness startles,
i'm caught up in past-time
i forge(t) myself in oblivion
midnight so hollow,
we all stop
with the clocks.
nothing looks the way it did
and i guess it seems
i'm blinkered, brevity-bound
in century footsteps forever stumbling,
always being blindsided
by the passing
Abuse Is Sometimes NecessaryPush and pull at her long hair, topple her to the solid ground,
elbow her sharply in the raw gut, shove her harshly around.
Scratch him in the pale face, punch him in the broken jaw,
do anything necessary to him that's considered breaking the law.
And when she cries because you've punched her, let her be,
and observe her when she returns to her habitual smoking.
When she passes out next day, because she's drunken too much booze,
slap her in the face once more, though many would consider it abuse.
When he can hardly walk because he thinks he's high in the clouds,
rip the needle out of his arm, and with your nails, slash him across the sweaty brow.
Grab them and shake them till their battered and bruised,
tear at their heart, scream in their ears until you've reached the point of verbal abuse.
And when she falls into your chest, and he collapses to the ground,
pull them closely, and whisper, “We can turn this all around.”
And rehab is a necessity for all of you, because you'v
Good (Great, Greater, Greatest, You)Good (Great, Greater, Greatest, You)
I hope the title caught your eye,
because this is about you.
Many of us speak in superlatives
and ambiguous language.
In imagery-laden text masquerading
underneath double entendres
keeping us from a part of the truth.
But purple streaks and red bands,
harp strings and soft hands
don't begin to explain
the love I have for you.
So I lay these words down
simple in its vulnerability,
blemished and raw in its purity.
The term lissome fits you in many ways,
but not necessarily it its textbook form.
I speak on the part that is not readily seen
but what is easily most cogent.
Your consciousness' cognizance
is graceful in the way
you fold one syllable over
another, supple in its meaning
that can take many forms
going from idle lies
to how we idolize hollow eyes
and uncovered hip bones.
Elegance is an understatement,
but I refuse to speak in cliche superlatives.
I speak honestly
but not with exaggerated grandeur.
Because your immediate app
none the strongersome people talk in riddles,
and some don't really know how to say anything at all
i'm not one of those people
so why is it that you stop me every time
i used to think that we were what has always been
an extension of universal reason and balance
the right of the world and the dark refined
to form something too beautiful for our own eyes
we, blind as a whole, but not to each other
and now, you blind to me
deaf to me alone in your whirlwind,
the embrace of the torrent greets you so warmly
and my arms wilt in perpetual offering
cold, so very cold when you were near,
and even colder in your absence
how permanent it seems to me
how permanent it likely is
my thoughts surge ahead of me
and when i catch up, they're massive
i wage war with the rival nation of paranoia
its stretch expands and subsides
and i keep it at bay
but now, i fear that it knows my weakness
and it knows you're gone
the fortification constant, now an edifice solitary
i love alone,
i fall alone,
i die alone.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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