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SojournI have no power leftfrom the wide-eyed attemptat changing the courseof the river.There is no time leftto sow the seedsfor forestsin my future.In the dreamscapethere is no vision leftof the right wayto sail for death.It will simply come to this,the journey home,the nothingness,the peace.
SailorI set out to test the watersand push my limits,but the depths were hungry,and the limits fluid,far too close to shore.All the complexities,the terror and the pain,flooded the brain,drowning the factthat happiness can only risefrom deep within.It is your own damn jobto learn how to swim.
The simple endSo it seems thatas the years go bylike autumn leavesin snaking rivers,the sense of distanceis swallowed by the sea.So it seems thatthere are no perfect circles,only jagged linesfolding on themselves.So it seems thata human bodyis simply matterlessfrom violent beginningto the simple sweetnessof the end.
SupermassiveReality never bendsto human expectation,it simply does its thingand becomes the consequences.At times it blossoms perfeclyin the gardens of our creation,but when it dies and rots away,we may have been the poison.No result is guaranteed,even when thoroughly tested,but life is all but barrenwithout the seed of risk.And in the end,strange beauty growsfrom feeling thingsbig enough to break you.
SuprasolarWe call it the Local Group,this, our neighborhood of galaxies,in which only a single staramong billionsis even remotely reachable.And we tell ourselvesto dream big.That hard workwill get us there.But on the cosmic scaleour collective capacityis nothing.For every star in the Milky Way,all four hundred billion or more,there is a galaxy.Even the Local Groupis nothing.Yet since dreams are orbitalwe hold our breath to reach them.And when we perish in the vacuumthe stars still burneverything that matters.
Forest fireWe were snaking up the I-84through Deadman Passin the Blue Mountainsof northeastern Oregon,where stories write themselves.The trees are evergreen, you said,defiant spruce and pine and firprotruding from dirt and rocks,exclamation pointsfollowing the death of everything else.I recall a membrane of cloudsat the apex, a reminder of bordersthat should never have been crossed,as overanalyzed by a tired mind.It may or may not have been there.We penetrated the veil,the first Chevyto sputter onto the Moon,monochrome and lifeless,under a radiant crystal sky.The fire had ravagedthe land to the boneleaving us trappedin the rib cage of the world.Something else descendedinto the desert below,but it was no longer us.
AwokenFor years I slept with open eyesand fibrous dreams, cut into shapesso real to the touch.It took a shock to wake me upand shed my baby skin.The cold is raw now,honest and lethalto a naked body,freezing wordssolid in the throat.Light once imaginedshines no more.Love once whisperednow rings hollowamong the echoesof the dusk.
Why the ostrich bleedsI have oversharedenough.
StarpulseTen foldsof singularityaround and aroundthat lucid pain& sing acrossthe great dividelike a pulsar,a throbbing star.Let them hear youlong after you fallthrough your heart-holeinto the never/ever& keep them wonderingwhy.
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
Simple Machinesthere is no green valley, stitchedin-between the skull platesof a death like this,nothing to section its low spotsinto a geographymore sensical, less cruelor intricately interleaved enoughto dismiss as random or miraculous,there is simply no vein of lifeto stretch or shape these stepsinto lessonwhen imaginations die,they settle and house their needin places like this,in the oil-dusty shed quietlandscape of out-buildings,they settle like workpiecesclamped to the point of crush,between jaws of the vice, wheretheir own empty arms meet and rememberhow the unwavering compressionof failure's suffocationcan almost feel like lovethese truly simple machinesare driven by the tireless turnof starvation's axle,breathing onlythe black hole's bellowedrise and fall, simplein their mechanical advantagein that they will never threatento dream, nor live, never riseabove the deceptionthat fastens and hingesdull tools like us together
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
This is IronyI count the passing of days in ashtray soldiers,and stillness in the words of dead poets.We write our secrets on the inside of our lungsand hide truths on the inside of our stanzas,because it’s acceptable to wear hatred on your arms,but vulnerability is a mark of weakness.I have choked down everything: pain and shame and arsenic tranquility,to spew forth such paltry words and call it poetry.A waltz away from thirty eight caliber oblivionwe press back, backbecause death isn’t as romantic as we hoped,and poison is quieter than a gunshot.
sunday morning girlI'd rather be the girlwaking you upwith coffeeon a Sunday morning,than keeping you upwith vodkaon a Saturday night
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one. When she cries herself to sleep six out of seven nights a week you must say nothing. You must simply take her in your arms and kiss her gaunt, pale cheeks and wait for her to slumber at the sound of your heart.two. On the days where she wishes she were part of the stars, tell her no. Tell her that there are too many lights in the sky and that just one would be forgotten the moment you looked away from it. Tell her that she is perfect the way she is: completely human.three. Don't let her think about the scars that no one but her can see. If she says "I think I'm broken" smile like you know a secret and say, "No, you're mending." But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
EmoSo what if I'm emo?So what if I cry?I'm not THAT emotional,I dont want to die.So what if I dress in a different style?There's no need to scream and run for a mileI dont like to cut and abuse my arm,I am not depressed,so why cause self harm?Could it be that I am just like you?That I can smile, giggle and laugh along too?Could it be that I am happy with myself?It's just that I am not some pretty doll on the shelf.Could it be that the only reason i dye my hair black;Is because I dont want to be some barbie in a bimbo girl pack.These are the reasons, and I'll tell you why,that I dont look in the mirror and start to cry.I know Im not perfect,I'm sure you will agreeBut I am so very positive,as positive as can beThat Im not like you,Oh dont make me laugh!I dont spend hours on my make-up's maskI'm totally self-confident,Ill smile for all to see.Because the great thing about being emo,Is that I am happy, with just being me.Dont be afraid of who you are.<
claustrophoriai.danced in heartstrung patternslike there's firein you.never been doubted,how your tonguecurses and blessesin stride.tell me again how i wasted myteeth, ground downendlessly.tell me again how i madeyour scarsmy own.ii.solemn, your archivesof wisdom let growfree from contraint.you split each evein at least fourdimensions.tell me again how i taste when yourfeet aren't tethered sobothersome.tell me again how you makeyour starsyour own.iii.wrath wrapped sly in silkenpose and dared glimpse, youcolor them wanting.pleasure like limbslove pressure andgrip.tell me again how the shadowspull all of us, deliberateand flawed.tell me againthat iexist.iv.quiet as the dawn of timeand prone to such forces asonly you know.you've madean islandhome.tell me again how your spinepeals, how your heelsskirt, how you live.tell me againand againi am missed.
Hospital Poetry: Half MoonsOur favourite nurse brings usnail polishes gift-wrappedon Christmas dayto brighten up the white-washed crescent bedsof our handsthat limplymatch the pale walls of the ward.I choose silver stardustreminiscent of tinsel
AsylumRing sparkround the greycorridors -shock start;are the patientsstill in cells?