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FatherI don't understand why he takes care of me
I am a burden and a mess
that goes from place to place
hurting and dumping her baggage on everything around her
I have disappointed him in so many ways
forgive me, daddy.
What ifWhat if I can't do this?
What if I can't grow?
because I'm so afraid
that I can't function
without someone to take care of.
I don't know how to want to better myself
it's a shaking that comes upon me
earth-breaking and lonely
breath comes hard
and softly goes my heart
because I'm tired
and I'm not even sure I know how to try
IncensedI don't know how not to be angry.
it's the safest thing to be
when you don't know
and when you feel a friend leaves you, deceives you
and everyone tells you this is so
I don't know
so I get angry
For a few moments, I do want to die
because I've not felt this way in such a long time
never the rage
never the hatred
I always feel that I must go on the offensive
that words and silence aren't enough
I want to squeeze that white white neck
or break those wiry arms...
But I am taught to be civilized now.
To be patient and wait
while my family
and my heart screams for blood
so I can't talk.
I can't even be around- I make mistakes
and stumble over myself.
I can't be eloquent
in this situation.
I don't know how to not be angry.
inspiringhe is inspiring
never have I heard of anyone
who snatches the air from my lungs as he does
who thrills me with the vivacity
like he can
as I heard each breath, shaking with the intensity
of his words
rolling in his mouth as rocks do
tumbling into my ears
with all the grace and noise and energy of puppies
I am swept away
I take joy in them, these messy words
cut and sown together
like Joseph's coat of many colors
there's beauty in it
i am one of you
I can hear his conviction
rattling like a cough in his chest
he sounds feverish
and his fervor is a strength
tongue lapping up the attention of his listeners
slamming doorsEvery time I hear them argue,
a chill (just a shiver) runs down my spine.
And every time I see anger
in their eyes,
I am a child again
I prepare myself - just a little -
for their voices, raw and strained, barraging my eardrums
for the thud of objects thrown
(although, sometimes they're only punches)
cocooned in blankets, locked in my room
I remember my father's impassive face,
the rage in my mother's words
the realization that my sister and I
will grow up to become them
Every time I hear them argue
I am afraid.
VaninYou speak a language
that I don't
it is heavy and thick
resounding from your chest
words forming in your throat
it has no rules,
but easily understood by those born
as you were
You speak a language that is harsh on the ears
and soft on the lips,
the syllables rough and
'round your tongue
you speak of ugliness and of suffering
in a clipped and angry tone
it's still so beautiful
when you speak
I feel that I knew you
before I knew you.
You were in my words and my thoughts.
You were hard to understand, at first,
but I grasped at you.
I began to know you
as no other has known you before.
and, even though knowing you
has changed all that i had known before
I don't regret you.
She wears a red hat.She wears a red hat, a small cap, the only piece of color in her grey world. A breeze snapped at her face, her bangs stirring. She kept her slightly curling black hair braided, over her shoulder where so that it couldn't trouble her. She sighed as her boots kicked and splashed in the puddle.
The park was where the girl in the red hat always went when she felt that she was unable to cope; sometimes it was hard to live with her mother. The woman had grown steadily more resentful of the man who had left her - resentful of his new wife, his new child, his new happiness.... But the girl paid this no mind. She knew the man loved her still, in his own way, but could not bear to stay any longer. She had long since accepted this fact - understood it.
Sometimes she would meet the man in this park without her mother's knowing. The two of them would sit together on a park bench in silence, enjoying the day and a hot hoagie for lunch - or take walks down the well-trod path. He never had been one fo
Tell youI'm afraid to tell you
because I love you so much
I don't want you to be disgusted
it wasn't my fault that it happened
so long ago
I don't want to have to tell you
to turn off your sense of humor,
to spare my feelings-
to tip-toe around the tender spots in my heart.
I just wanted to be okay
and I told you that I was
so that we could get on with our lives
and forget the past...
but you never forget
so, how could I tell you
that I'm still hurting?
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Makers Of The Cage. Holders Of The Key.Our eyes are the closest thing we have to freedom.
We see endless blue sky, and the stars beyond.
We see the beauty of the world.
We see our reflection in the mirror;
the reality, and the fantasy.
Our eyes see far and great.
But the rest of us cannot follow.
Our hands probe the steel bars around us.
Fumbling in the dark.
Cut by the sharp edges.
The bleeding never stops.
Our feet shuffle around.
Trying to go places.
But we walk in circles.
Our emotions go from red to blue;
orange to green;
yellow to purple,
mixing in a haze.
Our mind goes to dark places,
and only wanders deeper.
Oblivious to the place right next door.
It knows the freedom,
it knows the pit.
There are endless paths to take.
There's a cage we need to break.
There is a key ourselves create.
In our hands, it's never too late.
a cherry pit dog heart.she holds a cherry pit dog heart in her hand, arrhythmic
beats like children playing pots and pans in kitchens
mother builds from scratch, black bean soup prepared
for dinner by a creased artist; wisps of white
upon a grandfather's head remind his daughter's child
of winter as he talks of horses in cuba who scratch
their backs on wooden posts; the first time she eats
ox tail is at an uncle's funeral, sitting in the basement,
surrounded by her surname, wondering why everyone
seems so happy; her grandmother keeps having
that dream where she's cooking and pours hot oil
on the animal in the kitchen, singeing his skin—
she cries out at midnight, sobbing for her daughter;
black eyes watch as her child keeps growing,
inspecting her process for future improvements,
while she takes pride in getting her sleeve caught
on twigs as she runs through the forest; motherhood
enters her every so often, at times uninvited, but
never for her prince in white, the bundle curled up
on her bed, floating
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Pack creaturesHumans are pack creatures
or at least
they used to be
where I live it's much different now
humans are raised to look out
for only themselves
not their families
only the best
and strongest will survive
where I am
where I stand
I am not weak
but I am not the strongest
for my status
in the societal pack
but what if I just can't kill
and butcher my way to the top?
it isn't dog eat dog
it's every wolf for itself,
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More