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Nightfall.I never knew another person could feel so familiar.
Not like this.
Sometimes it frightens me.
This is the only time I live in the present.
It could all be gone as I know it.
Every second, every breath, every touch.
I could age here for eternity.
As night falls and the moon rises up.
As the seasons change, the air gets thicker, and the trees wither.
As the world crumbles around us, and the universe collapses inward on itself.
There is only now.
The comfort of your warmth, the softness of your skin.
I listen to the sound of your blood pumping, and I bask in it.
Your heart beats, and it beats for me.
I pray to myself, over and over, that it never, ever stops.
P.T.S.D.I eat these pills like candy,
an abuse that feels like love.
Drink hard liquor when it’s handy.
Nose to nose, push and shove.
My self-worth is more than this.
More than you’ll ever fucking know.
A vicious cycle, round and round.
A callous past that won’t let go.
I can’t be your conscience.
I’m not the angel on your shoulder.
Our mattress up in flames,
we just toss and turn and smolder.
You tried to give me everything,
the good and the bad.
But I want more, and more, and more.
Stubborn hunger, addicted and sad.
Blot clots between my legs.
Gut wrenching pain within.
Remanence of you,
the rancid stench of what could have been.
This line between love and hate,
thinner and thinner as I grow strong.
Not afraid to sleep alone anymore.
I’ve fucking been alone all along.
Restless.I have a soul, distinct and alien.
I feel it beneath my skin, pulsating.
Itching to escape my body.
Rushing through my fingertips like a fist-shaped hole in the wall.
Jaws always clenched, wired shut.
Sanding down teeth and bone.
Resentment and bloody gums.
What will my aching discomfort bring today?
Pick a symptom, any symptom.
Chronic headaches? Dry heaves? Off-kilter equilibrium?
I'm dwindling - had and felt it all.
I disappear by the pound and cut off all my hair.
Disappear with time and sickness and mouthfuls of pills.
Doctors got me on this Xanax diet.
With a wish in one hand and shit in the other.
So I drink a glass of wine.
And I laugh at the tragic, boring, cynical person I've become.
Existence is the mere struggle just to remember to breathe every few seconds.
Lungs black, filled with smoke that I keep telling myself is medicinal.
My anxious, vagabond soul will not rest till I am dead.
Free at last, free at last.
The Man in Red Plaid.These walls are my friends.
They know me better than I know myself.
Dark energies surround me.
Cradling me in cold arms.
Thumping like death rattles.
I fester on top of my mattress.
My comfort zone of dead skin-cell bed sheets.
Stained with blood,
And the man in red plaid stands in the corner.
Always staring at me.
Like lonesome hallucinations in the night.
Pressing on my chest while I sleep.
He’s the only one who knows my name.
Home.Beautiful eyes are sociopathic.
His static-blue gaze sends shivers down my spine.
I fell in love at sunrise,
with threadbare jeans and a dull hangover.
Studying the curves and bends of his body,
imperfectly designed with me in mind.
Admiring his sleepy-eyed, alabaster complexion.
In the mornings, he smells like home.
I want to bury my sorrows in the soft nape of his neck.
I want to stay there forever.
Insignificant.Time slips away from her,
dripping between her nearly arthritic fingers.
Entire years pass in her peripheral vision,
lost in a spinning whirlwind of color and shape,
love and indifference,
vertigo and delirium.
She meanders aimlessly through the daily motions and daydreams,
feeling partly hardened,
and partly brokenhearted.
She is lonesome in a familiar way,
aching as though she had lost a precious limb.
This is the aging process,
and everyday she feels several steps closer to her own deathbed.
She floats in and out of reality,
too abstract for that simple, beautiful, middle ground.
Fantasizing about lives she will never live,
confidence she will never have,
and a romance that she never should have expected in the first place.
Decomposition.Existence is disintegration.
Flowers curled and withered.
Paper bones and yellowed skin.
This skeleton is my own.
My history -- a nameless tombstone.
An antique mirror.
A crumbling clot of dirt.
This is what it’s worth.
There is no God.
No tree of life.
Nothing grows here anymore.
Distorted.I hear things.
in my head.
Pupils dilate like wormholes.
I am catatonic.
I am wrong inside.
Heredity.I'm afraid of you.
My post-traumatic deceiver
with a heart three sizes too small.
Loving you is a sacrifice -
an underestimated dare.
So I keep both feet on the ground
and my fists up in the air.
Violence runs in the bloodline -
a big man makes real big threats.
That alcohol speaks louder
than your capability of regret.
Hate swells in your soul -
in your drunken,
You are someone else,
just a werewolf in disguise.
Now I know the anger exists.
No apologies -
don't fucking bother.
I saw the devil inside you
and he looked just like your father.
Bridge ClosedIn the city of spires
thrust upward through the body of cloud
a piercing spike of adrenalin,
as the wind fondly ruffles her hair,
doesn't stop her from jumping up.
Reaching to be seen or saved,
by a city that blinks and misses her -
a temporary peak on the skyline.
Doesn't stop her from slamming
into the steel slashes
of the trainline below.
Even the most beautiful places
to those blinded by the inside-out-agony
of breathing against their will.
The city of spires remember her
as the cause for a bridge closed
on a Sunday.
Poem for My 2nd Semester English Teacher(Short v.)You stapled these words to the page.
Like a modern day tyrant,
You denied them the little humanity
You trapped their souls into
And threw them to the curb,
I understand that certain things
Should be left Inhuman
But we even give hurricanes names.
You taught us to separate the person from the art,
But if the art is about that person, you can’t pull them apart
The SundancersThe sundancers crease the sky ephemerally
and stain the floor with their bravery, eternally.
FlamesThere are flames where
his head should be -
a poem left in the fireplace,
a dressing gown, a pipe,
forty pieces of silver.
This man promised you a winter
so warm and bountiful
spring would be ashamed.
He called you by name -
not the one that father knew
shoved under his bible.
But the one left behind
in the branches,
in the bucket of brambles,
and the columbines
buried at your feet.
Stones on the battlefield,
surrender in the grass.
What did his face
even look like behind the curtain,
counting those coins
and loosening the damp earth
from your shoes?
FriendshipFriendship is a tapestry
Woven through the years
With threads of joy and laughter
Happiness and tears
It's a work of art so priceless
It's shared by a precious few
Yet so easily created
By a loving friend like you
each one of us carries cemeteries beneath our skinyou are not the only one
to walk like there are
who looks both ways
before crossing the road
"knew a girl who";
you are alive
and you will experience
hurt, and you will
be so thankful
for every painful breath you take
because it's better than when
everything goes quiet
and all you feel is exhaustion.
there is more than just
one cold snap
before you enter
the winter of your life.
there are spells
of sadness and rage,
hate and denial
of all that you know
and all that you deserve;
and you are not the only one
to fight for everyday you are here,
alive and breathing
and striving to thrive
on such an unforgiving planet,
in such a world
that births emotional deserts
in its people;
you are not the only one
The lighthouseOn the top of the cliff
Facing the endless blue ocean
There is a place
Where a bright light shines
Guiding people through the night
And through the storm
A place of mystery and wonder
A sight to behold
Let its light guide you
So you can find happiness
to nurse doe (whom we all know) i watched her
blood orange heart
cleanse and suture
old bullet wounds and
new bouts of lilacs,
lime, and blue
her alcohol and aloe
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