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Wide Open SpacesSome sick fuck
Half inanimate object
The man, forty stories up
Hurt me, hurt me
The closest to the edge on the day she was meant to bow
"Thank you, I'm all better now"
Forty story man doesn't look out
at her feet
on the other side
This song goes out to you, ghost boy.And maybe you
too much of your own music
I am violin string, broke on lonesome.
You are an LSD trip inspired tattoo,
words to your tongue you can't take back.
and my head said
you won't fucking forget
you can't stop dreaming of
in all it's grand cliché
and the music.
my speakers are broken
but that never
the words from flowering out into the air
and so can you blame me
to your name
People are big and scarySometimes
a human life is too big
and I am too small
and I think
if I squeeze hard enough
that I'll disappear completely
I don't believe in godAnd, as hard as it is to believe sometimes, you just want to feel like someone is guiding you.
Dragging your hands forward to the asphalt.
Pinning your wrist bones to the skin of your palms.
As you, or was it Jesus, who saved you from falling head first.
Into the man-made black, flat as waves.
The taste of your bleeding tongue.
The sky, trees and houses tipped around you like the cateye of a marble.
And some sufferer, buried in regret and silence.
Both creeping towards our death day where, goddamn, we finally get to read the answers in the back of the book.
Do single-cell organisms go to heaven?
And why allow me to learn my lesson.
But yet I keep writing, starting every sentence with "And"
Comes with a swordOne day I'll tell them everything I never talked about
The women at the support group
the strongest people I've ever met.
Jawbones made of steel and fractured jade
He pushed her up against a wall and broke her nose
Her eyes fill will glistening compassion
when she speaks of him.
How can you not see how brave you are?
The strongest people I've ever met
Fighting wars we cannot speak of outside this room.
I wonder how many of us will live through love
And of all the prayers for me, I hope my prayer for them is answered
Because some will return to their husbands fists.
The sun is shining outside
so I pray that they resist.
Praying mantisThe praying mantis
in my spot
on my sofa
I eye him from across the room
with his hands, brown spikes clasped together,
prays about as much as I do.
And equally as sucessful.
In the dark shade of the room.
His glassy eyes watch me watch him,
the light from the window reflected like TV screens.
His arms still fixed
the tips touching
still muttering under his breath.
He stays for long
but I daren't break his trance
in my chair
in my space
with nowhere to go but home.
SuckerEvery little thing
You mustn't be so forgetful
This is you
I'll sit on my porch when you go.
And through Monday, too.
Why not April, September?
This is me keeping secrets behind sour eyes
And my heart doesn't lay still
for very long
My insides twist
when I wonder where you are
This is me,
A message to the brokenYou drown yourself
in liquid sorrows,
letting the salty mess
burn your wounds,
and the sadness
to drip in your mouth,
consuming your words
and you say
you deserve the pain,
but I want to dry your face,
and whisper in your ear
how the clouds cry too,
while they hold such beauty,
and so do you.
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
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
These Faded KeysOf all the keys I click
As we speak each day,
It's the back arrow
That's faded most
These white letters
Would surely tell you,
I reply to everything -
But the key reading "enter"
Will be the one to explain
Why it still looks new
I want you to know
Just how much I care,
But I don't want to be close
Out of the fear of losing you
But please remember:
I dedicate these words to you,
Sharing them to the world
Rather than clicking away
At the faded key ~
Echoes we are like
in the middle
but not quite
what we truly
Tonight, I finished a roll of toilet paper
that I had started
a month, 8 days,
two hours, and 21 minutes ago.
Its genesis, June 11th,
one of the worst nights of my life,
I took a roll from my small bathroom,
and silently tucked it under my arm.
I couldn't let my girls know.
They couldn't know
I was going to use this as my broom.
They couldn't know
that I swept my shattered heart
under my bed.
And I wept.
My pillow taking my abuse,
my suffocation and my attacks.
My fingers squeezing it for dear life
and my knuckles as I punched it,
imagining it was her.
Then hugging it.
I only cried that hard
when I was about 6.
She was gone.
And so was I.
I cried every night
which would've marked
our 7-month anniversary.
And in the late days of that month,
I lied to myself.
And for that,
I regret every moment.
I wasn't ready.
At least I stopped it,
before we drowned each other
like the last woman.
Two weeks lat
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