The Lost OnesStruggle to gauge thoughtsdecipher repetitive “I am not”brush to breathe upon suffererswhom should not send lettersblind pilots freelance atmospheric paper routesdeliver silent parades among formidable selves - slave to not looking upplucking diamonds from their brains.
Violent RenewalHatching ideasit's darktoo darkthis dream,shadow mantells meto grinbare alluse thumbshe squeals,less-apt calmride alongconsumed ofstudiouseyes,nostrilslift &transcendbrilliantlySpring flowerssurroundland-basedbodies,lost freedomstingsinsidesceaselessI begin tocryas if beingfilmed,tearstowerselflesscheeks,indrawn seasfall onto lapdrowninghungering earthcaughtby awishto up.wake me
The Sound of Air DyingI go downrun out of human air oxygen empties my chest breaks heavy
I Set My Shadow LooseI set my shadow loosethe dreary warmthleaving the touchto find a new specter.Much later...I find her cryingon a highway overpassshe sees me eat a secretI spit the lies in her face“Go away!” I say.She jumps.The water belowwalks ahead of mecarries herwith pocket holesfor breathing.Somedaysomething will drag usback together.For now, I keepthe great poetsbottled insideof this bodyno longer bound.
The Life of the PartyI have been to lots of parties,barricaded by both men & womenthickened with unwinding alcohol.Quite the life you already know,very secret lives, everyone make-belieflying through their cock-thickening mouths....sole motives to only shirk, beat out with eyes,nearly diamonds, the brightness letting us drown.Out of touch .... yet everyone rubs nigh,wandering vacuums, too near to hearwhat's already been spoken, sucking up glow & alluringpersons, whom are feeble ... too far behind.Tinkering hands and looped musicpollinating dingy brains.Spellbind grief, unbearablyreminds you, the life of the party....can't get there from here.
Beginning Reaches The EndEmpty skystranded bucket of starscolliding distant galaxiesno more seeking bifurcate cosmosno more orderly harmonious destiny.
What a Writer must do.To live beyond the worda writer must trust the wounds,human suffering,a preludeof what is about to come.The lack of words is what a writermay need to endeavor.Precisely, revive a bruised landof skinbreathlessly stretchedto the inner acheof all mankind with wineupon the lips, a writer persists,times when there will be nothing leftto feel, belonging at all risk.
Pen NameYour heart is the vital necessity of my existence.The useless woman I had been before you,precedes understanding.Yes, I did have a name, bearing upon scrutiny.O, but you directly named me Asteriaand so “Ashley Saylor” in a sea of poetsdoes not possibly stand out as passionateand honestly not a luxury compared unfairlyto Asteria Sinclair.
I do this for you, really. A pocket full of decomposing starsdelicate bones in drawers,the sightof blood soakingunder newly pedicuredtoes – exciting. Walking home,bird with no wings. Spare some conspiracy,just don't feel up to flying this one night.
I'm A RoseI'm A Rose,If it is to hold me tighttake care,choose the right point,cause I have thorns.I'm A Rose,Don't cut me,because I'll die.
Mia Nihta Yemati HromataΜια Νύχτα Γεμάτη ΧρώματαΉταν εκεί,Η βροχη δεν τον σταμάτησε.Στεκόταν απ' έξω,Κοιτούσε την πόρτα του καφέ,Την σκεφτόταν.Μετά από ώρες περπάτημα,Ήταν εκεί,Την ίδια ώρα,ΑναρρωτιότανΑν εκείνη είν
What I Need?What I Need?Flowers, Chocolate and Love.
MessagesIt started with a text,from him.My heart skipped a beat;every time my eyes,skimmed over that message.Hello,he said.Hi,I said back.The letters began to fly;we talked everyday.It started off,like a tingle.Then exploded;with every text.Saying cute little things,silly love poems.But,he was also there;for the bad times.Where I wanted to cry,he couldn't hold me.No,instead he made me laugh.Nervous.I didn't want to,say it first.Bad relationships in the past;flood my memories.Praying to God;that he isn't like him.But my phone,had the answer.His message,the letters burned in my head:I love you.We wanted to meet,but never had the time.Living two states away;it was impossible.Until that on winter day,when the snowwas just beginning to fall.Someone knocked on my door,I found him with a Christmas present.He stayed the week,lived like husband and wife.Meant to be;but he had to go home.Leaving me alone on News Years,pain filled my heart.I felt alone,
Becoming Your GoddessYou have sculptor's handsand my flesh becomes the claywithin your touch, as youshape my Willendorf curvesI become your Venus.Hold me now like yourPersephone, who waversupon the precipice of this lifeand the netherworld, on the verge,of being ripped away intoeternities of darkness.Your fingers flirt with harp stringslike sweet Orpheus, speakingthe secret language of my heart,and I know you would playthe hymns to sing me backinto your arms.
I'm not telepatheticI'm not telepatheticand you aren't too,because you would knowand you wouldn't be angry with me.Therefor, you're thinking of me too.
Our Loveour love, a pear i eatwhile on my periodbumpy curvessending creasesburned browned spotsthrough smooth surfacesand blood clots
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