aylonit? or just me.

if sweetness is what you crave

i have it here.

all here.

in double

triple

endless

doses

of magical

youthful

softly

loving

suckling

birthing

holding

giving

of otherworldly

ancient spring

gently

growing

ivy wrapping

flower blooming

healing

breathing

in that other world

of sacred living

that is

just

me.

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cat in the trash heap

ill never measure up

never be that white

never be whole

never be perfect

and for that

i get punished

with inadequate

nothingness

where i cant even be offered

what every stupid girl

is.

so i say goodbye

and i cry

empty tears

cause nobody sees,

and hug myself

cause nobody does,

if only

that i shouldnt

fall completely

out of

life.

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further

alone

again

in ruled retreat

where air is thin

and breath is rare

and that closeness

we fake

that says we’re more

but in truth we’re less…

with unraveling strands

of pretend

hope

in thin

haunting cackles

of mocking voice..

that withers

with each wave

of invisible hand,

and ceases to be

just a little more

each

time-

and i,

hole up

once again

in my skin

of naked worthlessness

and unclaimed

promise

where

haunted witches

go

to die.

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kindling.

feel

oh!

the tingling

in

my feet

while my body

floats

unawares;

and my eyes-

when they close,

spin dense

in drunk fog

while my mind

drowns swift

in you.

 

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honored.

if i lack imagination,

or hope

or dreams

or clay,

to see the world in rainbows

in rain

in hugs

in may;

perhaps its due

to dues not mine

which i have had

to fill,

and pain in droves

littered in filth

heaped high upon

my sill.

yet still

in time

there ought to be

some space

to laugh out loud,

those belly laughs

you do so well

while i

still make you proud.

and there we sit

on bench bequeathed

by staunchly royal folk,

beneath peeled palm

or cedar wood

or perfect climbing oak.

so sit we there

small hand in large

two hearts that share

one beat

and think of old

and dream of new

where dreams of poets meet.

and there in breath

of sun and state

and oddly drawn horse,

slow breath gets drawn

in sweet success

and never ending

course.

cause here we are

the royal odd

of artists,

thinkers,

souls,

the ones that cry,

embroidered tears

love slowly

filling holes,

of deep neglect

and separatists

in worlds that cannot give,

perhaps its here

in small sweet steps,

where life begins

to live.

 

 

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arab

drunk.

im drunk.

and it doesnt matter.

i dont matter.

no one cares.

i dont care.

im like a stupid

w arpe d

tupperware

waiting to accept the next filling

of leftover slime

that no one

really wants..

and anyone can take.

and the cruel part isnt-

that im just

some receptacle

of disposable,

nasty,

interchangeable

poison..

its that

you put me here

and opened me up

to receive

that hell

of eternal

damnation

while you

wait

for nothing

and i get-

my

worth.

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migraine.

im so sad

like that sludge i imagined was real.

rolling down my arm

to my fingers where it dripped,

into thinned out bile

slowly emptied into clay-

while that hollowed out space

where the ruffled death grew

lay emptied

of pain,

of purple,

of you..

and not just of weight now;

but of possibility too..

and i lay here

slumped

in this decadent space

of a morbid fascination

with a life i cannot claim–

and my fingers tingle

and my heart beats too slow

and that pounding in my head

tells me

ill never know.

never know,

no i wont,

ill just wait,

ill just lay,

in a torturous bind

of impossible dreams

cause everythings

wrong.

and no one is brave.

and i

am

too

small.

too.

small.

to

smal.

to move,

this mountain,

alone.

 

 

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