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Loves
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dwindling stars
It's the little things at first, right?
Yes, I rather think so.
It always starts bright
The light reaching my eyes
Only after the delay
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Play Pretend
You can't rule with an imaginary crown,
we left the real ones on the shelf in Great Britain,
hundreds of years ago.
We left to be free,
we the people would love to be free.
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the sound of a room during a poetry reading
hushed murmurs, a squeaking chair
low mmms and ahhhs and snaps
and a poet standing dead center to begin dissection —the act of pulling out an intestine to test the color for ink
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fire and fury
poetry is false
and i am fake,
the world is spinning
on an invisible axel
and i am screaming
at the top of my lungs
out into darkness
with no one to hear me
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It Never Ends
her magenta marker
the silent clock
my desk, now darker
with dust like chalk.
his name in my phone
my swimming mind
his teeth were like moonstone,
mouth open that night.
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The dog at the end
There’s a dog that sits on the end of my street—
he barks at anyone that nears,
snarling teeth that glow shiny in the afternoon light.
There’s a dog that sits on the end of my street—