Oct 23
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Clair de Lune

Clair de Lune played over and over in my head
as my fingers followed each note,
gently grazing the keys on the piano.
I imagined I was debussy under a full moon
with its light spilling over me,
playing to my little sister as she falls happily asleep.
The rolling of the music matching the lethargic rolling of the oceans waves
on a beach from a summer long past.
The stillness of the night stood unbroken
except for the occasional laughter as a couple in love walks by.
Stars streak past and the world is spinning as
the notes come faster and faster reaching a crescendo.
Then for a moment everything stops.
It's just a moment, but it's filled with the quiet night
and the warmth of a happy memory.
When the next note falls all is calm,
the song is ending and the moon is still crawling over head.
My little sister slowly wakes
and waves to someone waiting for us
both to come home to our warm beds,
Oct 08
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The Hospital

               A light whistling sounded in my room, for a quiet breeze passed by. It left behind little evidence it ever happened at all, except the scent. It carried the smell of plastic, chemicals, antiseptic, and the slight smell of burning. It was the way everything smelled these days, like that damned hospital. All the young progressives in the neighborhood ignored the new abomination to our town saying how it was a, “wonderful contribution to our community”. Oh how wrong they were. It was clear, the dogs eyed it with fear and babies would cry as their mothers walked them past it. When you’re my age the world starts to say it’s just the ramblings of an old person, telling you to go to one of those “homes”. Well, i’d rather be dead.
Sep 18
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It's been a while

Everyone is shallow.
It's funny because tons of people
criticize the ones 
who can't look past others looks,
but really every ones shallow.
How many times have you looked
in the mirror,
and thought you were ugly?
Hated yourself and your body,
maybe even cursed the day
you were born.
Every day I would go to the mirror,
look myself in the eyes and say,
"your not pretty.".
I couldn't say I wasn't beautiful,
I wasn't even just pretty.
If that is not shallow
than I don't know what is.
Do you even see the person within?
Do you even recognize yourself as more
than just some object?
Who are you?
What right do I have to say,
"your not pretty." to anyone?
What kind of person does that make me?
If I am so shallow that I would
hurt myself and verbally abuse myself
every day because I don't think I fit some twisted standard? 
Apr 26
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loneliness or nothing

Loneliness is awful,
worse than a broken heart
but it still leaves no scars.
"Its nothing"
is what you say and what you feel.
A tornado is what tears apart your head.
The feeling of seeing everything
you were comfortable with,
fall apart is indescribable.
Just when you think the
world will stand still for you,
it keeps turning.
Time gives no apologies,
no bull crap "I'm sorry" wall mart card 
shows up at your doorstep.
The feeling you get when your standing
next to someone
and realize you
still feel a hundred million
miles away from them,
breaks your heart.
But it happens over and over
and over and over again.
It's this constant
tightness in your chest.
Waves of hurt.
Especially when you think how
ridiculous it is to feel that way.
You look for things to justify
your feelings,
try and section yourself off.
The scariest thing,
Apr 26
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loneliness or nothing

Loneliness is awful,
worse than a broken heart
but it still leaves no scars.
"Its nothing"
is what you say and what you feel.
A tornado is what tears apart your head.
The feeling of seeing everything
you were comfortable with,
fall apart is indescribable.
Just when you think the
world will stand still for you,
it keeps turning.
Time gives no apologies,
no bull crap "I'm sorry" wall mart card 
shows up at your doorstep.
The feeling you get when your standing
next to someone
and realize you
still feel a hundred million
miles away from them,
breaks your heart.
But it happens over and over
and over and over again.
It's this constant
tightness in your chest.
Waves of hurt.
Especially when you think how
ridiculous it is to feel that way.
You look for things to justify
your feelings,
try and section yourself off.
The scariest thing,
Feb 23
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i love you

I love you.
The way that you smile at everything,
the way your eyes light up
every time you talk about what 
you care about,
the way you always seek the 
magic around you and the
good in people.
I love you.
They way your nose has
this little bump,
and how one eye might 
be a little squintier than the other.
The way your tan turns a little
grey in the winter like your
matching the seasons.
I love you.
How you have a little more hair in
a few more places besides just 
on the top of your head,
how your thin frame can be
thought of as too skinny and not
perfect.
perfect because its how you
are meant to be. 
I love you.
Your creativity and art is beautiful,
you show a piece of yourself in
every word,
every line,
leaving a trail of breadcrumbs
to your heart.
I never knew how hard it is to
say those words to yourself.
Jan 07
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unrequited

Often gone unspoken
Sealed between gritted teeth like graves
And the silence, grave stones.
Flowers laid upon the soil,
Mocking my rotting body
Whilst the living tread upon
Sacrifices with blissful ignorance.

I can not help but take in
The gentle fragrance that only serves
To remind of that which cannot be reached.
My attention bound by emptiness.
Oh what god there may be,
Am I to be damned to forever
Roam The Fields of Mourning?

A face will always haunt my sleep,
The dream’s details never
Did justice to the addiction.
Thick darkness veils the light and,
I may not even begin to reach where
Flowers bloom in a better place.
A place where the soft singing of
The Muses would grace my ears.

Cold frostbitten edges replace the warm glow
Of the glass sphere in my window.
The fragile thread delicately holding it
Suspended still in time as the
Nov 02
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Inside the skin


I know a little about my body.
From the days I spent lying on the cold hard wood
Floors staring at my ceiling
to the times spent looking in the mirror.
I know the places bones are more visible than the skeletons in my closet
And the places where softness conceals what's hidden underneath.
The mirror I have discovered,
Lies.
The floor only shows you where it hurts more to lie on.
I know what people have told me,
But they are like the mirrors at circuses
Who warp and change who you are until all you can do is laugh
At the ridiculousness of it all.
Inside the Skin,
I know best.
Feeling the space between my bones and the thrumming of aliveness
In my hands no object can lie about.
The way my muscles remember how to walk
And the way my body knows all on its own how to breath,
Is real.
The people that have dug into my heart and have always been there
Oct 15
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Understood

This is a poem written by one of the most amazing people in my life who I have gone through so much with and inspires me every day. 


There is a one litre bottle of malt liquor
standing on your dresser.
It is half empty and so is your
bedroom.
Your bed is stripped of sheets while
you lay there,
holding nothing but your dignity and
the breath of days worth of alcohol.

Every time it comes to this it ends up
feeling heavier.
The guilt laid thick on my shoulders
is not enough to battle the
clandestine obsession that you
have developed for the thickness 
of your tongue, 
the rolling of your fists against a softer jaw.

I have started locking the liquor cabinet,
hoping that your unsteady hands
are too shaky to pick the lock.
Not like that makes you stop.
Its getting tiring to stay up past 5
sewing the glass
wounds in your hands shut.
Sep 22
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noise

I don't know why I talk.
Sometimes all that seems to come out of my mouth 
is just white noise.
Why do I talk?
To fit into some obscure place in the world?
Do I care?
Should I care? 
I don't know why I talk.
The ego seeks strength from the white noise
that comes out of mouth and,
from the white noise in the mind.
Every word seems to be just one more in the giant book
that spells out my insanity.
Why do we talk?
Is it to fill the void of empty space that makes up everything?
Is it to fill the vast universes between the cells in our brittle bones?
Are words the cement that holds our yearning souls together?
Or are they the hammer that shatters the connection,
causing it to fall slowly, slowly between the cracks
in the pavement under our feet.
I don't know why I talk.
Is everything so black and white that words could just be 'bad' or 'good'?

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