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Literature
on the final act
when we heard that they found mr. lewis hanging from the chandelier in the foyer,
i hear my mother say something about selfishness. but i don't hear, or listen.
say what a finale, say that's just how i'd go:
in the lights, all cut glass and crystal halo kaleidoscoping around my head.
just tryna make myself an angel. or anvil. come down heavy from a high place
just to end up 6 feet below; say he must've been hanging there for days,
just tryna hold up his own wieght. say how's that for a show? ain't we all
just tryna mean something to someone? more than just the curtain draw,
lights fade as we shuffle out, one by one. more than this.
say what's more selfish— leaving or expecting someone to stay against their will?
say what is a will but a list of reasons to stay?
see i'm not so worried that my mother will not forgive me, but herself,
and will that be enough to stay?
say everyday i think about leaving and all it does is keep me here, just in case.
don't wanna miss a thing, don't wan
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Literature
on the night the ball drops, florida 2016
i once heard a poet say that it's been a good year
if you've been to more weddings than funerals
and connor, you made us think that it was gonna turn out okay.
damn you for that. damn us for believing in something for once,
we just a pack of lonelies howling at the clouded sky,
just a runaway pickup speeding down the interstate,
nothing to guide us home except for a guardrail and the hopes
of finding warmth in something else.
say this wasn't supposed to be a poem about grief, or the wind.
but friend becomes snow and falls in the dead of winter and goddamn,
how cold the still air can be sometimes.
and here we are 2000 miles away, all dressed up with nowhere to go,
still tryna find faith in the forecast;
say tonight, the moon has hid its face
and tonight, grant is sobbing & no one can blame him
and tonight, we cheers to your absence & it sounds like the wind.
                                 
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Literature
on coming of age
at first, just whispers. the dead bird at the old apartment.
burnt hair & no shows. the stench of being forgotten.
darkness, for sure, but more cloak than night.
more bad dreams & pretend.
when the shadow finally moves in, it brings all its baggage.
clutters the whole house. you see how it lives,
all mirrors & sharp edges. it grows wings, becomes
more than nuisance, asks you to look it in the eyes and tell you what you see.
say nothing. or not enough. either way, ghost. become bitter. become unforgiving.
do not apologize for the charity, since you too are looking to fill space, and after all,
it is you who has given one; remember that there must first be a home to haunt.
say: better a bleeding heart than a blind eye, though one will likely kill you first.
consider that its own kind of shadow.
when you find the saved messages on your mother's old cell phone, the darkness smiles
and welcomes you in. you are no stranger. read about witchcraft & pharmaceuticals.
about cages
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Literature
on US70 to nowhere, colorado 2015
this is how we have learned to love:
sticky basements, blood spatter on a white tee.
you say we should see the other guy
with a crimson smile, and i think about how punk that really is. you,
whose biggest fear is not being able to communicate with the dead
in your native tongue. me, who flattened the earth with my want. see
how we earn our scars, laughing and at the expense of others. see
how the story is written, after the fact and with only one left speaking,
or standing. see how we name the streets for your dead.
see: Pueblo, Arapahoe, Kiowa, Cheyenne.
out here they always burning something  but, never the bones.
those be buried. be built on. see how strong the foundation, see
all of us white kids dancing on a mass grave. feel the weight of our boots,
snuffing you out like a still-lit cigarette, these hands that haven't yet
had to bury one of it's own, but ready still for the blood. i think about the kind
of creatures we are, or can be: born of the dirt and to it will one day r
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Literature
on the ground floor, colorado 2013
boy stays underground all day, be
with spiders, catching beautiful things
out of the air & smothering them with silk,
something sticky. see how they shine
in the right light,   see all the angels
we've brought down from heaven,
how we coccoon them with ourselves,
how we consume them with the hope
that they wil become us. see how readily
we devour this guilt, this empty carcass;
how the funeral pews always fill up, see
all the digital eulogies floating in space, a
garden of tombstones or prayers or nameless
ghosts but nothing louder than silence.
boy learns that there is little difference between
suicide & stardom, since both seem to end up
in the same place. friend tries to make a joke to
cut the tension, say maybe you'll finally be fucked
up enough to win a poetry slam
.
soboy takes cake knife to his words
instead of skin, calls this progress. says
not me, not yet; says you ain't even seen
the blood yet,   calls this a rigged game
we're all eventually losing; say it's
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Literature
on dogpatch, florida 2009
see mama don’t let her kids go over there to play,
say they call it that for a reason;
say one time i swear i heard gunshots in the night
and ever since, they be howling like the dogs,
notice how you never see any of em when the sun’s up,
like the scared of they own shadow, like they hidin’ something.
say one time i swear i saw a little black boy riding around
on grant’s stolen bicycle; haven’t seen him in awhile,
say come to think of it, the block’s been looking
a lot cleaner these days; ain’t what it used to be, that’s for sure.
glad the city finally got their act together,
shame to see all this prime real estate go to waste;
shame to leave it for the strays.
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Literature
on florida, after the fact
they say the tallest thing in the state is a landfill.
fitting, for what are we all but used up things rotting in the sun?
this gilded cityscape even Mike Bell couldn’t escape, the king of
running, the concrete kiss that kept him still.
say this is for the ever expanding list of obituaries i recognize
in the paper, not sure whether to mourn or make note,
we, just a bunch of rich kids with nothing else to do but die
and once, summer was just an afternoon thunderstorm,
just a parade of bicycles in the cul-de-sac
and, back then, we didn’t really know cool
till we heard it on the bus radio, know how to
keep ourselves out of trouble, or at least from
getting caught, say this is for those that did;
for dada and gary, i hear they both in the pen now,
better that than the ground, though, i guess
and for bradley, who hasn’t said dead just yet,
just ain’t been living right lately
see these days, those of us that made it out
be lookin back, how suburbia can swallow you who
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Literature
on the cold, alaska 2016
you say there are only two types of cold:
in one a shadow hangs on your bones like an old ghost;
the other is a color, or stillness, or both.
even now,
part of me still melts in the summer months, part
stays green year-round: come, see the bitter artist at work
say how’s that for a show? look at the sky
bleed into the horizon, how the peaks cry and carve
the earth with their guilt;
say here, we are all running from something,
land of lost boys, gone chasing clouds
only to end up in smoke.
say, how’s that for a show? see how lonely can look
so beautiful with the lights on, when the ice has receded
and the ground has begun to regain its color.
know that even then, the cold remains.
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Literature
on dealing with the roaches
but look at the infestation, you say,
and i say what’s that but a bunch of bugs tryna buy some time;
say this must be what it is like to play god
and i ain’t fucked up enough for that yet
still, i’ll bet the king was the first to go,
and in the end they all somewhere else;
see the walls emptied of bodies,
see them all belly up and bloated,
see how much easier they are to deal with when no longer breathing
and what here have we learned if not that the unwelcomed
are just static in the ears of someone else, that sometimes,
we do horrible things in the name of silence.
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Literature
on chasing highs and hitting lows
look out the rearview to see a thunderstorm
    orchestrating the florida sky, light keys
   and a baseline making believers of us all, and
 see how hope only hunts in the shadows,
       we the soaked and cold;
   say eat this and become the fire
because we all want to see something beautiful burn
       be it the heavens or ourselves;
   so what if we have eaten the night and,
 speaking of the sky. or to it:
we have spent too long trying to trade places,
  miles for miracles, but it just don’t work like that.
 both see the world and not say a damn thing
 so, why see at all? why not say goodbye already?
 but see, there is more than one way to empty yourself,
    funny too how the bong is a kind of mouth,
          all swallowing or spitting up, and watch:
eventually your tongue will become the interstate, ahead for miles.
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Literature
tout seul dans le parc au coucher de soleil
Voici quelle nous avons attendu.
   Pas le jour, peut-être, mais le temps. Regarde-on
 les nuages violets; comment la lumière est forte,
     comment la nuit est videe. Tu penses toujours que
    le ciel tombera quand tu est sur la terre.
Mais vois-tu les étoiles? Il y a les fantômes lourd d'absence.
 Dis au revoir.
 Dis tu les verras bientôt.
                                              * * *
This is what we have waited for.
   Not the day, perhaps, but the time. Look at
 the purple clouds; how the light is loud,
     how the night is empty. You always think that
    the sky will fall when you are on the ground.
But have you seen the stars? There are the ghosts heavy with absence.
 Say goodbye.
 Say you will see them soon.
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Literature
on the walls in the third stall
this crowded mausoleum,
say willy & tyler & matt & jeremy & ian
and look at how their names become a song
see: boy stomaches an entire medicine cabinet to fill himself
see: boy becomes asteroid and lands, face first, on the interstate
see: boy origami folds his car around a tree in the forest,
or, boy is the tree and falls to the floor of a concrete jungle
and makes a sound. every time.
see how i’m the unaffected third party.
perhaps i killed them with my silence,
see this smoking barrel of a tongue
say nothing about what i have seen
though nowadays funerals all feel like reunions
except in black and without the dancing.
see all this dirt on my shoes?
say i’ve got three states and a thousand miles in my soul so
i had my share of lookin’
like how we survived the mayan apocalypse
but not the knives or pills or keys,
and there’s got to be a lesson in there somewhere, there being the bodies.
as if the beautiful corpses are any less dead, so goodbye i guess
to all yo
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Literature
when i ask of the wounds
quite a few sir, she says, and lays down her weapons. i guess it’s been a long
time since i’ve felt like home in my own frame.  the air becomes nails
and i offer up my hands. say, i am not here to fix but build upon though
that is to say it can never be undone. see, i too have scrapped my bones
with sheet metal and mirror in the hopes that you can see yourself in me;
say you can fill the nascent gaps and together we can hold off the sky. and i
never had any weapons to begin with, so i hope my walls will be enough.
we'll see, she says, and stops up the blood.
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Literature
on roadkill
you ask about the lost angels,
something about the way a bird falls when broken.
you ask if there's a heaven for the hounds.
you've seen them, you say. the mouths. how they lick
the bones clean, lips smacking though they may be.
and of course there’s no need for leftovers; yesterday the boys
came and stripped bare what they wanted.
but it’s not always a feast, you say. sometimes they come
in the night and there’s not enough food. sometimes the flock
devours itself from the inside out.
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Literature
what was written on the walls in the third stall
goodbye summer of 2010.
rip summer, i guess
no more endless than life.
rip poppy,
willy & savannah & michael & matt & jeremy,
rip uncle bob, you toddler at play,
rmr klager, and the lessons you had yet to teach,
rip pop pop, you goddamn miracle.
goodbye to my guy harvey truck
and the playground at veteran’s park,
rip childhood, fading now in the rearview;
rip mike bell, you statue.
goodbye to narnia and its litter,
the hobbit hut, that ticking time bomb
and rip to all the tears and smiles set off inside them both.
rip to my crazy pants, the ones dad got in atlanta in the 80s,
for teaching me not to give a fuck,
goodbye fucks, and the pockets that i kept you in;
it’s been years and you have not found me yet.
rip to Mayan apocalypse and the bodies you did not take,
rip to the knives and pills and keys for those that you did.
goodbye to the poets and all the words that have died along with you,
rip to the birds but not cages and there will be more songs to sing;
rip to this on
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Literature
gulch
write a lot about the blood without so much as breaking
a bone. but still not whole. like the boy who tries running uphill
only to tumble down each time. but still not the boy without legs.
this boy who cries for strangers, say what have i done
to deserve this sad, not enough to earn even a tear.
see these days just a limbo between smiles, write a lot
about that, boy beats back childhood with fear of future,
all skinned knee and no bicycle, learning again to walk
or at least stumble forward.
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Favourites

Literature
chai
i bite
an urge and
my tongue stops
a name
–on a hot day
in June he slides  
up my dress and i smash his
hand on my thigh. i think
about my words before i speak.
if not i will say
what i habituate
like warmth and
skin and names.
don’t you like it? he asks.
i like chai. i ask
the barista what she likes most
and she says i don’t know,
have you had matcha?
it’s earthy. i imagine eating
dirt. not bad, she says, and sometimes
it’s sweet. i order chai. everyday
i order chai. at home we open
the windows and let the wind blow
the heat over our wet bodies
like a slow fan, but there is no fan,
i tell him to buy one and
he says maybe. maybe instead
we could read at a coffee shop
across from each other in the
cold. and i could rub my hands on your
legs and you could kiss me.
while there
the table separates us and
he can only touch me
by reaching. his hands tire and he
reads and i drink chai,
move a name around my mouth
but don’t let it leave. in any life
i a
:iconKaitForest:KaitForest
:iconkaitforest:KaitForest 9 2
Allergies by PEHDTSCKJMBA Allergies :iconpehdtsckjmba:PEHDTSCKJMBA 72 2 ongoing doodle by PEHDTSCKJMBA ongoing doodle :iconpehdtsckjmba:PEHDTSCKJMBA 14 4 Angel 002 by PEHDTSCKJMBA Angel 002 :iconpehdtsckjmba:PEHDTSCKJMBA 13 2 Angel 001 by PEHDTSCKJMBA Angel 001 :iconpehdtsckjmba:PEHDTSCKJMBA 9 1 Doodlething by PEHDTSCKJMBA Doodlething :iconpehdtsckjmba:PEHDTSCKJMBA 34 6 In Tune IV by PEHDTSCKJMBA In Tune IV :iconpehdtsckjmba:PEHDTSCKJMBA 195 12 144 by PEHDTSCKJMBA 144 :iconpehdtsckjmba:PEHDTSCKJMBA 24 5 Blob 3 by PEHDTSCKJMBA Blob 3 :iconpehdtsckjmba:PEHDTSCKJMBA 9 4 Seed by PEHDTSCKJMBA Seed :iconpehdtsckjmba:PEHDTSCKJMBA 32 10 Happy Thanksgiving by PEHDTSCKJMBA Happy Thanksgiving :iconpehdtsckjmba:PEHDTSCKJMBA 14 2 Clutter Demon by PEHDTSCKJMBA Clutter Demon :iconpehdtsckjmba:PEHDTSCKJMBA 76 14 Lovejoy's Machine by justinaerni Lovejoy's Machine :iconjustinaerni:justinaerni 4 0 MY DIAMOND CUT CASPER CRYPT EXUDES OPULENCE by justinaerni MY DIAMOND CUT CASPER CRYPT EXUDES OPULENCE :iconjustinaerni:justinaerni 6 0
Literature
reflectionself
i don't know who that is
in the looking glass sea
but the eyes seem kind
smiling sadly, slowly
a simple shadow
waiting in silence
stretching thinner
as it carrys the weight
of time growing old
beneath crystal waves
sweeping and breaking
i wonder if
it even has a name
probably could
use a friend as well
before time
crushes us
as the ocean does
a speck of sand
and it's shimmering reflection
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Literature
rough untitled
a song by mars argo that i can’t stop listening to and it honestly calms me down in some surreal way like a sedative from outerspace like bubblegum basements like cottoncandy  boys like immortal kids in bathtubs thinking about ophelia like falling asleep in the backseat of your car or having a loudly purring cat on your lap or sneaking outside at 3AM to taste the stars on your tongue by staring at the sky like you owned the universe like breathing in sunsets like aphrodite was your girlfriend like car radios at 1AM like that boy’s jacket and the smell of blueberries and peppermint and citronella and the taste of her lipgloss and the serene peace and calm of being at the bottom of a swimming pool and never needing to come back up like cigarettes with pastel pink clouds of smoke and girls with loud minds and soft voices, gentle hands becoming weapons, neglect becoming a lullaby, grey is my favourite colour and the way his voice broke on the phone last night when he sa
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Activity


when we heard that they found mr. lewis hanging from the chandelier in the foyer,
i hear my mother say something about selfishness. but i don't hear, or listen.
say what a finale, say that's just how i'd go:
in the lights, all cut glass and crystal halo kaleidoscoping around my head.
just tryna make myself an angel. or anvil. come down heavy from a high place
just to end up 6 feet below; say he must've been hanging there for days,
just tryna hold up his own wieght. say how's that for a show? ain't we all
just tryna mean something to someone? more than just the curtain draw,
lights fade as we shuffle out, one by one. more than this.

say what's more selfish— leaving or expecting someone to stay against their will?
say what is a will but a list of reasons to stay?
see i'm not so worried that my mother will not forgive me, but herself,
and will that be enough to stay?
say everyday i think about leaving and all it does is keep me here, just in case.
don't wanna miss a thing, don't want a thing to miss me.
see how guilt too can be a kind of dead weight. this heavy lifting, call it baggage,
been carrying this hurt from place to place, hoping to lighten the load.
hoping just to keep moving.

my mother says her heart goes out to reiko and the girls,
how we only leave room for those left behind.
say who will be left behind?
say leave and it comes out lost,
say love and mean a little bit longer,
say why can't people just love instead of leave?

can't leave the people i love,
can't leave people behind
can't always hear people leave, say
can't leave  can't leave   can't leave  
                                                        just yet

                  (still got work to do)
i once heard a poet say that it's been a good year
if you've been to more weddings than funerals
and connor, you made us think that it was gonna turn out okay.
damn you for that. damn us for believing in something for once,
we just a pack of lonelies howling at the clouded sky,
just a runaway pickup speeding down the interstate,
nothing to guide us home except for a guardrail and the hopes
of finding warmth in something else.
say this wasn't supposed to be a poem about grief, or the wind.
but friend becomes snow and falls in the dead of winter and goddamn,
how cold the still air can be sometimes.

and here we are 2000 miles away, all dressed up with nowhere to go,
still tryna find faith in the forecast;

say tonight, the moon has hid its face
and tonight, grant is sobbing & no one can blame him
and tonight, we cheers to your absence & it sounds like the wind.
                                                              sounds like amen.
on the night the ball drops, florida 2016
been waiting too long to write this poem

maybe finished (never is)
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at first, just whispers. the dead bird at the old apartment.
burnt hair & no shows. the stench of being forgotten.
darkness, for sure, but more cloak than night.
more bad dreams & pretend.

when the shadow finally moves in, it brings all its baggage.
clutters the whole house. you see how it lives,
all mirrors & sharp edges. it grows wings, becomes
more than nuisance, asks you to look it in the eyes and tell you what you see.
say nothing. or not enough. either way, ghost. become bitter. become unforgiving.
do not apologize for the charity, since you too are looking to fill space, and after all,
it is you who has given one; remember that there must first be a home to haunt.
say: better a bleeding heart than a blind eye, though one will likely kill you first.
consider that its own kind of shadow.

when you find the saved messages on your mother's old cell phone, the darkness smiles
and welcomes you in. you are no stranger. read about witchcraft & pharmaceuticals.
about cages  & what we lock away in them. stay up late talking to god or ghosts,
find the moon bobbing in your cereal bowl. swallow it and become the night. listen for the crickets.

when a stranger beckons from upstairs, promise you will not go.
promise that you will one day return, alone & empty handed.
this is how we have learned to love:
sticky basements, blood spatter on a white tee.
you say we should see the other guy
with a crimson smile, and i think about how punk that really is. you,
whose biggest fear is not being able to communicate with the dead
in your native tongue. me, who flattened the earth with my want. see
how we earn our scars, laughing and at the expense of others. see
how the story is written, after the fact and with only one left speaking,
or standing. see how we name the streets for your dead.
see: Pueblo, Arapahoe, Kiowa, Cheyenne.
out here they always burning something  but, never the bones.
those be buried. be built on. see how strong the foundation, see
all of us white kids dancing on a mass grave. feel the weight of our boots,
snuffing you out like a still-lit cigarette, these hands that haven't yet
had to bury one of it's own, but ready still for the blood. i think about the kind
of creatures we are, or can be: born of the dirt and to it will one day return,
just to see how much we can fuck up in between. and what of the plains,
sprawling towards the horizon like the gold or god we've been looking for?
burn it all, you say. become the ember or wildfire or howling wind,
and you will find it, there, in the ground, where you left us behind for good.
boy stays underground all day, be
with spiders, catching beautiful things
out of the air & smothering them with silk,
something sticky. see how they shine
in the right light,   see all the angels
we've brought down from heaven,
how we coccoon them with ourselves,
how we consume them with the hope
that they wil become us. see how readily
we devour this guilt, this empty carcass;
how the funeral pews always fill up, see
all the digital eulogies floating in space, a
garden of tombstones or prayers or nameless
ghosts but nothing louder than silence.
boy learns that there is little difference between
suicide & stardom, since both seem to end up
in the same place. friend tries to make a joke to
cut the tension, say maybe you'll finally be fucked
up enough to win a poetry slam
.
soboy takes cake knife to his words
instead of skin, calls this progress. says
not me, not yet; says you ain't even seen
the blood yet,   calls this a rigged game
we're all eventually losing; say it's not fair
it's not fair    it's not fair    it's not fear
not fear of yourself or this life,
it's not this, this living;
can't be     can't be     can't i just be next
on the ground floor, colorado 2013
Or, things to be buried
Or, waiting until spring
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Comments


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:icona-girl-named-divine:
a-girl-named-divine Featured By Owner May 28, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
your poetry is honestly so beautiful <3
Reply
:iconsuccesswithhonor:
successwithhonor Featured By Owner May 31, 2017  Student Writer
:heart: & :rose:
Reply
:icona-girl-named-divine:
a-girl-named-divine Featured By Owner May 31, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
:tighthug: right back at you ?
Reply
:iconbraxton-t-rutledge:
Braxton-T-Rutledge Featured By Owner Apr 20, 2017
Ty
Reply
:iconwei-en:
wei-en Featured By Owner Mar 14, 2017
Thank you for the watch ☆☆☆
Reply
:iconblackbowfin:
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner Dec 18, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Much thanks.  :)
Reply
:iconazuline-furcula:
azuline-furcula Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2016
thank you.
Reply
:iconsuccesswithhonor:
successwithhonor Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2016  Student Writer
:coffeecup:
Reply
:iconarabesque-o:
arabesque-o Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2016  Student Photographer
I like your pretty words.
Reply
:iconsuccesswithhonor:
successwithhonor Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2016  Student Writer
i like that you like them
:heart: :rose: :coffeecup:
Reply
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