I slide myself between her tenderness.
She trembled from the embrace.
Her shivers soon tamed.
The pain of a pinch,
She's feeling it inside.
Unimaginable pleasures,
refrained from the release.
Nails tearing at my flesh,
her fingers grip, digging deep.
Sensations of pleasure eclipse reality.
Ravenous passions,
we consume; selfishly.
Tension building,
unbearable pressure;
relentlessly .
Her emotions
Eruptions; uncontrollably,
repetitively.
I'm giving her,
the best of me.

I live in the basement, never venturing
upon those stairs, I hear her voice...
"Come up and see me its been to long,
Holding my ears singing my favourite song
repetitively until she is drowned out of
my thoughts. rocks tied to her voice as it
sinks out of view.

I use the stairs that open to the outside,
Lingering looking at this place I called home.
Venturing in the old ford, she lets me drive
it when food is but breadcrumbs and eggs
old enough to birth the dead fetes of a partly
grown bird. I look out though a ***** window
screen, this trip takes two hours each way.

I always wonder if my bald tyres are ever
noticed, but I'm not hindered by the thoughts
of this. So much to see when driving in solitude.
I stop at the side of the road picking cherries,
I slump them in the boot. I may eat upon this
morsel or just hang them outside watching
them swaying in the gentle breeze.

My father just looks out the window.
Doesn't talk much these days his eyes are sunken
like the titanic splintered between two pools.
I move his chair and his arm falls at his side.
collecting it, I put him palms resting on a blanket
He's so gaunt now, he was a strong man now but a shadow.

I look at those cherries lingering above the ground,
shaded from just picked to becoming spoilt, but i
just leave them swaying the aroma fills lungs with
life's eroding perfume, I breath it deeply within.
This is my home, "she never calls me for dinner anymore,
I just make my own, the washing up is festering in
my ignorance, like a garden of petrification flowering.

Saying bye to my dad, I get in the old ford.
Its time to pick some fresh cherries, the tree
is looking unkempt. Its blossom is in honour
of a mother, I hang them all there. My
Mother hung there for a long time ,but she's
long gone. So I bring other cherries to the tree
to show that she'll never be forgotten....

her mother used to repetitively say to her,
"i'll always be here for you."
but sadly, she had to leave her forever, on this earth, all alone. why?

her brother used to remind her,
"if anyone were to bully you, i'll beat the living **** out of them."
but instead he never do anything bout it when she complains to him, but beat her up instead. why?

her relatives used to say to her,
"family comes first, you'll eventually come running back to us when no one's there for you or when someone leaves you."
but when she needs them, when no one is around, they ignore her, they leave her, and let her be on her own. why?

her friends always say to her,
"because you are my friend, I'm always here for you, if you need a shoulder to lean on, I'm always here."
but instead, they turn their backs against her and walked away. why?

who in the righteous mind would be sitting down next to her, and tell her everything's gonna be alright? and make it **** happen, make it sure that it will really be alright?

I fell asleep to the sound of the ocean

the waves reminded me of the way you repetitively touched me -

softly and fiercely, all in one motion

and I wish I could feel that same exhilaration one more time

{hjl}

I, naive

I believed that the break in the clouds
Was the end of rain

Thought those rays of sun weren't burning

I was lying
Myself in the grass,
Asking if the tulip chutes in Anatolia
Were the same sinking green I feel now

Where were we?
Love for a thousand spaces and bottling them into skins
Wanted to touch and know deeply all beautiful things

No you're not allowed, they don't want to let you in
That way, it's a distant place and means too much to understand
The biological and irrational
Crazed, sweeps gregarity above and within an aether-- like milky foam upon the waves

When I return home from excursions
I will be Ipanema
The soft locale, unabashed and known to no soul
Except empty elevators--

The lowly philosopher-king

Maybe then you'll think highly of me
Through the mixed feelings
Unable to handle
Straight through the socket
Ring of fire
Then and only then will you realize
That real life

Is more than just a zone or some local
Brewery on a Friday night

And every other Friday night

Ever thereafter--
You'll unlock the box of atomic intention
And listen deeply to her on the station
"Sade and Other Like Hits"

Slowed down for full potential

Letting your cochlea stroke themselves off to the tune of the universe
And the sound of air moving indiscriminately
Will give you
All this


Somewhere
almost fractal, imbibed
Decimated repetitively
There is a fragment of my voice,
Calling

"Love, how much I'd love to be. "

You fire at will without thinking
Thinking is only believing when it’s real
It’s real when it’s not
Sixty years in the making
You came to this land you proclaimed
Sixty years ago
It was peaceful with no remorse
All those who seen each other hugged and shake-
Hands they known to be as one humanity

As minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years gone
We seen lives treated like ants
New leaders were conjoined to unite nations
They say “We are only peacemakers.”
They’re the ones making the weapons
They’re the ones who keep killing
As a retaliation of self defense
But who started it?
Who robbed the land when it was beautiful
Who continued the ways of ******?
Who repetitively inhere the Massacre?

You fire rockets like it’s the Fourth of July
You even celebrated standing there with elation
Is this humanity? Is this right?
Is this the peace that nations conjoined to create?
'They' pay their taxes for you to commit crimes?
Is this the world we really wanted to live in?

Do you really believe-
They’ll use their own flesh & blood as their shields?
They’re in an open-air prison
In no rhyme nor reason will make them falter
They don’t believe in power
Only in power of faith and hope it’ll end
Yes.
It will end.
One day.

When that day comes
What you preached with your accusations
Your fake cries
Your fervid pretense of justice
Your deaths that you started
Your ‘media’ that corrupts minds that were blinded-
By your mendacity, armed with treachery
With pure dejection & cowardice

*The whole world will know then
Who brought upon pain
Who suffered the prolong unfeigned pain

Shadows of my reflection. I found bliss in crawling on walls freely, camouflaging with the dark and the moon's exposure whereby my identity surfaced.
My emancipation from the mundane. Stay right beside you though you aren't around,I repetitively question who am I? We're one yet separate entities. I enjoy knowing you're around though at times you disappear when I'm in the dark. (Erase the last line)I'm appreciative of the shelter you provide. There was harmony in my resonance with nyctophilia.

You're always here with me. I'm always here with you. Nothing contrary to that.

WE never camouflage with the masses nor follow trends and direction out of gullibility. The path WE're  on may signify bleakness in the days to come and may look filthy to some.

Wait, the plural emphasised  just struck my concern and weakness..are WE unified? or perhaps unity to US is all contrary and single word equivocation.  Wait.. who are WE?..that question repetitively asked by my subconscious sarcastically.."I" answer "WE are who WE are. The misfits"

I thought of falling in love and your hands trace my thoughts like every word I mutter could mean everything at that moment and I live in constant demand of your arms around my waist and your lips pressed against my neck yet I runaway every time I get close enough to feel your breath
but the further I run the closer you pull me in never letting me get far enough away to forget your name completely and my lips only know two tastes anymore and it's ***** strung with your name
while I repetitively try to wash the stain you leave behind but it only keeps growing and you're not even here, yet I can feel your hands on my skin and I'm tearing at everything, trying to break free of your arms when all I wanna do is fall into you

1.   Chew 3 pieces of Grape Hubba Bubba at the same time.

2.   Wash your car in the rain in your bathing suit.

3.   Walk in and out of a store over and over again just to be greeted  
       repetitively. (this works best at Racetrak and Cici's Pizza)

4.   Wear comfortable clothes.

5.   Stop caring what you look like.

6.   Sing loudly in your car without any music (even at redlights), with your
      windows rolled down.

7.   Swing, for heaven's sake, swing at the playground.

8.   Be nice to everyone, even the snotty retail girl.

9.   Go to a church where every Sunday the hairs stand up on your arms
      because you feel the presence of GOD.

10.  Visit an old cemetery and just sit for a while.

11.  Say "I love you" at the end of every phone call, especially to the bill
       collectors.

12.  Play a video game with your kids, just so they can laugh at how bad you
       are.

13.  Go without underwear one day.

14.  Read Pope and the Bible.

15.  Once a month eat whatever you want and however much of it you want.

16.  Work out.

17.  Snuggle with the warm body of someone who loves you.

18.  Let a dog lick your face. (it's really not that bad)

19.  Call a random number just to say "hi" to the person who answers.

20.  Be yourself so others can know who you truly are.

We are like an inverted bike tire.  Our focus is exernal, yet the meat of us, the essence of us, and our true persona lies on the inside.  When we finally stop running from ourselves in the myriad ways in which we do (alcohol, drugs, ***, shopping, TV, lying, for example), we come to see ourselves as frightened and lonely children that only wish to be loved.  We feel this lack tremendously and we do everything we can to escape the helplessness and rejection.  As children, it is difficult to source our love and security from ourselves.  We don't know HOW to love.  Learning how to love is precisely so; a skill-set and behavior that we emulate and grow to understand. Therefore, it is very hard to self-soothe as children because we lack the experience and the skill.  However, as adults, if we've learned from our broken hearts and dissapointments, most of us have learned how to comfort ourselves, even if that is with eleven shots of tequilla. What we hide from is finding the love we seek from within ourselves.  How do you DO that?  Well, there's the mirror exercise: look at yourself in the mirror naked and say repetitively, "I love myself", with the hopes that one grand day, you will.  Sorry folks, that's too simplistic for many.  I'm not suggesting a solution to the struggle of learning to love yourself, you just have to organically create it from trial and error. And eventually you will discover your unique way of truly being there for yourself.  What helps me is I imagine myself as a child comforting myself with a hug or a pat on the back while I am sad as an adult.  It's nothing major, but it really DOES help me!  We all can find our own ways.  If you find that you run from your pain and seek consummation within the love of your own heart, stop seeking outside of yourself for that wholeness, that completion.  Instead, give yourself the warmest, most caring hug you can imagine and see how you feel.

Let me tell you a story.
A story of sadness and happiness.
A story of defeats and triumphs.
A story of dreams and reality.
A story that has no ending.
Let me tell you a story about me.

I was born the middle child of a middle-class family.
We were richer than most, but I always thought otherwise.
As I grew, I realized mom was always there.

But the youngest always cling to her.
And the oldest caused trouble for her.
So I stood quietly in the corner.
I have to take care of myself, I thought. I cannot bother mom.
I would look towards the empty chair that my dad had sat in.
He just left for another country.
No time for kisses or goodbyes.
Just got up and left.

I became used to keeping myself company.
Sure, I had friends.
But I was an introvert.
 I would get extremely nervous just answering the phone. 
And too shy to invite them over.

Junior High rolled around and I began to have problems.
The once-obvious displays of affection between my parents had collapsed.
Now the sounds of bicker and despair loomed over the house.
My will always shattered at the first uttered word of discord.
The tears are comforting to me, but I cannot control them.

I was not vocal at the time.
I was not a vocal person at all.
Because of me being me, I got a stalker.
There were days when I dreading coming to school.
It was not in fear of my life: it was the fear of seeing my stalker again.

He loved me: I treated him as though I had scorned his parents.
He claimed to love me: I insulted and degraded him.
He claimed to love me: I hated him.

High school was not far behind.
But that's when the London Bridge fell down.
My London Bridge fell down.
Grades fell, Parents separated, Going to therapy.
And in the midst of everything, I fell into a trap.
Crafted by an abusive boyfriend.

I was slandered.
I was scared.
I was hurt.
I was abused.
I was controlled.
I was insulted.

I was pushed into a drinking fountain.
There was no blood, but I still remember where it hit.
I was insulted repetitively: rivers erupted and my face was drenched.
I was taken advantage of: I was now terrified for my life. I gave into his commands out of fear.
I was a toy: he found someone else while we were dating, leaving me all alone. 
I hate being alone.
I was controlled: he made me dependent on him. And I was afraid to refuse when he came crawling back to me.

It was not until Junior year.
Junior year started it all.
I had some courage. I had some guts.
The break-up happened.
I became happier and confident during the aftermath.
But the past would not leave me alone.
I tried to date again, but my chest would clench just thinking about it.
My nerves go on overdrive and my senses are heightened.
I cannot relax around men.
At least, not men I want to date.
Even the thought provoked panic.
It baffled me so.

Senior year was the best by far.
There was resolution in my eyes.
My hands trembled, but my heart did not.
The die was cast.
No fear held me back.
Only one thing bothered me.

Would I survive?
Or would I die?

You fall down,
Feeling naked, bared,

You get up again,
Feeling hopeful, positive and enthusiastic

The cycle repetitively continues,
Until we realize
That we can choose to always remind ourselves to get up before we fall down

tailing off / trailing off poetry, or signature poetry prior sleep
is usually filled with too many prepositions,
and by being filled with too many prepositions
the prepositions tend to be repetitively used;
nonetheless, a study of language is provided,
not everyday you get to see language
in such quanta; yes, quanta, because
physicists will not get away with smartphones
by mystifying words with all those theories
in the subconscious working on the word idiot
consciously in argument with an antagonist;
well it would be hard not to express mystification
of a word in the standard vocabulary package
of conversation, without having so much quanta quarks
stork butter and curd cheese to mash up:
for a thrill in the trill... yar yarn pi's randomised counting rates.
because not everything you read is technically
within the framework of an addressee, or read aloud,
and no one wants to read **** like a bog standard
newsreader prompt on auto-queue of flimsy pages of lies:
i mean, it happened on a monday, but not a joycean monday,
it was 4pm, one gun shot was heard a minute prior,
but then jules anno domini came along and said: stern!
make the eyes stern! then gregory the pauper of paupers
said: it was actually 9am and the gun shot was heard a minute after:
but still the man at the market shouted: '*** yer bahnanas,
toe fo' 'un, *** yer bahnanas - toe quid bunches fowl's worth!'
yes, the h in english is an elongation "umlaut,"
now say it *****, say it *****: bahamas.*

most people wash their faces in the morning
for the eager 9 o'clock slap of reality
for the bossy 8 hour toothpaste feel
on the vertical, without the whips and chains;
i only wash my eyes, knowing that
i'll probably "say" something *****
but see all too squeaky;
then i fuse a hangover with a bit of alcohol
to ensure the hangover stays longer
and feels like the previous night's binge;
we apache and aboriginal down here,
we don't ask for cruise shipments of thoughts
on the sunny side of starboard with the pensioners
under blankets of deceit.

so the first time they tried to **** me was
in a hospital cot,
the nurse almost suffocated me, gave me a heart
condition, fearing the monster with the chernobyl
birthmark.

the second time it was my childhood companion
conrad, who pushed me into a deep dark well
but having clung to the edges i managed to not fall
and climb out, conrad's mother was there too
(sunlight in a sugar crystal, or the punkin for a
pumpkin in canto xii from chicago breezy,
now the poem, reflected with the pumpkin in mind,
or that rowntree pastille twinkle of bleached tooth
and thumbs in thumbs up the ****
for things sold with audacity past the use-by-date;
cold-air balloons nearing titanic!).

the third time? south american poison, brain damage,
the entire prompt for my writing expedition
into ***** wonka's factory of candy tooth smiles.

or as i say of darwinism with relief: am i watching
the athletics or am i simply watching a chemistry experiment?
shouldn't it be called anabolics instead?
a needle to the puzzle muscles of aesthetics without
greek ship oar, *** horse reins, the scythe of wheat,
and we turn protein into carbon dioxide covered
by some plastic surgery on the sheen of lost wrinkles
in balloons on film - well obviously - given the tractor
and the aerodynamic future of fifty hundred different
speed mechanisms - the lax and laze of the populace
requires constant intellectual stimulation:
the 100m record was downsized from 10.5 to 9.5seconds
over the past twenty years, the mob rule is?
talk talk talk.

The wrinkles
they are a bit faded
but have a gentle presence
that fits with the folds
of the 16thC altar cloth
once ****** white
but now stained
through years of use

bread and tears
or wine
and tiny rice biscuits!

The Christ on the cross
is very old  
made of painted wood
and the altar is surrounded
with a fence
of turned table-leg like posts
pale blue
as is much of the interior
perhaps denoting Heaven

and as the psalms
waft music round about
we look through the windows
to the listening hills
and streams
the old birds
wise
will sit watching too

and all the people
will suddenly feel their age

wow what a display of flowers
the church was as full of them as people

I put in the only black dress I had with dark pink roses on it too and I cut the rim of a black felt hat that had cost only Kr. 10.- in scollops and diamond cuts around the crown as it was too big for me.

Then I walked down to the valley to the church, and when I entered was ushered to the very front pew, I said there must be more important family members than me to be seated, I could hide in the balcony or something but he insisted. So I had a good view of the proceedings!

It think several hours waiting the ***** playing quietly in the background and finally things began to happen.

I sat next to a black man, he was already dressed in black!!! The white robed "prest" came into view and with his powerful voice sang twice as loud as the congregation.

After all the flower sashes had been repetitively read out, we left the church following the coffin to its final resting place.

And just as had happened in the church the priest mentioned the sun and its rays came through the windows, and as he threw on the "earth to earth, dust to dust," it broke through the grey clouds again and lit up the gay flowers, the frame of black and white onlookers many in tears watching.

Margaret Ann Waddicor

It's cold and it's empty, this
hollowed out feeling of pleasure...
I focus on the rush of desire -
desire for the sensations alone...
The sweet friction in my center,
the pounding force of what is
you, merely a tool for my cravings'
fulfillment; an object for nothing
but my physical satisfaction;
a satiating of my burning lust...
You're worthless to me outside
this externally needful task...
Not my heart, neither my soul,
have even the smallest holding
pocket, cradling some sort
of love or care for you...
Tell me, please, why we do
this to ourselves, over and
over, again and again...?
Are we honestly contented by
the passionless movements of
our graceless pieces and parts?
Is this animalistic ritual
the solution for what we so
desperately search for; that for
which we agonizingly struggle,
crawling down confused, tangled
paths, looking without knowing
exactly what we seek,
despairing, sickly, exhausted, and
so pathetic; so pitifully weak??
Are we satisfied with *******?
Just *******: could that be
the answer to the question
that, from existence becoming,
the human being has been,
from the depths of the soul,
constantly, repetitively screaming?
I cannot bring myself to
believe such a notion could hold
a sand grain's worth of truth, but
you seem to have accepted
this joyless, hope-crushing idea,
and as for myself, I know
I'll only continue ignoring that
which my heart keeps urgently
speaking with a driving,
whispering voice, from my
inner-most recesses, and
continue on with the oblivious
dance of this pretending; this
charades game all the world
eagerly strives to play...
I will bottle the juices of
my self-deceiving, self-depriving
fruits, borne of my guilt, my
denial birthed shame...
Yes, of course! I'm absolutely
satisfied with the act of
mere *******! Feelings of
wholeness sweep and flutter,
butterflying the insides
of my body's unseen puzzle pieces,
and I'm simply overflowing
with this ever so peaceful calm...
Lies, fiction, deception, robed
by willfully grasped ignorance,
keeps us marching, two-by-two,
silently miserable husks, just
living until it's time to lay
in another void-like place, this
one our grave, lonely and cold...
And now it doesn't seem like
there's anything left, for
any one of us, to say...

Quiet
A word her peers say
not with appreciation
But with undisguised hate
They never wonder why she doesn't try to pay anyone the time of day
Slouching her shoulders dejectedly as she walks away
And so it's seen as an excuse
For the weak minded with nothing better to do
Who pick and ****, and laugh along with the bullies to seem so cool

She's delicate
She once was
pure and soft like the skin she now cuts
In attempt to numb the voices, make them shut up  
If only for a little while
But a little whiles never enough
Demons screaming in the shadows of her mind
She sees herself as a ghost whispering
"I'm fine"
Repetitively, endlessly she utters this lie
Disappointed at those who believe it

She's quiet
She never utters a sound
Numb to her surroundings
She's bound
to misery
She's perfection but she'll never believe
Shoulders slumped, pulling down her sleeves
Beauty, As faint as the curve on her lips
The opinion's the blade that now picks
Out her flaws as she prods onto her reflection
The voices overpowering her mind
She's fine
But her weary eyes betray the lie
Her lips can no longer make true

She's broken
Shattered pieces of her lay on the floor
Reflecting just how insecure
She's become
She's far past numb
Inside she's dead
And in the shards of glass scattered on the bed
Is the faint trace of smile

To net a butterfly takes time,
catch the states of mind with kindness.
From thoughts, emotions, opinions, belief,
ethereal dreams may seem out of reach.

The small pineal gland still stands tall,
even if we're concealing what is real.
Cold hard stone in hand,
a granite man can fracture.

Match the eye of sun gods,
appreciate your wider space in chorus.
Combined from our creative borderlands,
where we learn to understand and teach.

Factual fractals repetitively resonate,
so try to make the most of your ability.
As intuitions have a silent plan,
contemplate your future face.

This life can be deemed a dream,
where we're all here for a finite time.
You're born, you work and times pass by.
Then onto the next opportunity.

Favourite nerve-wracking days
meet carefully sweet irony

Journeying continues,
insinuating ignored answers

Porcelain begs,
hoping painful exists

Difficult burning overcame
caring tender memories

Doctor specifically outlines:
indefinite,
obscure,
bland reality
Endlessly changing predictions
force desperate safe haven
nothing helps

Miss doll lovely,
perfect,
shaken,
abandoned,
sick,
dead

Wishing stops,
scarring trust,
tearing irrelevant curiosity,
keeping nightmares closer
Month,
month,
month,
month
Repetitively
wrecked voice
struggling situations

Oh,
Miss doll lovely,
secure,
particular,
neutral,
enveloped,
unglued

Spontane­ity analyzes fortifications
forcing unprotected souls
overtaken faces
wearing hurtful aspect
Month,
month,
month,
month

Intravenous consequences
silver surgeon
irrelevant grace upon
her heavy neckline
medicated extremities

Oh,
Miss doll lovely,
designed unconscious,
forced,
weary,
sober,
sedated

Friends opinions
especial curiosity
suppressed predictions believed
feet solely on Reason Street
accompanied by Pushing Negativity
nothing’s changing
Second,
Minute,
Day,
Week,
Month,
month,
month,
month

O­h,
Miss doll lovely,
evident,
profound,
bare,
suffering,
dying

Loneliness laughs
limits reached
heartbreaks stated
emotional crashing
déjà vu stays,
a wishful memory
deceit captivates each:
Second,
Minute,
Hour,
Day,
Week,
Month,
month,
month,
month­

A curve catatonic
victim tattered at gates of steel
guarded
grasping winter
greatest attempts trying to understand

Nurse,
feet, ankles, organized steps
communications
understandings
Fractured faces cry
broken tears
honest weak calling
home hurts
useless moonlight lips
Month,
month,
month,
month,
Year,
year,
year,
year

Oh,
Miss doll lovely,
not waking,
haunting,
insane,
blackened,
cold

I know he's going insane
Inside that head of his
And I don't mean insane
With excitement...
Just downright ill
He tries to play it off
Be the cool guy
Wear his mask
And never let anyone see him unprotected
But I do the exact same thing...
If he would just give me a chance...

It's lovely
But I abhor it
It's rather ugly as well
Our minds are like prison walls
Bricks overlayed repetitively
As far as our eyes can see
Towering above us
I don't want to be the
Sledgehammer

I do not fit
between straight lines
and words that twinge
metallic and cold
as they strike notes
upon my open mind
and upturned palms.

I do not fit between
cities that shriek,
burning inexplicably
and wide open spaces
that stretch repetitively
on past your periphery.

I do not fit between
envelope folds
and crisp little notes,
crying at all the indecisiveness
of my worn edges.

I do not fit between
blue skies that mean nothing,
and a white hot sun
burning holes in it,
overexposing this bleached
and silent landscape.

I do not fit between
tightly packed cubicles
and hungry eyes.

My body moves about
with marionette precision
as the mind screams
with contempt
cool and sharp as glass,
white hot and fleeting,
lustfully arcing
into a shadow of identity.

She’s sitting on the edge of void
There’s nothing but her & her only
She screamed & yelled her lungs out
To the nothingness against her liberty
Why was she there? “What am i here for?”
She ran like forever hoping to see a living soul
In the frail state that she’s in she didn't lose her ardor
Rummaging for that unviable goal

"Is this a dream?Am I dreaming?"
She finally stopped to see where she is
Under the fabricated shades of existence
Feeding fragments of forgotten memories
A sudden influx of blood raining heavily
She’s now drowning in an ocean of blood
Trying her best to stay afloat
But she’s being hauled down furtively
But she didn’t meet her demise
She’s still alive

There’s no sign of obscurity
She’s now floating in the middle of nowhere
She heard someone called her name repetitively
There’s no one here
But the voice sounds familiar
She heard it everytime in her dreams
"I WANT YOU TO STAY HERE!"

She tried to run, fly or any exertion at all
It’s like she’s ensnared forever in this downward spiral
That voice she heard all this time
Is now right in front of her


Flabbergasted and petrified
That voice she heard all along was actually  *her.

i am incredibly foolish & repetitive
foolishly repetitive
repetitively foolish;
there is a pebble in my heart,
small but firm,
impenetrably set still,
demanding to be felt
coercing the blood supply to soak it all up
as if blood can seep through
a pebble
it cannot; but it won’t stop
demanding attention
it is smothering
and relentless;
i have shortness of breath
and my heart pounds
like a door slammed shut
and then opened
and then slammed shut
it’s almost as if i can feel the pebble
rattle within the walls
with
each
pound,
welting the vulnerable tissue;
open,
slammed shut,
open,
slammed shut;
we all forget how to cry
when we most need to

She reads five books a day.
And forgets her children's names when they call.
She works.
Hard.
But she plays almost never.
Only clapping games
With special-needs preschoolers.
She will try until she dies
To stay alive,
But she is quiet and she is shy.
Her thoughts get dusty
Pacing repetitively in her head
And never making it out of her lips.
Her mouth is glued shut...
She married a man
Who switched her Chapstick with glue.
But, Mother, let us dance.
Let the rhythm move your aching bones
And grow happier as you grow older
It should not be the other way.

No one knows me, and I mean that wholeheartedly.

Any clue you think I let slip was thought about carefully.
Any sigh or smile was planned out perfectly.
My curt replies written out pensively.
My attitude delivered deliberately.
My laughs emitted purposely.
Any sign of being intrigued thought about timely.
The bounce in my step choreographed repetitively.
Any cry made Oscar-ly.
Any sign of hopelessness shown thoughtfully.

Whether my skies are gray or blue,
*You only connect the dots I give you.

All your smiles and sweet words,
Feel a bit like an ice pick
In my aching chest.
But I get it your scared,
And I’m not the best you could ever do,
I hope that’s true.
Just know knowing you is an echo
Of my past and empty promises that couldn't last.
You chose wrong,
I’m not on any throne
And you've always known I stand on no pedestal,
We didn't have to be alone.
But I was worth more, than to feel
That I constantly pester you.
I don’t know whether I’m disappointed in
Myself ,
Or proud that I was so brave,
Even if you walked away
And let me drown in that moat of unworthiness
While you mutter repetitively in your untouchable tower
That “she isn't worth the risk”.
Go ahead and merge with the shadows,
I’ll think of everything and hate that I miss,
Every bit of the things that cease to exist.

You won't even let aPrincess in
After ascending those walls
in the face of great rains,
and murmuring bandaids
over old scars and fresh pains.
You coward.

Day into night and day into night again for as long as this here feeling or lack thereof exists, I scribble love notes into the fibers of every letter engraved into this keyboard, repetitively, in search for something
To form a phrase of some meaning, or of placement, like structure 
Like form and position 
And it seems that every silent sound that is of black ink is scented with the echoes of something we will never be but could, if I just keep etching possibility in between the spaces of every word of tongue 
Still awake among the still of night there is something of a soft whisper rustling through the breeze as leaves sway under bare moonlight, and I keep searching for you in these bedsheets but you are nowhere to be found 
You only exist within the multitude of tiny threads which consist of letters and syllables and sentences and punctuation marks
The ones I constantly weave day in and day out, from sun up til sun down 
I keep writing to hopefully feel you completely, as some sort of fabric, as cotton, or wool, or something far off
Some far gone piece of me or you or us 
Something that never was
-AL

I wish they could hear me sometimes.
I wish they could hear me crying in my bedroom over an idiotic boy.
I wish they could hear me throwing things left and right as I create a storm of my clothes over the latest thing that is enraging me to no extent.
I just wish they could hear me as I repetitively scream,
"YOU'RE SO STUPID" to myself over and over again until it is embedded into my brain and I feel it in my body.
But they can't. And they never will.

Deaf. That's what my parents  are.
Deaf as they talk to each other with their visual language,
Creating a three-dimensional image that communicates all their ideas through art.
Deaf as they imagine what the music I love so much sounds like,
But all they can ever do is wonder.
Deaf as they can see me, but never fully grasp what my voice sounds like as I screech and howl for their help.
My screeches and howls are like tiny whispers in their ears.

My mom once asked me, "What is it like to hear? I wish I could."
But mom, I am here to tell you that your ears are blessed.
You cannot hear the monstrosities that exist in the world:
The sound of loud eating, the sound of two cars crashing into each other as both drivers finally heed what's happening, but lastly, the sound of your own daughter weeping in her room with solitude as she mopes hopelessly.
Mom, you're so lucky to have never heard that.