LarkAbel - Hello Poetry

"I AM NOT afraid, i was born to do this" please, jehanne la pucelle-- here, humming, the constant burn whilst he--inkspinner--mollifies and ****** ****** skin I AM NOT afraid--the hum, epauliere lying heavy, cumbersome--my shoulders are broad and moth eaten, trembling, waste; mom, my canines hurt; i have to show my teeth. there are gauntlets in my skin, mom, licks of fever-heat beneath my heels. I draw the Weary longsword. "I AM the drum." see: i too spit blood, raise the banner; are we the drum, all you and i? watch the masses close in. conflagration inferno round and round; the sting of flesh, the weight, the ache in my gums; the drum, which GOD beats out HIS message please, mom, it hurts. please, jehanne, it hurts please beg me BE NOT AFRAID

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Oct 16, 2024

Oct 16, 2024 at 11:04 PM UTC

joan of arc sitting a row down during the *** inequality discussion

"I AM NOT afraid, i was born to do this" please, jehanne la pucelle-- here, humming, the constant burn whilst he--inkspinner--mollifies and ****** ****** skin I AM NOT afraid--the hum, epauliere lying heavy, cumbersome--my shoulders are broad and moth eaten, trembling, waste; mom, my canines hurt; i have to show my teeth. there are gauntlets in my skin, mom, licks of fever-heat beneath my heels. I draw the Weary longsword. "I AM the drum." see: i too spit blood, raise the banner; are we the drum, all you and i? watch the masses close in. conflagration inferno round and round; the sting of flesh, the weight, the ache in my gums; the drum, which GOD beats out HIS message please, mom, it hurts. please, jehanne, it hurts please beg me BE NOT AFRAID

20

weight, gentle against the softness of my belly; there, mandible, and the other: ribbons of cornflower fettering hollow-bird-bones soothing dessicated pinions; chasing the empty billow 'neath ribs swelling, stretching, the emptiness of the throat; gazing down; stroking gentle against a silken cranium; pressure points, GV20 TH21 GB20, then down the pinna, watched with placid wet eyes. Fingers weave into your scruff, curling, longing; consumed.

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Oct 7, 2024

Oct 7, 2024 at 1:05 PM UTC

cornflower mutt

weight, gentle against the softness of my belly; there, mandible, and the other: ribbons of cornflower fettering hollow-bird-bones soothing dessicated pinions; chasing the empty billow 'neath ribs swelling, stretching, the emptiness of the throat; gazing down; stroking gentle against a silken cranium; pressure points, GV20 TH21 GB20, then down the pinna, watched with placid wet eyes. Fingers weave into your scruff, curling, longing; consumed.

13

LORD GOD i know it's been a while since my knock knees bruised the floor sweating hands prostrate still trembling. starving, LORD. sated, LORD. please, thine cut-and-dry intimations intimidated by each opaque insinuation; JESUS CHRIST Gag Me. i am tangled razor wire twisted desire LORD GOD i know it's been a while.

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Oct 3, 2024

Oct 3, 2024 at 9:31 AM UTC

daddy issues on a biblical scale

LORD GOD i know it's been a while since my knock knees bruised the floor sweating hands prostrate still trembling. starving, LORD. sated, LORD. please, thine cut-and-dry intimations intimidated by each opaque insinuation; JESUS CHRIST Gag Me. i am tangled razor wire twisted desire LORD GOD i know it's been a while.

12

in the afternoon we chew our pills, sweating the backs of knees, armpits, blessed the skittering of grass on down-brushed shins. pulsing behind our eyes, weeping the veins, shuddering the voltaic nerves. god, the excedrin.

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Oct 2, 2024

Oct 2, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC

photophobia in summer '24

in the afternoon we chew our pills, sweating the backs of knees, armpits, blessed the skittering of grass on down-brushed shins. pulsing behind our eyes, weeping the veins, shuddering the voltaic nerves. god, the excedrin.

7

with the gumption of some- one far wiser in years, you told us you wanted to fly. Ok, alright. Sticky fingered and knob-kneed perched up on the tower of Babel, kicking the breeze: "sorry, are you okay?" licking bruised ankles and knees, you're still walking, modern day James Dean.

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Oct 1, 2024

Oct 1, 2024 at 8:44 PM UTC

flyboy James Dean or; breaking my ankles (11 years old)

with the gumption of some- one far wiser in years, you told us you wanted to fly. Ok, alright. Sticky fingered and knob-kneed perched up on the tower of Babel, kicking the breeze: "sorry, are you okay?" licking bruised ankles and knees, you're still walking, modern day James Dean.

10