MKBitches - Hello Poetry

It’s been awhile Dead light And I Have you been watching Little me?— In all my corruption; Has your sentient ablution— So tried— Decided to set me aside In my hiding? I grovel here; Blind. While You glisten— You listen—and weave Serene discomfort Into a little-soul Like mine. Supine and slight— I trace Your patterns in the Night and try to name them As others have Before me: Dipper. Orion. Northern-light: Compass bright. Are they suppose to Mean Something? I cling to their instruction And move nowhere. Your pictures do not wear the weight That answers Do. Can I sough purpose In their Recitation? —For I have wanted for comfort. I repeat the names— Cardinal ghosts in dotted-frame— But their direction Alludes me. Oh, You Pin-Pricks— You Old-Flames— You Astute Celestial Hosts. Have You hung silent —In all Your knowing Just waiting For me to let go? Do You know the cold of war waged Alone?—— Blueprints of rage have rewrote the Geography of my limbs: I am not my arms my legs I am not My breaking Heart. My hands aren’t mine, anymore. I have never been so Stolen. Hey, Heaven’s map of decussation: Do You see me down here at all? Praying for Your mum Eureka call—— To pull me past My boxing halls? You are all l have left— to follow. Tired of feeling lost. Tired of letting go. But it could be awhile Dead light. Hopelessness is a heavy might: But I thought—just maybe, you might— Wait For me. I face you In the night. —Until I get there. Me: the tiny nightmare. At the edge of sleep’s reprieve Before I face the mourning, Bare.

0

Nov 26, 2018

Nov 26, 2018 at 12:16 PM UTC

Anybody Out There

It’s been awhile Dead light And I Have you been watching Little me?— In all my corruption; Has your sentient ablution— So tried— Decided to set me aside In my hiding? I grovel here; Blind. While You glisten— You listen—and weave Serene discomfort Into a little-soul Like mine. Supine and slight— I trace Your patterns in the Night and try to name them As others have Before me: Dipper. Orion. Northern-light: Compass bright. Are they suppose to Mean Something? I cling to their instruction And move nowhere. Your pictures do not wear the weight That answers Do. Can I sough purpose In their Recitation? —For I have wanted for comfort. I repeat the names— Cardinal ghosts in dotted-frame— But their direction Alludes me. Oh, You Pin-Pricks— You Old-Flames— You Astute Celestial Hosts. Have You hung silent —In all Your knowing Just waiting For me to let go? Do You know the cold of war waged Alone?—— Blueprints of rage have rewrote the Geography of my limbs: I am not my arms my legs I am not My breaking Heart. My hands aren’t mine, anymore. I have never been so Stolen. Hey, Heaven’s map of decussation: Do You see me down here at all? Praying for Your mum Eureka call—— To pull me past My boxing halls? You are all l have left— to follow. Tired of feeling lost. Tired of letting go. But it could be awhile Dead light. Hopelessness is a heavy might: But I thought—just maybe, you might— Wait For me. I face you In the night. —Until I get there. Me: the tiny nightmare. At the edge of sleep’s reprieve Before I face the mourning, Bare.

81

My dear, Me. Thrumming underneath. Sobbing. My sure soft Heart. Sleeping between each broken Part. Have we waited here Before? Swallowed the lock Afraid of the Door? Little one-- You're not so Small. Far far more than we might be Tall. Far far more than we're often Limited. Far beyond such simple Primitive. Bigger than these boxing Halls, Far beyond our fearing Walls. Little heart in petal Glass-- Pink clear water of the Past-- Listen now, your worried Heart. Don't just pull, but simply Start. Sorting through the worried Ends, Kissing every broken Bend, And laugh with every angry Knot, Smile because know we ought-- To know no better, Or be more good. Listen to right where we Stood. And hold it up into the Light, Abandon what we fixed as right. Abandon notions of "What" and "Might." And open now, to endless White. And healing Dark, Trace along each mending Mark, And I, sweet me-- Just simply Start.

0

Jun 6, 2018

Jun 6, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC

Liberosis

My dear, Me. Thrumming underneath. Sobbing. My sure soft Heart. Sleeping between each broken Part. Have we waited here Before? Swallowed the lock Afraid of the Door? Little one-- You're not so Small. Far far more than we might be Tall. Far far more than we're often Limited. Far beyond such simple Primitive. Bigger than these boxing Halls, Far beyond our fearing Walls. Little heart in petal Glass-- Pink clear water of the Past-- Listen now, your worried Heart. Don't just pull, but simply Start. Sorting through the worried Ends, Kissing every broken Bend, And laugh with every angry Knot, Smile because know we ought-- To know no better, Or be more good. Listen to right where we Stood. And hold it up into the Light, Abandon what we fixed as right. Abandon notions of "What" and "Might." And open now, to endless White. And healing Dark, Trace along each mending Mark, And I, sweet me-- Just simply Start.

62

If I could speak maybe I would but the water in my ears is 300 degrees and I am tired of being the peace keeper of people who don’t Deserve me The world would kiss my feet but I chose you The clouds lick my cheeks but I chose you I could know the sun’s brightest eye, But I chained my throat with Your gilded promise

0

Apr 13, 2016

Apr 13, 2016 at 1:43 AM UTC

Untitled

If I could speak maybe I would but the water in my ears is 300 degrees and I am tired of being the peace keeper of people who don’t Deserve me The world would kiss my feet but I chose you The clouds lick my cheeks but I chose you I could know the sun’s brightest eye, But I chained my throat with Your gilded promise

11

I write your good-bye letter over the course of two days. I started-over seven times—hunched, under the weight. These worn pages and spilt ink, remember your name- I hear it softly murmured among their rustling grain- And as mine fades from the aged oak of your sprawling bed frame-- There is nothing left here for me. My pen falls as the climbing-cry of cold morning comes, With a quaking in my wrist, and sharp silence in my gums; The patchwork quilt is half-hazard, and snaked across the floor- Where your tremolos dreams had tossed it-the night before, And only your body’s ghost-imprinted on the mattress-do I look for- Because there is nothing here left for me. It’d been fun, I suppose; like Peter and Wendy, infinite and young- We’d drawn together and merged; then delighted, we had run- From the duty of daily, the city-those mechanical ghosts scattered among, And the curtains of riches-in the air, which we’d spun- Had garnished all of our days; a honeyed veneer of ambient sun! Yet severe as the prophets-or poor Noah in God’s storm- In the corners voracious shadows gladly took form With the slipping lines of your smilem, the lingering chill round the door- Fall had swept in violent: laughter-dead then, was mercilessly tore- From our wild-flower wind-pipes, that once inviolable, bore- Proof of something here left for me. Now aching, I crease the note crisply and vainly, do try, Turning it caged, between frail-bird fingers, to descry- The moment opulence burned, and from the ashes recast- Mocking imitations: these edacious phantoms! Aghast! Howbeit! Were we not unassailable then! United, so certain to last--? Yet just silence, is here left for me.

0

Oct 29, 2013

Oct 29, 2013 at 4:00 AM UTC

Left for me.

I write your good-bye letter over the course of two days. I started-over seven times—hunched, under the weight. These worn pages and spilt ink, remember your name- I hear it softly murmured among their rustling grain- And as mine fades from the aged oak of your sprawling bed frame-- There is nothing left here for me. My pen falls as the climbing-cry of cold morning comes, With a quaking in my wrist, and sharp silence in my gums; The patchwork quilt is half-hazard, and snaked across the floor- Where your tremolos dreams had tossed it-the night before, And only your body’s ghost-imprinted on the mattress-do I look for- Because there is nothing here left for me. It’d been fun, I suppose; like Peter and Wendy, infinite and young- We’d drawn together and merged; then delighted, we had run- From the duty of daily, the city-those mechanical ghosts scattered among, And the curtains of riches-in the air, which we’d spun- Had garnished all of our days; a honeyed veneer of ambient sun! Yet severe as the prophets-or poor Noah in God’s storm- In the corners voracious shadows gladly took form With the slipping lines of your smilem, the lingering chill round the door- Fall had swept in violent: laughter-dead then, was mercilessly tore- From our wild-flower wind-pipes, that once inviolable, bore- Proof of something here left for me. Now aching, I crease the note crisply and vainly, do try, Turning it caged, between frail-bird fingers, to descry- The moment opulence burned, and from the ashes recast- Mocking imitations: these edacious phantoms! Aghast! Howbeit! Were we not unassailable then! United, so certain to last--? Yet just silence, is here left for me.

29

I don't have all the parts to rebuild every one of your burning buildings. I see you sleeping and all your whisper weary age lines disappear. I don't know how I'm suppose to pull you from the dark when you're bleeding. your ghosts elude me though to you they're so cruel and clear. I don't have the strength to prevent both our hearts from bowing. neith the past the future and the insurmountable fear. I trace the shiny zig zags and remember that once your hands were solely for hurting. memories carved hold an effervescent charm that thickens the air. between us is still but the shadows give way the predator lurking. so we'll pack up and move to where there aren't faces who stare. we'll make the most of it.

0

Mar 19, 2013

Mar 19, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC

Backwords.

I don't have all the parts to rebuild every one of your burning buildings. I see you sleeping and all your whisper weary age lines disappear. I don't know how I'm suppose to pull you from the dark when you're bleeding. your ghosts elude me though to you they're so cruel and clear. I don't have the strength to prevent both our hearts from bowing. neith the past the future and the insurmountable fear. I trace the shiny zig zags and remember that once your hands were solely for hurting. memories carved hold an effervescent charm that thickens the air. between us is still but the shadows give way the predator lurking. so we'll pack up and move to where there aren't faces who stare. we'll make the most of it.

32

Strawberries are kind of like people: this morning I went to eat some but their skins were soft and bruised. So I cut them open; laid them on their mushing shell. I gazed at their perfectly pink insides- and they tasted just fine.

0

Feb 28, 2013

Feb 28, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC

A Lesson on Judgment

Strawberries are kind of like people: this morning I went to eat some but their skins were soft and bruised. So I cut them open; laid them on their mushing shell. I gazed at their perfectly pink insides- and they tasted just fine.

9

I want to roll up the moon and fit her in my pocket. So she can sing me to sleep with no sound at all. Then I'll jump on birch branches like the boy with no baseball and swing till their quiet arms dip low and moan- "please child, enough-" because I don't know limits.

0

Feb 26, 2013

Feb 26, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC

Birtches

I want to roll up the moon and fit her in my pocket. So she can sing me to sleep with no sound at all. Then I'll jump on birch branches like the boy with no baseball and swing till their quiet arms dip low and moan- "please child, enough-" because I don't know limits.

12

It's so strange and Striking; Knowing something near but unknown has departed; Knowing there is a heart that won't be restarted. Hold your moments-children's glass marbles, Sparkling in the river water- Like precious stones.

0

Feb 26, 2013

Feb 26, 2013 at 3:51 AM UTC

The child.

It's so strange and Striking; Knowing something near but unknown has departed; Knowing there is a heart that won't be restarted. Hold your moments-children's glass marbles, Sparkling in the river water- Like precious stones.

7

It's as simple As a feeling Being there, And then not. It's as different As the seasons; Blooming spring, Winter rot. You make me sick. Acid waste So sharp Upon my Tongue. And now-- I hide my heart Like a loaded Gun.

0

Feb 21, 2013

Feb 21, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC

Shoot.

It's as simple As a feeling Being there, And then not. It's as different As the seasons; Blooming spring, Winter rot. You make me sick. Acid waste So sharp Upon my Tongue. And now-- I hide my heart Like a loaded Gun.

17

The burning fire, neith all the words we 'er spoke, And the thrumming of the trees, that we mistook , The ports are cold round here my love, I'm all alone at the boundary.

0

Feb 21, 2013

Feb 21, 2013 at 4:16 AM UTC

pocket verse.

The burning fire, neith all the words we 'er spoke, And the thrumming of the trees, that we mistook , The ports are cold round here my love, I'm all alone at the boundary.

4