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bell-mccabe
Canadian My writing is either violent or sweet with no in between.
I seems I am here to write this out. There are so many things I want to do. But ill equipped to perform Balancing on adjusting fault lines It’s life at her greatest Testing, moving, swinging Beautifully aloof Unaware of all the pain she causes But happy just to touch it Life Itself.
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May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
Life itself
Do not forget The sky And the clouds Are magic That our soul Our voice Our emotions Are our glory So when you, child ask me a question That I do not properly understand Or my answer is meek in comparison I will say Daughter, Son, I do not know And it is not fair And it is your right To seek out The answers Because I was not strong enough To ask those questions myself Or I have realized I have accepted a truth A truth I am not proud To pass onto you With your eyes so open And your soul so pure
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Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
For my future child
Are you going to give up now? She asked me. She didn’t really ask, as much as she was showing me I have no other options. Of course I wasn’t going to give up. I am a puppet of my own violent motivation. Steadily, repeatedly, until I die. And you will die before you give up. That was the message. This is what I wake up to, jarring and unrelenting reason. If only I had her focus, or her concentration. She’s probably clicking her nails, dulling until I stop writing.
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Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
My Conscience
I have tipped; I have swayed Felt the concrete on my face I have leaned and cracked By the pressure on my back Still gleaming with past ruptures Still walking with unhealed fractures I have taught; I have fought The young and the old I have sought; I have crossed Both whom I love and whom I scold
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Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
Impaled
I panicked. My brain attacked today. It attacked my lungs, Stupid sharp whistling sounds. I looked out of control. But I felt aware, that I wasn’t breathing, that I was attacking myself again. It attacked my heart, terrifying skipping stones in my chest. Whipped one by one, Muffled blows in my breast. I panicked. I looked out of control but I was aware, of the guilt, of what will drag along with me. I can’t be freed from fault, It’s not the way. Because I panic; is why I don’t relate, is how I cleanse. Fright being necessary, like a dream where you muscle tone fails you, I was paralyzed. My knuckles hit the laminate – again, again, again. But I don’t move. Feeling my bicep twitch, Feeling my throat raw, My mouth wide open, But I don’t make a sound. Because I panic. The power inside, will never translate, to the outside. People may see flickers, of insanity in my eyes. They may see me tighten up. They may seem me strain and ease. But I will never translate. Until it snaps, Until I no longer attack myself. Until I no longer panic. Until I bellow, Until I howl, Until I wail, Until I swing and connect. Until it attacks outwardly, Instead of inwardly.
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Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
Panic