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heather-4
heather-4
American Wanderer of this earth.
A cigarette. A ****** cigarette. You discovered that I was a habitual liar. All from the stubbed cigarette at my feet. I didn’t blame you. I would never want to be with someone so filthy. It’s hard, you know. Your first lie is like the first injection It’s the rush, baby. And then you find yourself unable to pull away. Always, eventually going back. Lies are blameless The liar is to blame. I love you But not enough to stop And you discovered this- this habit of mine all from a cigarette. A cigarette. A ****** cigarette.
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May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
Cigarette
I’m afraid of the ocean when its waves rush forward, its translucent arms wrapping around the impressions of my feet.. The ocean is a mother giving birth, life surging forward and then receding in the swirls of salt and sun. Measureless Its belly has captured the souls of sailors and broken ships. Ghosts drag on the bottom floor choking on their entrails. A 15th century wood-hulled ship is their playground, And they gnaw on the golden coins that flutter down onto each floor as the wood shrivels with the weight of plankton. She is the undertow And she is the rip current. She surrounds us And we will never escape her.
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May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
She is the undertow
Judgment is a leaking faucet. So natural it seems to condemn the unknown, but I’ve seen the unknown and it’s never what they think. This world has different tongues, crawling over each other to be heard. I don’t think I’ve ever seen mankind so divided, so full hate over what they can’t see. Children, reflective of their environment, guided to beat down their gavel. “What is that?” they persisted. “It’s wrong,” they said. But mother and father always told me, “They just don’t know, baby.” But even if they didn’t know, their ridicule was the constant whistle of a belt lash. Modern times are the same as the olden days. Babies are born with the inherent fear of strangers and mankind is born with the inherent fear of the unknown. For religion is something of a mirage. From afar, it’s inviting, encouraging. And then all at once, that image disappears. Fallacies spread like cancer, extremists manipulate the weak and desperate. And every group tears at each other’s throat to have the last word. Because that fear of the unknown drives us to obliterate each other whether or not we consciously know so. Vain attempts to change our ways, but mankind is of the flesh and there will be no perfect union. I cry for the struggles, the wars fought in the name of religion. How a father could look upon his son and speak that killing is what his god wants. Killing is what his god wants. Killing is what his god wants. Killing. God.
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May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
Judgment is a leaking faucet.
Oh romantic - your era has yet to end for spring has quietly slipped among the poppies. Barrade me with the lashings of quick-witted tongues, pull me from the peak that I so desperately cling to. Evidence of autumn in summer or is that the hues of a restless sun?
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May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
Ink Quell
Release the birdie that resides in you. Open the cage that contains the humble creature. And as you do, watch it fly Over the heads of everyone you know Straight unto the heavens It sores. Casting rays of delight And love. For a heart is a complicated little thing.
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Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC
Little Birdie
Like the wind that slivers through the curtains, casting out feeble dancers I glide to the window, casting out shadows of black and tears. And loosen a ribbon tainted with a desolate cancer. I cry with abnormal fear.
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Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 4:13 PM UTC
The Tainted Ribbon
Icy fingers lay across the wind torn papers Blood thickening over the most indulging words Lifeless eyes stare upon the angels of discretion Her skin slowly peeling away Bones thicker than wood, Crunch under the feet of a giant. Whose heart lies inside a chest Locked away in the head of a girl Whose icy fingers lay across the wind torn papers.
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Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 4:12 PM UTC
Worn-Torn Papers
Plentiful It is but only Fool’s Gold.
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Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
Fool's Gold
I’m not really sure how to write this For the pen quivers in my hand I stumble and forget my lines. It’s like getting a pearl out of a clam. I have lived a little more than a decade and a half Yet, I’ve seen you grow up as someone new. With your confident stride, you have walked Straight past me into the horizon of blue. But that’s life for ya’ Friends do come and go. Yet my feelings will remain the same; You were the sister I once had long ago.
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Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
I have lived 80 years
Whimsical were the flowers Their long eye lashes curling up in the wind. With every delight, they played Their music Their listeners, the Earth They kept On Playing Until the moon told them it was night time And they faded.
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Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
Whimsical were the flowers