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This life - is like a liquor - sweet
Intoxicating bliss
‘Tis to be a poet
To see sunshine as a kiss
To see the trees as folk of Earth
And ocean - as world’s blood
That keeps her ever living
That sweet - mysterious - flood
Life is an amazement
To her - I am stupefied in awe
She bustles in the tenements
Behind - beyond - every door
the world relentlessly confuses
Tragedy with Art.

We commercialize anxiety
and weigh the profit margin after the cost of therapy.

So that we can play again
and repeat.

So that we can feel whole.
Understood.
Real.
On the backbone of another's suffering.

On the bloodied palms of a fist held too tight.

On the dry cheeks of a face ravaged by tears.

We hold onto this pain.
We publicize it.

Push it like crack in the streets.

people mistake our breaks in reality
For redemption.
Corrosive acid.
that you can hold in your hand.
If I think too hard

I can still feel their hands on my body
Four of them rubbing and squeezing and grabbing my skin
Desperate for my oblivious being.

If I think too hard

I can still feel the scratch of his stubble
As his skin rubs mine
And the other caresses me
Taking away my control.

If I think too hard

The world still spins
I can hear the moaning
And the distant sounds of nature
Outside of our tent, but so far away from my reality.

If I think too hard

I can hear their comments of praise
To each other
As I lay there blind drunk
And they do with me what they please


If I think too hard

I try desperately to shield the memory,
The three of us entangled
And together,
A trio of drunken disgrace.

If I think too hard

I cringe and cry
And my legs clamp shut
Disgusted at my stolen consciousness
And forever violated by my memory.

If I think too hard

I hate myself for what happened
I hate him for being drunk
And I hate the other for being selfish,
Breaking my heart and my trust
written during a very difficult time of accepting that some things you wished never happened, did.
When life feels suspended by a delicate thread
Change is inevitable
I sometimes feel stifled
Tightly constricted
Like a chrysalis
Struggling against transformation
I oppose the transition
And need more time to adapt
Today
A butterfly tapped against my window
Like change asking to come in
If I can comply with Grace
Maybe I too can transcend
And withstand the butterfly effect
I want to write but I don’t know what about,
“Write about her” my head will shout,
But it’s not fair to you,
It’s not your fault I feel so blue,
All I can think is “I love you” and that’s how I know it’s true.

I want to write about the flowers and trees,
And the sun kissed scenes
That I see in front of my grey face,
I want to find a place
That I can crawl into for a safety base.

I want to write about the state of the world,
Where everyone who is sad or lonely is hurled
To the back of everyone’s head,
And they have the audacity to have said,
“How can someone yearn for the silence of being dead?”

I want to write but I’m in a place that reminds me only of sorrow
Taking these random pills ignoring the knowledge that this will only borrow
The happiness that I was meant to feel tomorrow.

And so I’ll write about how I will always feel like this,
Just a ghost everyone can see,
An empty shadow that takes the form of me.
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
i loved her
but
she wasn’t the one for me
apparently
I loved her more
then she Loved me
but now i see
how love can be

-Elijah
Losing her was hard

Only she could see right through me and ice my buring soul
Only see could hold my fragile heart so fine that it felt like home
Only she could tell me what I really deserve; and she often said
The Stars, and The Universe

Losing myself was hard
Because now the stars seem so little and the universe seems so small
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