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Alisandra Gray Apr 2015
Three months is a long time to go without posting a poem, but life ****** me away. I'm back now, fortunately, and I'm super ready to start writing again.

Just not tonight, because I'm exhausted. :b
Alisandra Gray Dec 2014
This page is a graveyard.

I bury my secrets
beneath the gentle curves of vowels and the razor edges of consonants.

Each written word
holds a bit of truth,
a bitter truth
that thrashes
in violent desperation
to be known.
I suffocate it
with *******,

and it becomes nothing
but a ghost
that stirs the reader's heart.
(c) Alisandra Gray, 2014.
Alisandra Gray Dec 2014
There are butterflies
painted on the ceiling,
and moths clinging to
the light fixtures.

I pluck out my eyelashes
and make the same wish
on each one.

She holds my hand
and kisses my lips
and leaves me
gasping for air,
and I wonder if she's
just as confused as I am.
(c) Alisandra Gray, 2014.
Alisandra Gray Dec 2014
Empty angels dance
upon the thunderhead,
skip amongst the ******,
laugh amongst the dead,
twirl along the river Styx
to abandon those they've led.
(c) Alisandra Gray, 2014.
warthogs for men singing amen
i ink my scars with a ball point pen
buffalo grass and ******
they want *** but won't die
i want *** but it's not me
they tell me that I'm pretty

i smoke **** in a blazing forest
i feel as rubbery as a curious tourist
and plenty of coke goes in my nose
i bleed headaches, when it rains it snows
i'm dreaming of a white christmas, i suppose
with my squad when i don't want to feel alone

i make lies but can't hide like room raiders
i cut up coke for all my haters
with a side of oxy
tells me that I'm foxy
right before he knocks me
my brain goes on high alert
i can ******* stomach
because cake was yesterday's desert

i say that we're proxies
i take the red pill
some like oxys  
some like bikini ****
some nights aren't so chill
some brains are mentally ill
but he doesn't like to feel, y'feel

tell me if you want a
*** flavored banana
a broken heart from havana
or to drink my coke flavored blood
dragging me through the mud  

son of sam
touch my **** like we're not fam
drug me if you want to slam
my head off the coffee table
i'll choke on fear until i'm not stable
i pretend i'm in a fable
this can't be real
does he not feel

break it off and shove it down my throat
cut me into pieces
make a blood moat
oak splinters suffered through winters in my spine
find you in jail and you ask if i'm fine

i break off rhymes like i break out grams
shaking because of a spiked promise
i wish i wasn't here
i wish i wasn't here

sham in the garden of clouds. when you '****' you want people around
when i cry, you hear no sound  

buffalo grass and ******
they ******* but ask why
my box in their face
i don't want to be in this place
Alisandra Gray Dec 2014
I'm being ripped at the seams, slowly shredded into a fine paper doll,
then crucified,
nailed to the peeling yellow walls with a push pin,
buried beneath a galaxy of poor paper martyrs,
then finally crumbled - -
and as I fold in on myself,
as I twist, contort, break, shatter, transform,
undergo a tragic metamorphosis,
I begin to feel alive again.
(c) Alisandra Gray, 2014.
Alisandra Gray Dec 2014
They never let you touch them.
They always hover just out of reach, and if they sense you've gotten too close, they swiftly flutter away with no hesitation, giving you not even the shadow of a chance.
They're so beautiful, the way the light reflects off of their wings, how the dust shimmers like powdered diamonds across the silky cloth.
You want to hold one, to examine its intricate design, the delicate art of Mother Nature; you want to observe this magnificent creature up close for yourself, yet you can't seem to get a hold on that fragile jewel.
It's faster than you are, and startles so easily every time you move in to capture it.
So you prowl, sneak up on the unsuspecting darling, gently curl your fingers around it - - and oh! how it struggles against the sudden darkness.
It fights desperately in its prison until its energy diminishes completely, and it collapses in your sweaty palm, defeated.
Gradually you peel open your makeshift cage and peer inside at your new prize, only to be disappointed by its lack of flitting and glimmer.
It doesn't twitch with gorgeous energy anymore.
It's limp, lifeless litter in your hands, and you toss the pretty tragedy so carelessly to the side as you move on to your next venture without so much as a blink.
(c) Alisandra Gray, 2014.
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