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Morpheus has never been kind to me
His somniferous ways leave me wanting
Grasping at the cusp of a reality
As evanescent as the morning mist
That greets this reluctant gaze.

He exists to these sheathed
Bourbon eyes
Within the veiled carapace
Of the only form I've ever wanted more
Than necessity and air.
His torment lies
In false reunions, in joining and parting lips
In forest eyes that linger behind in my thoughts
Like the echo of a cannon
Long after it's wrought its own havoc.

Yes, that twisted Lothario
That Grecian sandman
Exists to overcharge the soul with
Hope so poisonous
Bodies and minds are wracked with it
Inspired by it
Haunted on into the waking world
Where he waits on the periphery
Eyes narrowed in the light
Of the waking world that renders him useless.
*Morpheus is the god of dreams in Greek Mythology.
 Sep 2015 Beth Richter
alex
She was big blue eyes & tangled hair & pulling me everywhere she went. I was happy though. I'm not complaining. Everything was an adventure with her. She liked flowers more than jewelry so birthdays were always easy. & her favorite thing to do  was explore. We spent more time in abandoned buildings than we did on actual dates. The freckles that were sprinkled across her nose showed up best in the sunlight. I always thought she looked prettiest like that. Concentrating with that nose all crinkled up, her knotted hair blowing in the wind. She was always chewing on her right thumbnail. It was always the right hand. I don't really know why she chose that finger, but I think it says a lot about her. It's sad that this is only a memory, but then again it's not. Now whenever I'm asked what beautiful is, I won't have to struggle for an answer.
Tell me a story.
Make it long.
Let me lean against your legs.
Let me close my eyes and
Imagine drowning in the words you say.
Let me breathe in your words.
Let them become a part of me.
Tell me a story.
About you and me.
Forget about the bad parts,
The fighting and the crying.
Stuff it full of love and laughter.
Make me smile.
Make me laugh.
Tell me a story.
Let me fall asleep in your arms.
Tell me a story.
Tell me a story.
 Sep 2015 Beth Richter
gypsyheart
It started with my imagination,
of me standing in a bus
quite different from this one.
With longer hair,
and better clothes,
and nicer shoes, perhaps.
Carrying a bag
loads lighter,
eyes taking in the sights of someplace
new.

I guess,
when the time is right, I'll leave.

To be the same stranger you'll find
in a hundred different places.

'Someone not known
who knows everything'.

I like the sound of that.
 Aug 2015 Beth Richter
cg
1) For every great skyscraper, there are petty fingers that built them.
I wonder if we were made the same way.
They were strong enough to raise a hammer, but not enough to raise a family.
I wonder if we were made the same way.
She is cold, and he is drinking, and this is our backbone.
She is alone and he is driving home too fast because sometimes you don't have to be in the wrong place to be looking for the wrong thing.
She is afraid and he is warm, this is the beginning spark of a forrest fire filled with broken glass shattering in broken homes with broken people inside on a broken piece of land in a city that has too much rain for someone to build an emergency room in. Everyone with a burden holds their confessions in their left palm and their beggings in their right and no one ends up having enough arms to hold each other.
2) One day the whole world will be in your hands too, and you'll see that sometimes darkness can blind you worse than the red glare the sun paints your vision when you stare at it with your eyes closed.
You will be brave, you will stand up straight, you will stop being royal when people stop painting Jesus with a purple robe.
Even the concrete asks the sun to make it a garden so try cracking your knuckles a little louder and maybe you will wake up as a mountain.
3) Autumn. When you wrote secrets on notebook paper and taped them underneath benches in the city park, you gave too many pieces of yourself to things that weren't made for holding that much weight.
But you said it kept you honest and there were never any reasons for me to ask you to stop giving away the parts of you I wanted to myself. It kept me humble.
4) I am alone
5) You are October in a green dress with a black mask around your eyes and you have stolen the breathe of that day. And I hope when you are 80 years old you feel a breeze sliding on the back of your neck reminding yourself of all the times it should have snapped in half during the moments of what should have been your hanging, how it takes you back to living life like you're always in the desert and stealing innocent people's money and smoking cigarettes beside rattlesnakes.
I hope you find a beach in the Caribbean that asks to be died on, I hope you learn to forgive people harder than you can cry on their shoulder. I hope you watch a sunrise that you spend the rest of your life thinking about. I feel like for that to happen you need your feet in the ocean or underneath a rocking chair, but I would settle for your bedroom.
6) But with you it was never settling.
Sometimes i wish

and then

Wish i hadn't
 Apr 2015 Beth Richter
Devon Webb
Help me,
I'm going to
drown
in my own
stream of
consciousness
 Apr 2015 Beth Richter
Devon Webb
She seemed to
fall in love
with everyone
but herself
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