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freak of nature
"selfish" screaming in my ears
I digress violently now
Whitman bleeding out of
my ears
I cannot bow
seventeen and furious
I am the poet of the
human skin; of violins
and softly fingered clarinets
singing of the dirt under
my fingernails
self-loathing--the evil twin
of guilt--is blinding
I cannot read graphing
calculators or the
future
but both seem empty
like the box under my bed
that used to hold pieces of my
soul (or I thought it did)
now I am scattered
I would like to
hold onto your hand
(I will be less abrasive this way)
instead of purging myself
of every doubt that
has rudely accosted me
in the marrow of
my simple human
structure
i wrote this in math :/
and
i am just here
turning words
into
fantasy
while
you are there
creating dreams
with your
reality

©IGMS
i thought that you will save me from this fantasy
 Sep 2015 Rebecca Durrett
Sjr1000
Poetry is too long too short too harsh
too real to ******* believe
when you're down on your knees begging for forgiveness for everything you feel.

poetry is too hot too cold too bold to fold.
too real to really feel
unless your heart is breaking.

poetry explodes your soul creates heat creates cold. drives the trembling soul right through that ******* hole.

poetry is all I know.
I write with cheap pens that dry out on the page.
Hair disheveled, I'm drunk, my fist trembles with rage.
Without skill, and poor grammar, you'd ask why I write.
But what else can I do when I'm writhing in hell every night.
On a small blue planet appeared a person,
It rocked back and forth screaming and crying.
It wanted a home and a safe place to go,
Where the unknown was not underlying.  

The person moved about this blue planet,
with wood it built a roof and four walls.
It called it a home, but didn't feel safe, as it
could still hear the whisper of danger's calls.  

With nothing to do but to continue with living,
It walked back and forth, laughing and crying.
Constantly searching for that feeling of warmth,
It's escape from the intense fear of dying.

Linear time dragged by on this planet,
This person was close to it's end.
It desperately fought to hold on to that place,
where it's thoughts would be constantly sent.

On a small planet then laid a person,
It closed it's eyes and looked into itself.
Discovered a universe where all was one,
and within the home of self, all was well.
Life.
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