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If the me rubbed away
were to be retrieved,

(Of course, yes,
They can't become Me again.)

But I could at least make them Mine. Arranged anew
to be

"An eraser's poem"
The general idea for this poem came to me from within a dream in which I was tasked with titling and commenting on a book about my life.
It's as though through letting ideas slip away into nothingness
I've died countless times:
unrealised, unfulfilled, unsatisfied.
Their last scream of agony devoid of substance,
reverberates through me,
Reminding me (as idle laughter contorts my face)
that what could've filled me
I've neglected to death.

I sit alone quietly watching

An ego of sand trickles down
each grain a like on a tweet, a seen video.
Aren't they really smart? The people who make these things?
Promised to make me golden,
And I am, indeed.
Just as cold and saleable as that.

NO no

I keep trying to claw my way out.
It's taking too long, why isn't it working?
Hands getting weaker?
Nails dulling out?
Or maybe I've never had anything sharp on myself to begin with.

The worst is that I'm not alone in this
And most of you seem content.
Living being made to obey
With grains of dopamine being thrown around
as we dance to catch each in your mouths.
Not much different from these poor animals at the circus.

Let's cut this short.

Aim big and don't expect a praise or prize soon after you start.
People aren't brands and brands aren't people.
Let's learn to enjoy the ride more than the destination.
Good luck, I believe in me,
I believe in you.
Good luck good luck good luck, remember you're a knife that just needs sharpening sometimes.
  Mar 8 Burning Lilacs
Perhaps they were right
about cameras
They really do steal our souls
and place them
in pretty little squares.

Maybe that's why
we're all
soulless now.
Burning Lilacs Jul 2018
May it be quiet
May there be no light,
For May is quite tired
Tonight Last night Next night

Sleep tight,
Shall not one bird shout
What with doubt or delight
Insomnia-blue sky sounds out

May May fess up, call-self-out?
May I, Shall I, Am I?
What only a **** could spout
Burnt bridges, Eye melting an eye

This milk's rotten, I won't cry
Peace is all I dream about.
The birds sing, another fight
Goodnight cry out Be alright
May is a pseudonym I sign artwork with, my "internet artist persona".
Burning Lilacs Apr 2018
It is strange to move unburdened.
Feet so light that
with each step they shoot high up to the sky,
Threatening to kick the teeth out,
or rip my thighs' tendons,
Restraint so foreign to them.

Quite curious my hands feel
released from the duty of holding me together.
Consumed by bittersweet emptiness
As they confusedly try to grasp
something, anything to hold onto or
at least the meaning of what "freedom" actually is.

So please be patient
as I stumble around in this awkward body.
You see, the me this free wasn't here for growing up
So I'm just beginning learning how to
align feeling with being
All Right
Burning Lilacs Mar 2018
All my life I've been starving.
The world offered me feasts after
Feasts but it seemed that even if
I ate the whole Earth
I'd still hunger.

One day a witch approached me
Promised me a magic sack,
With just the right nourishment,
That wouldn't empty
'Till I die.

All she asked for in return
Were descriptions of dishes.
Their taste, shape, smell, in detail.
For she can only
Eat this way.

So I complied with it, gratefully.
She casts charms, orders to eat:
"Just open your mouth, it's there."
Bit groggy, I reach.
I feel it.

Marvellous, juicy, so fresh.
I praise that found piece of meat.
She smiles. "Dig deeper", she prompts.
So I break my jaw,

I lick the blood off my chin,
It's sweet and sour, just served.
How much further must I dig
For this feast's main course?
My beating
Hello I hated these sessions they felt like interviews for her enjoyment not my betterment and I hope my old one's coming from her leave soon...
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