I taught her how to handle a
Pellet gun tonight.
Now her eye is black from the
Scope, her fake fingernails chipped
From loading,
And the pine tree nearly stripped from
Cones outside my
Livingroom window, where our
Jägermeister
Cups made little rings on my
Brother's Longfellow hardback
Copy.

The night sky is bright blue this
Time of year in Norway.
Sun never really sets.
I looked up at the brightests spots
Beyond the moon, as she took aim
And fired with a subtle
Psstkh.

"So close," she whispered at the
Unwounded summer evening,
And I smelled her lavender hair
And all the warm outsides
As I thought of satellites and
Discoveries, and how moments
Such as this one would
Always matter
More.

Jeg ved ikke hvad du leder efter
men du har efterhånden ledt i flere år

Du går i seng så du ikke kan føle
de lange beskidte negle kradse dig
langt ned af din blege ryg
Så du ikke føler alle krybene
kravle rundt i din mave
og ud igennem din stumme mund

Er du virkelig den person
som du ser i øjnene når du
står og børster dit uglede
leverpostejs-farvede hår
foran spejlet om morgnen
eller er du bare endnu en illusion

They say no love is perfect.
How could anything be imperfect
When love is pulling even the frailest of
Strings attached?

Whether that be a lifeline, a noose, or the
Electrical cord to its own
Respirator, its final word would be
A smiled whisper of either

Hope or rememberance.
Gratitude is grace.
Even diamonds decompose.
Breath gives meaning to air.

*** sang med på sange *** ikke kendte. Hendes mor sagde det var, fordi *** følte sig godt tilpas i mit selskab. Jeg børstede hendes krøllede hår igennem, for derefter at affarve det orange. Senere ødelagde *** hendes puder med sit blå-smittende hår. Du er min inspiration, du er den lyskæde på min hylde, som du engang fortalte mig om. Dine ord er smukke, meget smukkere end mine, men jeg gør hvad jeg kan, for det har du lært mig at gøre siden 11-års-alderen.

When things go wrong as they some times will
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill
When the funds are low and the debts are high
And you want to smile but you have to sigh
When care is pressing you down a bit
Rest if you must but dont quit

Life is queer with its twists and turns
As everyone of us sometimes learns
And many a fellow turns about
When he might have won had he stuck out
Dont give up though the pace seems slow
You may succeed with another blow

Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victors cup
And he learned to late when the night came down
Oh how close he was to the golden crown

Success is failure turned inside out
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt
And you never can tell how close you are
It may be near when it seems afar
Hence stick to the fight when your hardest hit

For its when things seem worst that you must never
Q U I T.

i miss you.
i miss the way you always held out your hand when you wanted to interlock your fingers with mine, as if you needed permission.
i miss the way you held me tightly whenever we hugged, like you never wanted to let go.
i miss the way you looked at me with so much love and happiness in your eyes.
i miss the way you smiled so big whenever we spoke.
i miss the way you used all these different big words whenever you told me how much you cared about me. i had to look up the meaning of those words every time.
i miss the way you looked at me when i laughed, you looked so happy.
please, come back.
i miss you.

We will leave you in the midst
of a poetic truce, as you spill
experiences into our open palms.

Writing to make sense of what
has happened, nestling your
deepest secrets in our fingertips.

Our roots so deep in our poetry,
if you tried to unearth us, we would
shriek louder than banshee's.

Unravel our words, enter the
labyrinth of our minds, there are
sunsets in our stomachs, and
December runs through our veins.

We are the stars to your blank skies,
the pause between each ragged breath,
the tragedy suffocating the air.

We are the pause before the applause,
we are rarity's like Haley's comet,
making you scramble for a telescope.

Only crows writhing with broken
necks are more twisted than the life
stories resting under our tongues.

We are poets, engraved in history,
fluent in all that is artistic and worldly.

Poetry is a warm blanket we remain
hidden in on a cold winter morning.
Reality is a cold floor that our
bare feet are too scared to touch.

*By Rapunzel and JannaLee Perry

He works
Every day.
I see him there
Every time.

He tells me
That he has no life,
And I pity him.

Every single day,
Those stupid plad shirts,
Smoking a cigarette if it's not too busy.

Every day,
I see him
and he tells me to never lose my youth,
Because he lost it.

He says to go on adventures in his honor,
So I do.