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I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.
 May 2014 Crystal
Jeremy Duff
You said you crave attention.

I'm prepared to give you all the attention you could ever need,
yet you pretend you don't hear me knocking.

Why?

Are you afraid of the feelings I have for you?
You don't understand.
I have had these feelings always, they are nothing new.
Are you afraid of losing me because they are not reciprocated?
You don't understand.
I have had these feelings always, and they have never been reciprocated.
The only way I will give up is if you continue what you're doing.

You're pushing me away and i'm tired of trying to catch up.

You're too busy with work you say,
yet you go to parties with him.
You're too busy with school you say,
yet you always have time for him.

I'm not jealous because you kiss him,
i'm jealous because he is stealing you from me.
(he may be ghandi for all I care but I ******* hate him)
I've been crying a lot more than I usually do. I don't want to give up but I don't know how many tears I have left
May I kiss you?
Just for today
Just for an instant-
A moment-

Just for a day
May I kiss you?

May I kiss you?
In the rain
In the snow-
In the spring-

Just for a season
May I kiss you?

May I kiss you
Just for a moment
For alas I know
Not of the future

And even a kiss today
Is more than I can dream.
This is about all the times where I wanted to ask a stranger or someone I hardly knew for a kiss. All the thoughts of walking down a crowded street and seeing a young beauty and asking her for a kiss. This is a poem about the spontaneity and romanticism that I never took and how everytime I think of that opportunity I never took it reminds me of my mortality slipping away.
the uncomfortable straps of my bra
the struggle of getting my **** into those jeans I like
the high heels you admire but I dread
the hours spent on hair
and some minutes on makeup
the ugly monthly visitor
the cramps
the aches
the tears
the fear of thinking no ones there
trying not to fuss
and not to fight
and always making everything right
I am woman
everyday struggle of a woman
 May 2014 Crystal
A C Leuavacant
Frightened I am
By things that I see
Questions I ask
The things that will be

Alone I am
in this quest for who knows
The words I can't say
The life that I chose

Puzzled I am
By the answers I lack
If courage is nothing
is my life on track?

Saddened I am
By the dreams that I dream
The silence I bring
The internal scream
 May 2014 Crystal
Natasha
Trying to be creative with someone looking over your shoulder, even while that someone is giving me a massage is distracting;
nonetheless,
he says he's not looking
but he's too good at lying to me
he always knows what to say

even when I don't, like today.

Ouu
my shoulders tense from school and work
he raises the pressure in his palms and fingers
rubs me right where it hurts.

And though sometimes,
it seems like nothing could ever been worse than this-

like now, when he interrupts my train of thought typed out on this keyboard, his loud rap music blaring through his supposedly topline headset, Grand Theft Auto 5 on the screen.

Angry lyrics spat through the canals of my ear and continuing their defiance, the intense beat on my drums.

The loudness from the slightly broken silence,m
stills my thoughts too a low hum.

and so,
I have lost my- was it my train of thought
or inspiration?
thanks alot

******* *******.
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I hate being interupted on a creative spree
"I'm not that much of an *******, you're the *******" he says.
creative liberty baby
xo
 May 2014 Crystal
wes parham
Perhaps you’ll remember,
though most of us don’t
recall our earliest days.
What relative scale could you use
to describe the things you saw
and the things you felt?
It seems too unreal for a mind
you would one day call mature
and an intelligence
deemed sufficient.
If you could, would you choose,
and what would you find,
if you could retrieve these moments?

when a warm, familiar heartbeat
kept reassuring time,
in a comforting bed at blood temperature,

when hands twice your size
would cradle you completely; move you
from bath to crib,

when loving giants would come
when you called,
to sing or to soothe your pains,

when sleep held dreams of this and more,
in a language we all have spoken,
Beautiful to hear, forgotten on waking
As I struggled with the challenges of being a new parent, I imagined what the perspective might be from my infant daughter's mind.  I wondered what she thought of us, how she would describe us once she could do so in our language.  I say "our language", since the mind must be forming thought before language comes around, some ur-language of the collective conscious mind.  The phrase "loving giants" kept coming to mind, since we must seem colossal to a newborn as we move them about, cause some discomforts, alleviate others, as we sing and laugh to let them know they are safe and cared for.
Read aloud here by the author:
https://soundcloud.com/warmphase/loving-giants
You
You are worthless
You are amazing
You are hideous
You are ravishing
You are plain
You are stunning
You are stupid
You are witty
You are fine
You are broken
You are happy
You are choking
You are you
*You are beautiful
You are what you make of yourself. Choose wisely.
little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.
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