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it's almost poetic
the way you look at me
with such anger,
with such hate,
Isn't it great?

Oh it's poetic
when you set me on fire
and burn me to the ground
with your eyes

You're so poetic
when you give me a smile
yeah you burn me alive
but I love it
and I love you

I'm so pathetic
because I still need you
and I'll freeze
without you
the dolls on your dresser stare at me.
their eyes are your eyes
and your eyes are mine,
I wear the skeleton of the body we buried,
her weeping eyes full of soil,
where have you gone?
the swamp swallows all..
no sand nor mud
can hold you down
your stare cooks the ground
a foolish witch's brew..
oh mama,
what have I become?
swamp and mud and bone..
Have you buried me mother,
with your regrets out back?
dear mama,
cook for me one last time..
salty ragweed soup and cat-tail tea,
oh mama,
bury me
under the sand
beside my dead cat
bury your daughter
bones thin as my sisters,
oh sister,
dear sister,
your song
breathes out,
down in the muck
whispers of blessings,
of bones,
and the earth down below
the sister we buried
the skeleton I wear,
yes bury me mama,
lest I steal your air
some rambles
This morning, I glimpsed three little children,
They were burning with bright passion, as little children do,
I watched them for a while, and lamented a happy youth,
But beautiful they were, aglow with smiles on their faces,
It was as though they were of porcelain, made by a kind glass blower,
A soft glass lover, creating beauty out of sand,
Low and behold, there he is
Shaping the glass in the sun, he sits,
The glass blower and his glass children..
Beautiful in their ability to change,
So I watched them from afar, saw them burn, heard them break,
But the peices were melted, to create something new,
The glass blower, and his children reborn,
The phoenix and the flame
The creator, and those created..
And I, the creation's construct,
Was merely doomed to watch.
One of my drafts
I am a list
             - notes on a page
             - paint with these colors
             - do what she says
             - reduced to letters on paper

                  ­                                My childish whimsy, my squiggles and stars
                                                           are reduced to straight lines
                                                           ­               and I feel little
                                                          ­                  once again
                                                           ­                                                                 ­             
              *you are no list, your eyes scream of freedom
                        and mine are mere lines on the page

              - a pristine poet
              - a golden list
              - I am wax
              - mouldable
              - weak
              - an idol
              - created from a weak poets' prose
I used to feel free,
but I am once again trapped..
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