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Nallely Martinez Dec 2019
Striding like the wind.
They are frightened,
Unable to cope with their bleary prospects.
They'll have intruders,
On the abrasions of that frigid, slick trap.
They're maniacs,
Ripped to bits, violated, and then spit out.
They've been repressed,
Miserable under the Hippocratic Oath.
They've become untreatable,
Battering and destroying whomever draws near.
They were mistreated,
Deformed body parts set ablaze for all.
They should've perished,
In that filthy amniotic fluid.
They'll be laid to rest.
Hallucinating and screaming into nothing.
They are traumatized,
Boring craters into your jammed skull.
They will obliterate you.
There are multiple reasons as to why I wrote this. However, I feel like it would be too long to list here.

I tend my flowers for thee—
Bright Absentee!
My Fuchsia’s Coral Seams
Rip—while the Sower—dreams—

Geraniums—tint—and spot—
Low Daisies—dot—
My Cactus—splits her Beard
To show her throat—

Carnations—tip their spice—
And Bees—pick up—
A Hyacinth—I hid—
Puts out a Ruffled Head—
And odors fall
From flasks—so small—
You marvel how they held—

Globe Roses—break their satin glake—
Upon my Garden floor—
Yet—thou—not there—
I had as lief they bore
No Crimson—more—

Thy flower—be gay—
Her Lord—away!
It ill becometh me—
I’ll dwell in Calyx—Gray—
How modestly—alway—
Thy Daisy—
Draped for thee!

Forbidden Fruit a flavor has
That lawful Orchards mocks—
How luscious lies within the Pod
The Pea that Duty locks—
Nallely Martinez Dec 2019
I miss you.
Tracks of nothing but random bursts of laughter.
Those images of vagrant innocence.
They play like a carousel throughout my brain.

I miss them.
Activities filled with teenage recklessness.
Running under the comforting moonlight.
Unbeknownst we were running out of time.

I miss home.
Humble river water ready for someone to dip in.
Pillars of limestone ready to greet me.
Country music playing for a close knit crowd.

It's waiting for me.
Bearing my love pass yonder.
My heart has whittled out a chamber for them.
One day I will return, after sculpting my future.
Something I wrote in tribute to my hometown good ole' Nashville. I miss my friends there and the locales. Whenever I hear certain songs I can't help but want to see that whole area again. It's made a staple in my little country heart. Inspired after hearing "West Coast" by Coconut Records and "The Skin of my Yellow Country Teeth" by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
  Dec 2019 Nallely Martinez
Oscar Wilde
A lily-girl, not made for this world’s pain,
With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.
Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,
Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,
Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe,
Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast, and saw
The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.
What was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan,
While turbidly flowed the river;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sat by the river.

“This is the way,” laughed the great god Pan,
(Laughed while he sat by the river)
“The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.”
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain—
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.
There is a gentle thought that often springs
to life in me, because it speaks of you.
Its reasoning about love’s so sweet and true,
the heart is conquered, and accepts these things.
‘Who is this’ the mind enquires of the heart,
‘who comes here to ****** our intellect?
Is his power so great we must reject
every other intellectual art?
The heart replies ‘O, meditative mind
this is love’s messenger and newly sent
to bring me all Love’s words and desires.
His life, and all the strength that he can find,
from her sweet eyes are mercifully lent,
who feels compassion for our inner fires.’
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