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 Oct 2015 404
Aeya Jean Johnson
To trust,
Let people in,
Relationships.
That's what he said.
That psycologist with
Grey hair
Thinning,
Just like my relationships.
Lonely, hating, loathing myself,
Pain being controlled by addictions,
Shame,
My same shame increases the circles,
Addictions,
Running circles in my head--
Wanting to draw circles with a knife.
STOP THINKING.
My circles of friends growing smaller,
Isolate as the weather becomes cold,
My heart, iced, caged,
No trust, no love.
No one could love me anyway.
Right?
Wrong way thinking through this thick head
Makes it worse.
Wearing through my thin soul,
This pain, pleasure?
No. Run run away from this,
Soles of my shoes thining,
Just like the grey hair--
The psychologist's head.
Trust, love, relationships.
No shame in mistakes.
Let people in?

I always thought I never needed that.
But I was always so wrong.
 Oct 2015 404
Tess Calogaras
I suppose you could call me the epitome of destructive.

Number insides;

I am lighter fluid and absinthe.

All those whom I look forward to,

Perish at an age no older than 30.
Sunken deep by the crippling bones of creativity.
Why must creative convert to gloom?

Would you call yourself the poster child for anti-depressants?
When was the last time you held the shards in hand

and looked upon your perfect skin with tremors?

Just dying to let the living out.


Sit perched to the moon awaiting a calling

that came in a figure of an *******.

Sometimes I speak to you of my troubles

Just to know you’ll get off my back.


Do you know if it wasn’t for your slippery hands
trying to mumble their way through steel caps

I might of died that night?
Inches away from the edge
you crudely pointed at your own meter
that ticked against the pavement
awaiting pennies to be dropped.

You’d offer your calling card of cannabis and magic fingers,
line the body with your palm
and hold it against the skin.

Tell me I was beautiful just until the hand hit 10

and you’d say
I was the epitome of destructive.
An old poem about an old flame.
Tessa Calogaras 2015
 Oct 2015 404
JDK
Pretty Woman
 Oct 2015 404
JDK
The prince and the pauper.
The princess and peasant.
Perpetuating old cliches,
because aren't the differences pleasant?

Romance needs some room to play.
Fill in those gaps of mystery
with grandoise schemes and complex games.

Everyone's a winner.

The beauty and the beast.
The ******* and the tease.
The sheltered ones who live in dreams,
and the streetwise kids who do as they please.

Everyone loves a mystery,
but old cliches only capture so much.
Why do we need a conflict of different world views
to pluck the strings of our hearts?
"Let us leave pretty women to men with no imagination."
- Marcel Proust
 Oct 2015 404
JDK
Relax
 Oct 2015 404
JDK
It's alright.
No big deal.
I don't even, I mean,
I didn't even . . .
Nah, really, it's cool.
Everything's okay.
I feel a lot better now.
 Oct 2015 404
JDK
Liquid Lunch
 Oct 2015 404
JDK
Nevermind dinner.
Hungry sinner.

Burning excess calories off through dance -
ones forgotten to ingest in the first place.

Nutrition ain't no competition.
Playing a game I've got no chance of winning.
Biting off more than I can digest.
I surrender.

No contest.
White napkins waved as flags.
 Oct 2015 404
JDK
Precipitation
 Oct 2015 404
JDK
What happens to deleted poems?
Do they go to the same place as aborted children?
Somewhere between heaven and hell.
A purgatory perpetuated by the misery of doubting one's self.
Maybe they condense into clouds like vapor into rain,
only to eventually fall back down upon our heads again.
In the pained expression you wear on your face,
I can read nearly a thousand words unsaid.
Just say them.
 Oct 2015 404
JDK
The emotional/intellectual gaps between people
are so much farther than miles.
Meet me in the middle
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