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Art might be beautiful as long as it's true.
I might hope I'm Sylvia Plath.
But at the end of the day I'm just an emotional wreck hoping my neurosis sounds like poems.
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Sometimes there's something jarringly disparate About the fresh sea salt fog and the beauty queen moon of the Monterey wharf.

Sometimes you need the painfully cold sludge of a Cleveland street with no sidewalks and the crying skeletons of trees to match your black coffee soul.
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Being a star-crossed lover isn't all it's cracked up to be.
It's a lot of hurt.
But God,
I'd rather be hurting for him than not have him at all.
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If I could,
I'd blow away on my magic wishing ****,
But there are no dandelions near me.
There's no shooting stars
No guardian angels
and equally enigmatic and mystical,
No one who loves me.
I wish I could go back to tell the little girl I used to be that everything gets better.
That her wishes came true and her hope in those magic sunshine flowers well placed
But I hate a liar.
I couldn't do that to myself.
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We'll wash our hearts with coffee until they become the color of the swirling liquid earth.

They'll breathe in the aroma and anoint  themselves with the curls of richness
     Dancing an escape from the brim of the mugs.

We'll pray to the weathered hands that harvested the beans that even in the biting briskness and cowardly violence of this world
     We may become warm and hearty and nurturing      
          like that with which we fill our cups.
I feel as though
I've been letting red wine pass through my lips
Tasting only it's bitterness and none of it's beautiful numb

I've been crunching on cardboard that I've mistaken for holy
And everyone else is too ashamed for my sake to call me a fool

I've been in a fevered, drugged up half dream, unable to escape the waking world and never having touched a pill

My whole perception is teetering and careening
Seasick between inability to escape, and everything feeling unnervingly too real

But nothing is beautiful in this fairy land.
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I want to press your kisses between the pages of a book
     Like dried flowers from a June day
Your lips flutter over my cheeks, my nose
     the throbbing valley of my throat
And I'm convinced you must be a hummingbird

Each kiss feels like a bouquet
     You must have drank from the foxglove and yarrow before you
     flew to me
Your heart stutters under my palm
      Throbbing fast and full of sweetness

Tell me
     Do you understand how delightful you are?
Drink the sugar water from my garden
The cottage is always a little sunnier with you around.
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