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 Nov 2014 Grace Pickard
wordvango
I and you are an orchestra,
  I use my whole body as my baton, you accompany
together my instrument, I a director,
  you my symphony, my harp my
harmony, my musician. My composition
  alone is arms waving in air, our collaboration
is entrance
   about to come into destiny count and circumstance,
twirls we do you on your melodies,
I
my baton.
 Nov 2014 Grace Pickard
wordvango
of crying violin on cello moonbeams
spending my spinning around
wet, filled eyelets, drumming in my heart,
rising me up, bringing me close,
under a delicate chin,
drawing the bow across my breast,
to a ledge, poses me delicately on a  quiet impasse, brings me
off the edge; varying from key to soft
then growing again,  impossible, so
to describe
orchestrally.
 Nov 2014 Grace Pickard
nivek
poems for breadcrumbs
I danced into the forest
the deeper I ventured
the more poetry I scattered
the darkness lit up
a trail of tears and laughter
with words of homecoming
 Nov 2014 Grace Pickard
oh no
it’s not like I think it was meant to be this way
our pasts are woven into tapestries our bruises
look the same
“she took a beating and so did you” I know. I felt it too
the puddles of our footprints run together the winds that shaped you
ground me to the dirt
the rest of this journey was a blur but I remembered you
“she took a beating and she’s
beautiful”
you’re the rarest thing I’ve ever loved you’re the purest thing in me
the first time I saw you your story was rewritten in my eyes
with the first note of your copper voice you took me and ever since
I run blood red,
heart, and all,
I want nothing more than my hands in yours, for once
it’s like you could love me without killing me too
(I am used to teeth and claws they ate our hearts out,
you and me,
all this time, my face blood red,
all blood, and all)
it’s not fair of me to drag you back into this, and
with my hand on my healing throat I will not say anything at all
our pasts on leashes left on trees our bruises
look the same (like sour galaxies, like stains,
our skin blood red,
stars, and all)
you’re the purest thing I’ve ever loved, I love you
(love you, love you, and all)
in you I run blood red, heart, and all, and
for once it doesn’t feel like dying
with your hands on my busted knees I will not say anything at all
“she took a beating
and she left”
(as well she should)
someday I will let you go but we will run blood red,
hearts, star-crossed, and all
sorry everyone
L** ost out in the real world
up, down, left, right?
its all backwards
which way to go?

O ne way.
The other less traveled
or the well beaten path?
how to choose?

S igns? supposed to
follow the signs?
if i don't care,
how will i see them?

T ear down the walls,
break away.
become something else
ENTIRELY
I want someone who sees my freckles as galaxies
And my scars as stories.
Who tells me my eyes are beautiful
And that my crooked teeth are charming.
I need someone who makes me feel as happy
As I feel when I write poetry.
Who makes me realize that I don’t need a lover,
But sometimes it’s okay to want one.
Then I realize as I trace the freckles on my arm,
That I already see them as galaxies.
And I know the stories behind my scars.
My eyes are my favorite feature
And **** my crooked teeth are awesome.
I write poetry and it makes me happy,
So why do I want a person to share that with?
I have everything here,
I love myself more than anyone could ever love me.
I found this in my old notes and cried a little
It's a slightly faded memory clouded by shimmering hope, but I can still remember the motions.

The most prominent sound was the creaking, whether of bones or of the bed springs. I would toss and turn all night, always emotionless and restless.
There was always a soft hissing when it was quiet, but when there was sound it was of soft guitars strumming. A voice that's cracked but clear resounds and reminds of all the turmoil.

The view itself was different. It wasn't what I had expected, nothing too dull or dreary. Instead all the colors were brighter, sharper. Except a certain halo that surrounded my proximity that seemed like a color vacuum.

The smell was dominated by the familiar scent of stale cigarettes, never fresh cigarette smoke. Sometimes it was the lingering aroma of a week old perfume still nestled into the fabric of my pillow. It's as if it was still there to help me remember that time never stopped.

These are the distinctive memories, it's how I am reminded of a time when I felt lonely.
you saw sadness,
and you never noticed the pain.

you heard the thunder,
and ignored the rain.

but yet you wonder,
just why you dug my grave.

you saw, my dear.

but you cannot see.
You only saw what I was feeling but didn't see the real pain that I felt.
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