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Jas Sep 2018
My words don't hit home for me anymore.
They don't hit home like they used to.
The brisk stabs of pain sprawling,
Stretching inwards, a sternness in my hips
Hunt for a budding takeover in the center of my pelvis,
This stomach ache performs a concert
In my system at full volume, and my walls?
Those are gone;
The racket of this band mangled my flesh -
Stretch marks and wrinkles and splotches of damaged skin,
A colony of bruises like water and mold beneath dried paint.
The belly of this wave folds and quivers
And each time I try to be free of this;

Before, I could ***** it out.
Before, my chills - that cool, clammy sweat -
Would break at a night's turn.
In burps and in sneezes and in gurgles
My words would slip off my tongue as bile
Would rise in my throat at the command of my gag,
And they, my words,
Would flow through the cartridge of my pen like ink
Awaiting the heat of my palm to paste them onto paper -
My words' release would exude a warmth down my body like ****** tea
But, none of this happens anymore.
I feel no heat
No comfort.
Jas Sep 2018
With every passing of a reflective surface
I look for my face in all.
Each one unrecognizable
Each one undeniably plundering me -
My image, my mind
Into a frenzy of traumatic shock
Because this person,
This person travelling in my belongings
My effects,
Seems to morph and blend in the irises of whoever is seeing me,
Of whatever Jasmin their perception manifests
From what they know
Or have been told,
About me; and

For whatever thing I may be lacking in grows numerically,
The girth swelling and expelling carelessly -
Whatever bits don't fit the Jazmynn, or the Lily, or the Gardenia me,
But I'm stuck.
I'm stuck in my own mind,
And my mind holds many eyes
Of varying colors and windows,
Some sore and some blind - (And)
As I walk I rate my reflections,
I grade on beauty and demeanor and expression
So when the following moment or day arises,
I can adopt whichever vision suits best.

At some point, I must have put Jasmine on trial,
I must have worn her at some time
And discarded her just as quickly
Because she wasn't as trendy as Lily or Gardenia
And the creatures whose eyes I'm borrowing in my mind did not allow me to keep her.
But if I (no matter the version) had known,
I would not have been able to protect her
Or preserve her,
Jasmine would not have belonged to me -
I would not have known how to convert her and her space in my world
Because hers exists only within a frame
Possessing a finite amount of eyes and windows;

But if Jasmine were looking at me
She would see the same -
Some, such reflective surface
Drunkenly distorting each portrait of what she was supposed to be;

Even still,
We would not have known to keep each other in mind.
09/20/2018
Jas Jul 2018
7am - Sun sits up in bed
Her fiery tresses stretch beyond my vision
And she yawns across the globe
Giving all else a lead to follow in her glowing shadow
The most delicate, wavy lock
Sways and dances like a pianist
She strikes the keys of my heart strings until my fingertips
Creep to the warm surface of the window
Where I can feel her so near to me -
But I'm restricted
Prevented from this ****
Oh it's not new to me
My skin prickles in sweat as my desire to touch overcomes me

But he's right there.
Walking the length of my thigh
Where his fingers curl inward beneath the bend of my knee
His gentle squeeze unlocks the feeling
Of what I imagine touching Sun would be
An exchange of heat between two bodies
When they meet
A mastery of intimacy swimming in my veins
Coursing through me and suddenly
I'm engulfed with his scent -
A simmering brew of chestnut and vanilla
With a twinge of sour
The taste of fresh bitterness and ground beans
His caffeine is the river I float in for about a 3 hour drive
As Sun gazes from behind this window that we share -
She rises silently and strides away in jealousy
While the stinging heat of her ****
Beats away at the window
Desperately trying to touch me.
Jas Apr 2018
Fear

Run, run, destruction awaits,
From divinity devils fall,
Atop one’s head indeed,
Absorbed with ease,
The angels swarm about the knees,
Pulling, pulling
At gravity.
~
It’s shaking me,
I haven’t seen much of what’s been pulling me,
Trying and fighting for this grip not to defeat me,
Harboring,
Wondering how it got inside of me,
Bottling, waiting for it to start changing me,
And I don’t know –
Tell me what you see inside of me,
Is it you?
Some kind of pain from what you’ve been through?
Say it,
How do I take up designation apart from you?
Share with me,
What am I supposed to do?
It’s a risk,
Struggling to find the courage to try and fix it,
To lose touch with myself and scare away the damaged bits.
What am I besides the things I’ve been through?
Or can I be more than just capacity,
Potentiality,
I guess I never identified my own identity,
I sit on the shelf and wait for you to label me,
Price check, I guess I’m assigned my own value,
Put me up for sale instead cause no one wants to bargain me
On my behalf –
Sorry, let me bow and apologize for not helping
I am trying to find something, it’s rising to the surface of
What you said,
What he did,
Ordering and sorting through your mistakes,
Which is something I never got to make and now I’m learning,
Compared to better cause I wasn’t perfected,
Choking on my DNA cause I despise the taste of it – but wait
Isn’t that a reflection of you?
Isn’t what you made me into a small part of you?
Ruined and battered and ***** and always flavorless
I’m sorry, Mama
I know you want to eradicate this
But for myself I need to deliver this message
I wanted the chance to be a creator, too
I wanted the chance to walk in my own shoes
And now I have –
I’m trying to set myself on my own path
Free of you –
Surpassing the limits of what you allowed me to do,
And I’ll never be free
Cause the part of me that you reached,
Will always have you there
The infection you are heals in to my scar, you’re tissue
Fabricated into the realm of my love so I’ll never be rid of you,
But soon enough
I’ll learn how to paint over you,
So I can mend
And others will recognize you as something that can be breached, too.
  Apr 2018 Jas
Wyatt
I know my words will never transcend the canvas
and no matter what I try I'll be labeled the bad guy.
Sometimes it feels like I'll never be understood,
I'll never be welcomed in with open arms
despite my mind, it's twisted and turning.
It's backwards thinking, but a lot of the time
I feel like I'm years into the future.
Like I see a picture
nobody else can yet comprehend.
Stuck in a box of **** truths
and nobody to give the weight to.
I'll bear twenty crosses while shackled to chains
meant to signify this repetitious pattern of slavery.
Tape on my mouth, a muzzle on my mind
and an empty room that's full of suicide.
How much of this montage of failure can I take
before I drop the fake face I put on in public?
Are my words coming across perfectly?
I hope not, because if they did it would mean
that somebody else out there suffers just like me.
I don't wear "victim" to get a purple heart,
I wear a white flag draped on my sunken body,
because I'm a masterpiece missing a few crucial parts.
I seek solitude, these words here aren't just a hobby
to get a few likes and then call it a pity party.
I express shame everyday of my life it seems
because I can't pull myself out of this.
I do the same thing everyday, well aware
that there's no way I can get out of this.

Can't talk to family when they don't feel like it.
Can't walk it off when I wreak havoc
on my self-image, every day I wish
somebody could take my name
so then they could go ahead and trash it.
I matched my lowest low and then I passed it.
Down the bottle, down the drain.
These days I can't see a difference.
Day to day with a clear disadvantage.
I'm living in a world blind to my vantage,
but there's nothing good about this realization
that everybody around me are dead men walking.
Where's that "choice" of direction you speak of
when you sit on your pedestal, claim I chose this lifestyle?
How can I maneuver at all when I'm falling straight down?
What can I provide? What do you say?
But you can't decipher my mind, so what can I say?
Nobody likes a downer
and nobody likes to be awake.
Nobody likes me when I get sour,
and nobody likes to admit we're all afraid.

I've been pessimistic about my hopes,
I've been hopeless when it comes to life.
I feel lifeless when I'm ignored,
and this sense of silence brings me down
somewhere I know I've been before.
I admit defeat for today
and add another tally to the streak,
I wind down and I finally go to sleep
and I somewhat feel better when I awake.
I can pretend just enough to live with all this,
but it's never enough to forget.
It's a perfect storm crafted like a piece of art,
destruction hardly comes off as a shock
when we've never had peace from the start.
Like the biggest punchline to end off the night,
"perfect" is our biggest motivator
and it makes us the most depressed
because even though the goal will always exist,
we can never live long enough to reach it.
I'm trying to reach for it,
so I don't see your angle.
It's like you already gave up
and gave the job to the angels.
Is "perfect" foolish and unrealistic
or are we as people just not worthy of it?

Say you were given a map
and they gave you the keys to heaven
and made a mark on that map.
The motivation is definitely there
but what happens when your location
on this massive map could be anywhere?
That's "perfect" to me,
a perfect problem
positioned just out of our reach.
  Apr 2018 Jas
Nat Lipstadt
~one more for the r man~

almost Monday
and its weighty five day oppressive lead poisoning on the horizon,
is but a thirsty thirty six minutes away from its fortified Sumter, first shot to be fired at midnight, how we love to mark the commencement of hostilities and killing

but I am already wounded, a casualty of having spent evening with pleading, pleasing timer eating, reading of your work,
r

the sounds of inestimable admiration and infectious jealousy
make this old man eager to discard a lifetimes work and
begin fresh, but only as a copyist of you,
r

I know you’re thinking "what in the **** is he blubbering about?"

so I willingly will my confessional offering in the dark of the
holy bedroom; for you make me eat my words, and
spit them out as wastage, in dumbfounding humility

god you and yours, make me frail and blessed that I stumbled
upon your abbreviations of the human life,
r

shut up and accept my three r’s
reading ‘riting and rising
up to sing hymns of praise
for a man with a historical perspective and
whose few occasionals
are carved in the granite bench
of what makes my life
worthy of load bearing;

more than bearable,
all are soul-enlightened by
baring our humility, our admiration

11:24pm 4/15/18
nyc
read the poet r;
and
https://artsofthought.com/2018/04/17/inside-a-poets-mind-an-interview-with-poet-and-archeologist-rick-r-richardson/
Jas Apr 2018
A shoe box filled with borrowed song lyrics
About two cups of gel pens that still smell like hot glue and cardboard
Probably 8 Fiji bottles of water with about 3 swallows left in each
And a basket of hair supplies that are seriously lacking in bobby pins.

I love
A lot more people than I have room for
And each one of them believe they hold my entire heart -
I love
A few indie movies here and there, a few artists here and there,
Myself here and there -
Maybe I love
Reminiscing and trying to recreate the things I've lost
Because I always lose.

I wish for
Traditional objects of desire: happiness, excellence, definite love -
Shoes that don't have socks wedged where the toes should be -
About $10 more in my bank account to spend on chocolate,
A clear throat, a throat that doesn't always hold dissatisfaction-
A better singing voice because music soothes the sting
And I want to be irrevocably, singlehandedly responsible for healing myself

Most of all,
I want to continue to smile.
I should be writing my essay. ****.
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