You're an illusion, Dido,
in a frame of broken glass.
Bleeding at the edges,
maimed on the inside.

Obstinate refusing other men's hands
entrenched in old habits.
You've built a new kingdom,
on the ruins of an old man's land.

There, alighted a lost bird,
pleading for a grain of wheat.
But he ate poisoned bread,
due to your undying generosity,


O unfortunate Dido,
You exasperated heart is healed.
But hit with the wrong arrow,
have you dived into the dark cave.

Blind to the falsehood
of your second darling.
The pain of the first trapped,
the unwanted ring.

Your call for help
dissolves in an infinite echo.
His fleet reached the open sea
and vanishes with your renewed happiness.

Escape the pain in your chest,
the ornate sword levied,
throw yourself into the fire of your sorrow and grief,
to finally fall into Sichaeus' arms.

You don't know how much I long
to feel your fingerprints on my skin
but your love, darling, doesn't come from within,
just false promises laying on your tongue

Each bruise you draw on my body
is a temporarily memory to something warm
which causes me to indirectly self-harm
because I can't live without the melody

Of broken words lingering into the air
my body painfully haunted by your hands
vanished dreams widely spread over unvisited lands
still wishing to bury my fingers in your hair

And whisper "I love you" on every corner
of streets where we smoked cigarettes
whose smoke emerged to far away places
where our love isn't getting any colder

Than the eyes of an abused mother
holding in her bare hands her dead-born baby
perpetual silently mouthing "Sorry"
for loving the wrong significant other.

I often see you look at
me, your sidelong glances out
from lowered eyelids, as if wondering
where I suddenly
appeared from. Not the girl
you once had a chance of loving, before
she started living her life with
a bang, an explosion
so strong it shattered all
of your expectations, this
is not quite a woman, but you
do not know what she- I
am. You look on, dumbfounded
for only a split second
when hurtful words hurtle
out from my lips, whizzing by your straight back
and stony face, wondering
who put them these. I
am more brilliant and sharp
than you had ever
thought I would be, and you
do not know how
this could be.
Listen to me
when I tell you that this
is all to your credit. My words
are only being said in the style
of the master, she
who taught me to build bombs
of truths, to throw them
at the chinks she taught me to see
in the enemy's armor, to know
unerringly before whom
I stand. My brilliance
was a gift, too, this
is my outer shell, shining
with my blood that I tried
to keep in, but I couldn't, so I painted
myself and called myself
Red. My sharpness
is not originally mine, I
am removing the harpoons
you struck into my flesh, and
throwing them back, casting off the lines
you would hold me with. You see,
mother dearest, I am not truly, originally,
a shining star. I merely
follow the leader.

128

Bring me the sunset in a cup,
Reckon the morning’s flagons up
And say how many Dew,
Tell me how far the morning leaps—
Tell me what time the weaver sleeps
Who spun the breadth of blue!

Write me how many notes there be
In the new Robin’s ecstasy
Among astonished boughs—
How many trips the Tortoise makes—
How many cups the Bee partakes,
The Debauchee of Dews!

Also, who laid the Rainbow’s piers,
Also, who leads the docile spheres
By withes of supple blue?
Whose fingers string the stalactite—
Who counts the wampum of the night
To see that none is due?

Who built this little Alban House
And shut the windows down so close
My spirit cannot see?
Who’ll let me out some gala day
With implements to fly away,
Passing Pomposity?

my skin
was rubbed raw
because someone touched me
on the sidewalk
without my permission

one time I didn't sleep for a week
because something in my room was
out of place and I
couldn't fix it

ive stayed up all night
wondering if all the doors are locked
so I check
once
twice
three times
four times
and so on
untill its time to wake up

the soaps in the shower
are put a certain way
if not
then I feel myself fall
apart

Ill clean for days
and not sleep
or stop
once

so please stop saying
"Oh, im so OCD!"
because you will never understand
what its like to have this crippling
fear
that everything will go wrong
if one thing is different

this is just another ******* **** poem
why just another **** poem?
you sit there and think
why talk about this so often
when the economy is collapsing
and children are starving
and there's a possibility of a
world war 3?

but guess what ******,
this poem isn't for you
its for those who's souls have been
tied down and beaten
for those who have lost all hope
for those who have been told that its
"all their fault"
to them, this poem isn't
just another ******* **** poem
it is their savior poem

the one thing that points
out the ****** up things
like double standards
and victim blaming
it may give them the
push that will break the ropes
that hold their souls down

this is the poem that will
restore hope for those who have
given up because society has
given up them and tossed them away
like a used ******.

and I will continue writing other
******* **** poems
until my mother stops telling me
to not forget my mace
until I dont have to pay for 500$
self defense classes, on the off chance that hey,
maybe I wont be ***** tonight.
until im not blamed for being attacked
until my ****** is not pitted for his
football carer being ended prematurely
until I can dress like a **** and get home safely

I will continue writing **** poems
until I have nothing ******* left
to write about

i have a little cat i call him Mr Flynn
he meows at the door for me to let him in
then he wags his tail looks straight up at me
to let me know its teatime and he wants his tea
then i fill his bowl with his favorite meat
followed by a biscuit for his little treat
when his meal is over he jumps upon my knee
then we fall asleep together Mr Flynn and me