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 Jun 2018 Marco
Mos
Facade
 Jun 2018 Marco
Mos
The tangible entity of consciousness is fleeting
Scene:
A elegant party but not quite extravagant
Clinking wine glasses echo through transparent walls
Twenty-two hundred lulls over the city like that of a shadow
This isn’t an ungodly hour nor is this a typical night
It starts when She enters in a red gown that elongates her figure
A pianist smirks in the corner — a grin that’s almost sinister
The clinking of wine glasses abruptly stops when its replacement of grim notes fills the glass house
The attendants still seem cheerful
(How peculiar?)
A stranger pulls her into a waltz but his eyes look hauntingly familiar
Unbenounced to her, He too dances with a stranger
Both on separate sides of the glass room
Both dancing with the unknown
Yet each pair seems to recognize some prominent feature
Nostalgic for what has never been
(How do you preserve a memory in reality?)
Through the glass house mirrors sit in obscure angles
One could see that within each reflection He and She were projected into the other room
Each glance towards the mirrors posed no questions
For both pairs seemed identical
Now their lives may have been content in accepting this dance with a “stranger” I suppose
But that was not the plan of this party
For guests grew tired of sipping on Beaujolais and listening to solem tunes
The pianist presented a different song, more lively yet equally eerie
Their feet paced with the new rhythm which called for a spin
(An act as dramatic as such was only proper for the scene)
With a grand gesture She turns, finally seeing the glass barriers
And for the first time that night He and She were face to face
A perfect dilemma to entertain an audience
In a frenzy She tried to speak
“I love you”
“I love you”
“I love you”
But each plea for affection deemed futile
For the grin on His face became that of the pianist
Her emotions were a downward spiral of gray shaded confusion
And with a sinister laugh He (or he) smashed the glass, shredding all source of reality
He was the hallucinogen and She was angry at him for making Her feel
And each guest cheered “bravo” demanding an encore
But this tragedy, dear friends, has come to the end
She’ll never know how the stars look where he is
(Is such a loss truly a loss?)
This poem is for two people
 Jun 2018 Marco
BlueBird
Empty
 Jun 2018 Marco
BlueBird
Weeks of my childhood turned into
A waiting game over which parent would remember our existence first.
Would it be him with the tired, wet eyes. With the rough, accusing voice. Or would it be her, with the broken heart and the soft touch.
Would this be the week that I didnt see him? Just a closed bedroom door and quiet footsteps in the middle of the night.

I've spent my entire life telling myself
That tomorrow will be the day that you love me.

29 yrs in, and I think I feel ready to tell you -

Im not invisible. You lied.
 Jun 2018 Marco
Mos
OCD
 Jun 2018 Marco
Mos
OCD
The thing about loving and OCD is that every tree in the woods has your name carved into its bark
Every attempt is misspelt perfectly in calligraphy
You’re the most beautiful mistake I have made
Note: Never take a nature walk again
Remembering to forget you is an impossible phenomenon
Like riding a bike
Except I never learned how to ride a bike
But I do know how to breathe
Unless I think about you then suddenly my lungs collapse
You were my oxygen, or a necessity if you prefer
And my therapist told me getting some fresh air would be therapeutic
Like riding a bike in the woods
The only problem with this serenity is you took my oxygen away from me
You are in everything I once breathed
Not to mention I never learned how to ride a bike
And every tree has your name engraved
An everlasting reminder of the beauty in toxicity
I can’t remember who I wrote this for
The thought is applicable to myself now
 Jun 2018 Marco
BlueBird
Hollow
 Jun 2018 Marco
BlueBird
I dont feel like a human being.
I feel like a
Mother,
Partner,
Ghost.
Everything I hear is an empty noise,
Every touch is painful.
My insides hurt.
 Jun 2018 Marco
BlueBird
For the last 3 weeks, whenever 4am comes around,
My eyes open and everything around me looks foreign.
It feels like Ive just spent 5 hours outside of my body, and whenever I dive back into it I need to double check my surroundings
To make sure Im home.
Where do I go during that time?
I can never remember.
 Jun 2018 Marco
CA Smith
I'm depressed.
But, I mean, I'm still me right?
Like, I am still me
So what if I lie awake at night?
So what if I can't stay awake during the day?
So what if I get nothing done?
I am still me
I don't talk to my friends
I don't see my parents
I don't write anymore poetry
But it's just a temporary thing
It will be fine
Or at least that's what the doctor tells me
So this pill will do for now
Maybe it will show me how
To be me again
Because maybe I am not me
Maybe this depression is what "me" actually is
And maybe I am just a hopeless project
Waiting to be finally set on the shelf
So all my friends and family
Can start on a different project
One that will actually be worth the effort
Instead of wasting their time on me
 Jun 2018 Marco
Anne Curtin
Becoming
 Jun 2018 Marco
Anne Curtin
I am not reading poetry.
I am cupping the words
in my hands, pouring them
over my head, rubbing them
through my skin, into my bones
breathing in
breathing out

becoming a poem
 Jun 2018 Marco
BlueBird
Life
 Jun 2018 Marco
BlueBird
Its funny how those scars on my legs,
That remind me of how much pain Ive been in,
Have now been braided into the marks that write out the story of
How my body grew the two greatest
Loves of my life -
Flawlessly and without any of the brokenness I was convinced would easily be passed onto whoever came into contact with me.
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