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 Apr 2013 Shawna Renea
Tim Knight
A rock around her neck
for a star sign birth:
another necklace bought by
another sandal-sock boyfriend.
Time for a new piece
of jewellery, don't you think?
One that’s classy, studded, anything but pink.
It might hang loosely lapping up
the line of air,
that will linger past you when walking to
train station, work station, another day
of painted creation.

Keep the brushes close
and the oils closer,
canvas in the post, ready for closure.
You’re the score and the baton, the lines of manuscript,
my composer.
> coffeeshoppoems.com <
Lush cow parsnip lined the disappearing path
rain came, with cooling mists kissing lupine flowers
A sacred land the path's end - ruins of Haida totems
born of ocean, emerging man
of shells and sand
earth and air
clan of the
raven
I took a trip today
let myself go
on a quiet rush
unnoticed
and in plain sight
I let myself go

I took a trip today
let my blood go
on a mad rush
unwarranted
but deliberate
I let my blood rush
 Mar 2013 Shawna Renea
JM
Cutters
 Mar 2013 Shawna Renea
JM
Stop cutting.

I get it, life hurts.

You want to feel, something.

You would rather watch your own blood seep out of your body from a self inflicted wound, than experience the hurt you have inside.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You choose to hurt yourself because you are overwhelmed by the pain you have caused another person, even if it was unintentional. The thought of that person whom you have such strong feelings for, suffering because of your actions or in-actions, is almost unbearable.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You don't know what to make of your situation. You don't know how a person like you could end up in such a ****** up scene. You feel stuck, lost.

I get it. I do.
Stop cutting.

Your parents ****. They don't understand the kind of **** you are going through. Sure they were kids once but that was different. Things were different back then. They don't get you and they probably never will. They don't care.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You really want to hurt yourself because you get off on the pain. You want it. You need it. You deserve it. You were put on this earth to suffer and you accept your role as martyr.

I get it. Truly, I do.
Stop cutting.

You need some sort of release. Something, anything. Anything but the consuming black,
nothing. The sweet release that only a razor can provide is the only thing that seems real to you amidst all of the drama.

I get it.
Stop cutting.



There is chaos in your life and the secret solitude provided by your ritual seems like an oasis.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You like the way your skin splits open.  You like the way you can touch the cuts underneath your clothes. You like the way the scars remind you.

I get it.
Stop cutting.

The love of your life has abandoned you, leaving a void that nobody will ever fill. Ever.
You are completely and utterly alone.

Life *****.

I get it.

You however, are beautiful,
inside and out,
scars and everything,
and you are not as alone as you think.


Please,
Please,
Please,
Stop cutting.
 Mar 2013 Shawna Renea
JM
As long as you breathe, I will inhale you.

And after you are finished breathing,
when you have uttered your final words,
I will speak your sacred name in my throat.

I will  visit your grave perhaps once,perhaps often, not to say goodbye,
but to cry and laugh with you.

I will keep your memory alive in my bowels that held your love,
in my mouth that kissed your brow,glistening with sweat.
in the soles of my feet that  walked next to you in the market,
in the tips of my fingers that caressed your hair out of your eyes so many
times,
in my nose that captured your ever changing, ever lovely essence,
in my tongue, that called your name during our volcanic passions.

I will have your love in me still,
kiss your brow, always,
walk with you, forever,
sweep your hair, eternally,
smell you, endlessly,
and speak your name until the end of my days,
when                  is the last word that crosses my lips.

I will never love another.
Originally posted March 7, 2012
When I was 9,
I stopped fearing the monster under my bed.
So he shrank down in size.

He climbed up my bed
and crawled in an ear
now he lives within me
renamed ‘things I fear’.

— The End —