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there's pieces of me.
well, i'd like for them to be.
like with a big butcher's knife,
i'd carve myself out like a cake
and hand it over in plates
to all the comers
in the party of my life.

i think i'd have a sour frosting,
a bad bread—perhaps even a bad smell.
i don't think i'd be of good taste,
of any good matter,
for that same sake.

a couple long, repeated bad nights of sleep,
ugliness etched in my skin
like sprinkles on the dark frosting.

what flavor would i be, even?
with all this blood and muscle,
i'd dissect my brain in half,
perhaps find the anti-matter.

i hope by the time i'm carving my heart,
it gets to be in the mouths
of all those who tore it apart.

my bones can be handed over
to whoever tried to reside by them,
in there—
when they couldn’t find places,
or simply chose to stick to the rear.

i could be bitter,
i’d admit.
it leaves me to wonder:
perhaps if i were a dish served cold,
would their hands pause?
washed in guilt
as they chew away at me—
would they realize
i taste exactly as they made me?

the irony of the hands that cooked,
the hands that tasted,
the hands that brought me up
and down
to my very ruin.

if i were to leave myself on the table,
sliced and silent—
would they pray before digging in?

maybe i’m not made of cake.
maybe i’m spoiled rot,
sugarcoated with whipping cream,
one that turned black—
the kind of dark your eyes
never really adjust to.

the mask over decay.
i’m still palatable, i believe.

they never asked
what it cost to be served.
but then, it was my choice—
in the end, at least.

they needed the softest parts.
i offered them,
sweetest pain and all.
to get some, you have to lose some.
lose yourself—
find me.

never the full truth,
just fragments i promise
will indeed satiate your gut.

i wonder if they’d spit me out
if i finally stopped the seasoning.
would they ever let a second glance
go my way—
on me, on the plate?

what’s the etiquette for eating?
accept what is served.
and what for eating someone alive?
do you pretend to care—
pray, ****, or just cut it up?

they stitched poetry into my skin.
had me sewing my wounds—
the antiseptic: my own blood.
only to tear me apart
just to get a read.
a glance
at their own work.

and then they wondered
why i never held it together.

my ribs have poison—
the kind i breathed in,
never out.
second to oxygen,
to the air they stole.
air meant for me,
and me whole.

enter if you must—
through my eyes,
down the pipe to my lungs,
and perhaps my heart.
there’s no angels.
no glow.
no butterflies.

i peeled my skin
as if i were stripping bark from old wood—
but who could’ve accepted
the still-rough edges?
no matter how much smoothing i tried to do.

they drank from my brain
like it was grape wine.
told me i was divine,
worthy of memory,
of residence.

and every single time i found myself
in a heart—
it locked me up,
bared me apart.

i carved my way out
with a rusted hand,
my body on the line—
and to prove i had one,
what all did i not do?
was it ever enough?

if i were a mausoleum—
would they leave flowers,
or taste the stench hidden
behind the sweet of my grave?

my veins: strings,
messy and burning
with the desire
to ache and spill out
everything they carry.

my teeth: chewing on bits of my own chest,
hollowed out,
worms crawling within.

this self—
a cage.
a cage of muscle and bone.
enlightened, maybe.
reached the world beyond,
if that’s what they call it.

madness personified.
grotesque, but tender.

all these bruises and wounds—
a decay so glittery
i perform it.

one horrifying nightmare,
mentality gruesome,
pain bespectacled.

they romanticized
every time i bled—
on the steps,
on the hands
that never cared
for the pretty red.

cynical,
pathetic little monsters.
each one shapeshifting
into others.

selective consumption,
their art form.
watch my performative sweetness,
and fake the fake
out of them all.
bon appétit!
i lost half the idea to this in my sleep even though i was awake.
I'm scared
for you
I could lose you
at any given moment
and I would never see it coming
and there would be nothing I can do to stop it
I'm scared
I want you to be okay
I need you to be okay
I can't reach you right now and it's killing me
you were fine an hour ago
and now you're not
And
There's
Nothing
I
Can
Do
I'm scared
Spinning and Spinning ,Round and round,
On the roof ,On the ground
On my feet ,On my toes,
Laughing and crying my heartfelt woes
The wide smile ,the care-free laughter
Very much like the Life of After
Dancing as i sing,Running as i hum
On my tunes ,Under the moon
Which glows with a beautiful sense of woon
Waiting for you from the noon
Promising ill be meeting ;very soon
To feel your presence beneath the sky
i have my secrets ill tell you why
I chase your light so you wont hide
I wish the clouds wont come any near
Hiding you away from my eyes
I wish only to see your sight
Basking myself in the moon light
When two spheres met to gaze
Racing my heart, burning  ablaze
Enlightening the weak soul of me
Flaming the sparks,the wonder ,the glee,
Sparkling and brightening the eyes of me
Dialating the pupils inside of them
The pounding heart beating aloud
Right inside the chest of me
I hear the sound ,i hear the beat
My pulse rising at the sight of you
You might be not as bright as sun
But you are the one which made spun
With love, with emotions ,with which we hung
Every night in the sky,
Before the dusk and twilight,
Gazing with you ;the starlights,
Flickering a flame in the night
Gently pulling; the ocean tides,
Moon you are the flame;the spark
Which made me burn ,which made me lark,
I dont care to be lost ,
From this world ,From this coast,
As long as i can reach the sky
Wishing to be the star just beside you
Because when the world would gaze the sky
There would be us you and i
Side by side two sparkling lights,
Shining and twinkling with all their might,
I wish the stars, i bless the moon,
I promise ill come to you very soon.
                         __tsuki no ume.
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                      International Chopsticks

Forgive me for any insensitive remarks
But do piano students in China practice “Forks?”
Piano Lessons
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

     Our Capitol Police – Keeping America Safe from 87-Year-Olds

                       No Unmarked Cars for Senior Citizens

At least when our police ‘cuff an elderly man
They stuff him into a well-marked van


14 June 20245 - our Stasi handcuffed an 87-year-old veteran today:

https://x.com/CarolinaLumetta/status/1933669206114898254/video/3
I tried to touch the stars last night
So i took a chair and turned off the light

I reached higher than I ever tried
I saw them already, so beautiful, I even cried

But I lost balance and the chair fell
The light went on, and I was back in my cell
It might be my last words
Be headed by my own
Used as a human shield
Black mailed to exist
If you read this write now
And you never heard of me again
Wish me luck in the next life
Tell everybody I wasn't one of them
Life is lost if it's not for a purpose
And you will find it along the way
Never stop searching for it
Even if you are the rat in the maze
You maybe fed lies everyday
Raise to be the pig in the yard
Yet you still breath, breed and brew
A coffee for the morning light
Love yourself to the death
Remember me in your eyes
I love the lies you told me then
I still love all your lies
A last letter to my enemies
I held you close as my friends
To distract you, to be the martyr
A last letter to my love
You were on the wrong side of the fence
I think we might fell in love
If you weren't a spy till the end
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                             Ancient Pistol Takes the Salute

Tanks grinding the streets all mucky and muddy
Sturdy old Hueys and Cobras flying high
And our leader’s Viet-Nam Army buddies
Saluting him proudly while marching by
Later - our Stasi handcuffed an 87-year-old man today:

https://x.com/CarolinaLumetta/status/1933669206114898254/video/3
i think
this is perhaps the first time
i came and picked up my laptop,
sat in front of the blank screen,
with the pointer blinking back at me—
and i realized i had so much to write.

about how the world was being unfair,
of how i was being lied to,
of how i was all by myself all again—
and that's what they wanted:
to isolate me after attachment.

and i don't know,
it didn't hurt the way it used to.
i relapsed, kinda—
but i realized i'd healed much more.
and even though it's surprising,
i just don't know how to pen it down.

i was watching the recent season of ginny and georgia,
and i found quotes and expressions and scenes that i related to—
like *******, like poetry is supposed to be form of self-expressing.
but i never knew how to do it in the first place.

and i've gotten better, i know—
but i lie on my bed,
and something's just so poetic about lying in the dark
with posters on my walls,
with pictures telling me to not give up,
to write, to be creative—
and i do all these things just to stop thinking at all.

like, i have my hair open
and it's the second day since i washed them.
i'd changed the day schedule—
it seems kinda nice, like not a repetition for once.
and my mum's showering,
i'm in my room,
the air conditioning is on—
the heat outside is unbearable.

i received a text from a random person asking for my socials,
and i'm perhaps the first in this generation
to not use a social.

i bathed my bunny today,
she's kinda angry at the fact—
but i know she'll round that. she always does.
she just doesn't like water,
but she needs it.

like i don't like to live and be surrounded
by people who don't want me,
but i have to fake it.

that's kinda simple.
but it's hard to accept—
like the brutal kinda truths that seem to reflect my own insides
and i just have to let them.

and every time i look into the mirror,
i imagine who i can be.
but to be that person,
to be the me in the mirror—
it's just— i don't have a way yet laid out in front of me.

i've got no prompts today—
perhaps i'll ask for some, look around and always return
to write back in here.
but sometimes i wanna write just nothing at all.

like write it out,
but it's about nothing—
just things that are so normal
that they don't even seem to matter.

you won't see someone writing about breathing
until they know the lack of it during a panic attack.
you won't see someone writing about a heartbreak
unless they've been through that.

and they could write from the experiences of others—
but first, you have to experience.

and i don't know,
i'm perhaps getting somewhere—
but that isn't even necessary, at all?
right?
like, i can exist,
and i don't have to make a big point out of it— all times.

i can be breathing,
be listening,
be wanting something but not knowing what i want exactly.
and i could be just in the zone of comfort
without having any comfort at all.

but it's just— hard to define, to put in words.

i had no thoughts when i came here,
but right now i type,
and i watch myself type,
and i see the words coming to life
and i want to keep going on and on and on and on
until the cycle just never stops
and i can keep on speaking and speaking
and somehow get it all out—
all that i've felt, or all that i keep feeling.

and i could write my past down
but i don't have any memory unless it's triggered—
i'm just— like a total black space
with no stars either.

and i'm running out of metaphors
and i'm afraid that i won't have this writing skill of mine.
that's kinda one of the fears.

the second is to show people i truly hear—
and see, and watch as they go ahead
and do the things that will have me lost—
far, far away from them.

and i wonder if they even see then—
that i can be the one they need,
but to be someone that i need,
myself, with me—

i just read a quote that said
"life's easier if you have even just one good friend,"
and i have had— one of those, always and now and then—
but i kinda seem to always lose it all.

and that's alright,
because somehow, you find a way—
but i can't still go to these good friends of mine,
and talk to them—

another thought—
if you can't find a reason to be,
become the reason yourself.

just got a random thought that could be a big quote
and now i'm being gaslighted—
is this thought my own
or did my brain pick it up from somewhere
and threw it in the open for more?

poems don't always have to have an ending—
well, they do.
but that's what i tell myself
when i can't find an ending suitable enough
to fit in the already written words.

and then i realize,
the infamous line from the series i'm currently watching:

"listen or don't, i don't care—
that's life right?
things don't always have happy endings.
or even endings.
it's not fair like that.
we're just left hanging
and we don't know what's gonna happen.
we don't even know what really did happen.
so all we can do is decide to just not care."


"i think you do care.
when you wrote that poem, you wanted an ending.
you crave resolution.
you want things to make sense.
and sometimes they don't.
and that frustrated you,
so you frustrated us, the listeners.
you pushed us away.
oh and that's the name of the poem by the way,
'ending'."

i'm just kinda roughed out at the edges
is it adhd?
In the beginning
the waves were exciting to ride.
Being part of the western powers
believing all the lies!
Passionate anger
on parade..
How I wish I could go back
now that Im awake..

But now my loyalty has left..
Too much war and too much death!
Traveler Tim
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