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Our minds are so morbidly scary
In bouts of silence and dark
That we can imagine death, destruction, blood, A SPARK.

Knives cutting holes in our paper-thin skin,
Kids throwing rocks till their brains turn pulpy,
Bridges rocking and creaking, skin hitting ice,
Smashing our souls on concrete..

It cures a hidden desire, worse than lust or need or want.

And on that note:
The world is turning
And with it, morbid minds.
  16h Shrika
soul melody
if i had kept his words unread
until after the teasing of the moonlight
as the first golden rays stir... then awake
and the frrt-frrt sound of the sugarbirds spread

then his voice
would have sounded one more time

if i had clipped its flier feathers
assured it could not escape before dawn
if only i had caged the message of his pen
it would have stayed captive... and only then
the words said would have remained unsaid

but i could not wait
to set his last words free
until the cycle of the seasons change
the colours of sunsets rearrange
or until the sugarbirds migrate
Don't you sometimes wish you had not opened that message...

A re-post of an old write. Ainsley's poem 'Inks on the note' reminded me of its existence.
Kinetic energy
Without equilibrium

A fixed star
Collapsing in on itself

There she stares unblinked
At stellar remnants

Sprawled face up
In the dry aqueduct

Holding her breath
He won't return
Shrika 17h
For months,

I've been wandering,
through winding
silences

hoping
I'd find your chaos
one day.
Speak...
#19
Crushing soul swept
Blown by the force of human
And rises within me
Fight  
  
****** temptation  
And fists to swing
And break  
You  
  
Me
  
My might not disclosed
Betrayed by my face
Shocked
Flatlined mouth
No words
  
Not any
  
Come a day  
Without it  
This that would cause
Me to bend down  
And deliver it  
  
My face ticking like a bomb
Twitching conservatory  
What remains
A frown  
Awaits chagrin
  
Awaiting comfort
Ease and freedom from this
And others that would trumpet  
Victory  
  
But low key  
Easy listening  
  
Others that carry  
A smile in pocket  
To take out  
Whenever
  
You know
Just whenever
  
And just like that man
I mean I’d be fine with
Just like that
  
Man
  
Casual  
Careless whenever
It’s cool man it’s cool  
And I’d mean it
  
Sincerely  
  
No clenched fist
But flat palm offered for  
Shake  
Or even
A low five
  
Ya dig?  
  
I know I would  
Will  
I see it clearly
Behind eyes
That squint  
Fierce lines
Of battle
  
The drums are too loud  
Boom my mind
But I feel  
Wrists are tired  
With  
Rat a tat tat
  
  
(Finger tapping)
I’ll twist this tissue
And wait
two am, friday night
wide awake by the sterile light
i pen for a tale these final lines
there’s too much left, stuck inside

across our river, beyond the mist
i watch your shadows fleet
angel feathers through the gale
i hear those whispers cease

so i’ll raise a glass, well, make it two
to the story that told of me and you
A third, a forth, 'fore we hit the floors
‘fore again i hear that voice of yours

too young to regret
too old to forget
let's ponder, shall we, as we bet
for the simplest magnet, yes, it holds two ends

when dust descends, when thoughts depart
will you be there, cries my heart
a teardrop falls, upon your splendor
glimmer in marble, ever so tender

the haze drifts away, away with you
batteries out, screen’s brand new
i raise my gaze, 'till it meets a light
my halo, my blue light.
(an old poem i found in my draft box today. apparently i wrote it more than a year ago; it feels finished so i though i might as well publicize it)
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