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the weather has changed
storm clouds overhead
while wars rage across the land
men women and children
indiscriminately die
for the cause of peace
that no one seems to find
the weather has changed
battle carried to the skies
we fight our own environment
all of us on the losing side
I have heard
A very strange fact.
You could bite off your finger,
If your brain allowed the act.
Letting go of you
Is a similar feat.
I have to stop loving you,
But my mind admits defeat.
I would stay away
If I could fathom the pain.
But science prevents me,
Because of my brain.
TW: Self-harm
•••
I’ve never looked as good in diamonds
as I have in red. Blood:

a string of pearls around my wrist.
Crimson lace—garter caressing thigh.

Diamonds don’t shine in sorrow
the way steel does.
I don't like public speaking
I try to like the public
Majored in philosophy
Not the most practical subject

2 weeks in Japan
Baby I'm amazed
Kyoto silences
Is the way I prays

                 Rainy days
Hard to admit to myself
I want to be remembered
Maybe because of the breakup
Maybe Life of Pi

Some good thing
Some thing that sings
Before my time to die

              Aye! Aye! Aye!
My father never spoke Irish to us as children,
We were told it had no practical use, and thus
our language was devalued, never appreciated
for the gift it was. We learned to oppose it, thus
we assumed a generational grudge, we felt it was
forced upon us, and understood we were powerless.
Thus the pain of his fore-bearers was re-inflicted on us.

My father never spoke Irish to us as children,
As an adult I felt The Inheritance of Loss.
Is fearr Gaeilge bhriste, ná Béarla cliste.

Line Nine from the title of a book by Kiran Desai.
Your the
snowflake
looking for
redemption
as you
circle swirl
from the
ceiling of
this black
night,

and as
you settle.
upon my face

and slowly
melt upon
the corners
of my
mouth,

I stand
and
I wish
I was

kissing
you.
the scent of incense
hangs heavy in the air
the constant murmer of voices
comes crashing like waves
but your eyes meet mine
and the faces disappear
the voices die,
all that remains
is an unspoken invitation
from my lips
willing yours to kiss them
and yours happily
meet their request
leaving our love tasting
like oranges
tenderly plucked
from moonlight lips.
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