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Tiana Marie Sep 2020
The gun shots are heard
one two three four
at first until people realize
what is happening
and start to run
while toppling over themselves
as they try to find a safe spot
but the gun shots keep coming
five six seven eight shots
and the space is
too wide
too open
too empty
only full of bodies running
or bodies already down
nine ten eleven twelve shots
the music from the stage stops
and the festival is turned upside down
and vision blurs
senses dissipate
except for one
the sense of hearing
thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen shots
in the ears
of those watering the grass with their blood
and those still trying to find a way
to avoid being shot
seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty shots
accompanied by screams
loud screeching screams
that will haunt the survivors in their dreams
and in their time awake
but yet still the overwhelming
amount of screams cannot overpower
the sound of bullets
cutting through the air
and piercing into flesh
twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four shots
there is nowhere to go
there is nowhere to run
just massive amounts of people
all huddled in one large chaotic group
enjoying music one minute
and knocking people over
to get as far away
from the shooter the next
through the tripping
and the running
and the panting
and the screaming
are the arrival of two colors
red and blue red and blue red and blue
and sirens sirens sirens
twenty-five twenty-six twenty-seven twenty-eight shots
and then none
  Dec 2018 Tiana Marie
Ally Ann
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
Tiana Marie Nov 2018
Justice is a Lady
standing confident and tall.
Justice is a Lady
breaking down all the walls.

Justice is a friend
staying honest and true.
Justice is a friend
showing you just what to do.

Justice is an enemy
catching you in all your lies.
Justice is an enemy
loosening up your closed ties.

Justice is a rebel
being nice to very few.
Justice is a rebel
and she don't like me and you.
Tiana Marie Nov 2018
He always wanted more
than who I was
and I questioned if he loved
me or the idea of having
someone to love.
He tried to mold me into
cookie-cutter shapes
that no distorting could
let me fit through
even though I tried.

I thought I was ugly
from all the words he left unsaid.
Even if I begged,
he never ever would tell me.
I didn't mind not
being called beautiful.
I could handle it.
Just a little "you look nice"
would've brought me enough bliss
to last me through.

He tried to make me into
a woman he has dreamt of.
A little housewife,
making home-made tortillas
and calling after the kids
in Spanish words I could never
pronounce correctly.
Though I'd tell him
that's not me, he'd just
reply "not yet."

I was never good enough.
It was who I was
destined to be–
If I were to remain with the
man who never could
even call me pretty.
I'd beg for him to tell
me once, but still he'd
huff his breath and
never ever tell me.

But you don't do that
like he did.
You look at me like
I'm the world and
you're merely an observer
peering through a telescope.
You bring me umbrellas
when it rains and
would never hesitate
to offer me your jacket.

You teach me every day
how I should be treated
by a man who claims to love me.
I'm not a girl meant
to bend a break into a
shape that man has designed.
I am a woman of
her own new and
unique beauty and you're
never ever afraid to tell me.

So, if you ask me
how I feel when you call me
I'd tell you this:
I feel like I'm healing.
Tiana Marie Oct 2018
What is your inspiration?
Well, you see, there is no easy answer.
My poetry is not one thing
but everything put together.

When I befriend the darkness,
sad poetry occurs.
but when I am happy,
my poems have no trace of hurt.

When I am confused,
My problems are solved in verse.
It helps me stop and think
and not make the situation worse.

A tree can even inspire me,
for just look how each branch forms.
Each perfect little-crooked edge
and leaf falling to the floor.

Sometimes when in love
I'll write out all my feelings,
and then I'll just move on
and give someone else all the meanings.

Sometimes I just sit and write
and see what comes out.
Sometimes my poetry is a lie,
full of reasons and doubt.

I write of how I wish my life would be
or about a love I do not have,
and most of my inspiration comes
from what I want not what I have.
Tiana Marie Oct 2018
I had never seen so much blood.
Just blood, blood, blood.
It was so red and so dark
and so pure that I feared
one simple touch from my unclean
hands would contaminate it.

I had never seen so much blood.
Just blood, blood, blood.
It was the richest thing I had
ever seen and if I could've
I would've ****** it up
and kept in a locket.

I had never seen so much blood.
Just blood, blood, blood.
It ran from your bald head
out onto the cement floor
and I cried over your body
laying there cold and dead.

I had never seen so much blood.
Just blood, blood, blood.
I cried over you while I
watched you die but my
tears were not from your loss
of life but from the fact that I was
not the one to cause it.
Tiana Marie Oct 2018
I want to touch you–
just one innocent touch,
dripping with desire
and coated with love.

I want to touch you–
my lips onto yours,
glazed with a passion
that can't be unhooked.

I want to touch you–
just my hand in yours,
enveloped so softly
we forget we've been hurt.
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