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Glasses are off,
A rare event.
And maybe I can't read the label of my shampoo bottle,
But the soap bubbles gleam like never before,
Miraculous, tiny rainbows seen for the very first time.
And the truth is the government is drugging you
To keep life unexciting,
Blame them for all your miseries.
I am not a therapist!
Just a visionary,
With **** vision.
But only a 20/20 fool
Would see that as an issue.
anastasia Feb 25
she took to her eyes like they were the insides of a pumpkin before halloween
she moved with a purpose, working with the wind, bending it to her whim
she was a wind-chime swinging from the porch of a house long since left to rot
she resided in a girl, not made of bones, but constructed of sweet lies and overindulgence
like an arachnid, her spindly legs carried her to places she was longed for, but did not belong
on false promises and a fleeting invitation, she infiltrated
fabrication laced with acid seeped into the soil
she rendered the ground infertile, she left it useless
a tornado of pestilence and plague, she left as soon as she had so brazenly introduced herself
yet the damage would remain like a brackish taste on the tongue
a painful reminder of who you could never possibly be
sad girl hours
  Feb 4 anastasia
anastasia Feb 4
the words that once flowed off my tongue have all been dried,
leaving nothing but a cracked and barren wasteland,
desert termites squeeze themselves into places they’re not wanted,
the phantom figure of what was once alive cries for water in a broken voice that will never be heard,
even by the most intent of listeners.
the fruits of my labor are met with mud on my clothes and spit in my face.
at the night’s fall i bask in the eternal cold,
the air i abuse is extracted from my lungs with sleight of hand
and an unnervingly charming smile,
a cherry tree beckons me forward as it waves in the midnight wind,
the crickets fall silent and i am momentarily assuaged,
bathed in the yellow light of the moon.
time ebbs and time flows, bringing with her the judge, jury, and executioner.
like Saint Bartholomew, i am strewn up to be flayed,
from my pocket falls a needle and thread, a note from someone long ago left behind,
and a rotting apple core.
they belong to the Earth now,
and soon so will my precariously perched form,
my very essence pooling around the tree and staining the leaves pink.
at my decaying touch, maggots spawn.
as if trained, they surround my body,
a cocoon in which i metamorphosize into who i’ve always been.
in my chest, the vultures will nest,
feeling safer than i ever could have,
nothing left of the girl who once wove tales of grandeur and painted paradises in her mind,
but a torn canvas and an empty shell waiting for its puppeteer.
experimental piece
  Sep 2018 anastasia
nothing like going back
to the golden days
when getting up 20 minutes earlier
was a fun thing
to put on a bit of mascara
and lipgloss;
the blush was natural.
now 20 minutes of sleep
seems like a treasure,
worth everything
and never to be given up.
back when laughter was sunflower yellow,
music was neon blue,
and friends were a sweet purple,
their smiles like lavender
addicting and easy to find.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
when choosing the font for a paper
was an hour long experience;
the funnest part of writing anything.
now no writing matters
to anyone
unless it's 12pt font,
Times New Roman,
double spaced,
and with a heading in the top left corner.
back when school was light,
homework was a breeze,
and the only thunderstorms
were those that involved
coffee shops, window seats,
and copious amounts of hot chocolate.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
filled with warmth
and honey
and a whole lot of butterflies.
  Sep 2018 anastasia
Daniel Ruiz
almost like breathing,
i got down to my knees,
in front of your feet,
under the moon and the stars,
so they can spectate what the sun can't.

And like two different
currents of water
meeting for the first time,
we became one.
one under the moonlight,
and the cold,
cold breeze of the night,
that caresses your hair,
and makes it a mess from
how straight it was.

And that's how it went,
us meeting,
and un-meeting for a while,

our rendezvous,
under the night sky,
above the core,
between flower patches,
and the clouds that
covers us
from watching the same constellation,
we always watch.

But one night,
one night,
we stopped going.

We Didn't Meet Again.
anastasia Sep 2018
i watched a woman discard a bundle of white roses into the trashcan of a local gas station
she seemed to give it no thought, but i couldnt get it out of my head
later, i went back, stood on the tips of my toes, and reached into that *****, grimy trash can
the flowers were malleable, quite like clay in my rough hands
in the dead of night, i wove a crown out of my ever wilting white roses
placed it upon my head, atop a birds nest of hair, a bit too far beyond repair
something was roosting, deep in the tunnels of my ears, drilling pits into the centers of my eyes
i reached up with my hand through my mouth, into foreign territory
it seemed endless, a string of handkerchiefs being pulled from the breast pocket of a magician
my fingertips could not find anything worthwhile, after all.
now i am here, stranded
i could call for someone, but my voice is hoarse
a friend crawled from the pit of my stomach and grappled up the walls of my esophagus
it appears to be that they left the comfort of my body for good
it still doesnt seem to belong to me.
it is snowing
petals drift down from my head
my long forgotten crown lilts precariously
rose to wrist, i form a spile for you to drink from
history repeats itself, all your orders relayed through me
drink, drink, drink you do, filled to the brim with port wine
slice open my abdomen, a pig in the slaughter house
eat, eat, eat you do, and i am empty again
the empty is being in a rainstorm with no sound
and forgetting the names of past acquaintances and dreams you once had
and being so scared that youre not anymore
and learning to love the things you once ran from.
an old piece (:
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