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Srpt  twentu secibd

I should be writing.
Serpent.
A violin makes your hands bleed.
But that heat in my chest should make your waters break.
And maybe later my assumption will grow into a child.
Oh it is not enough.
Heading what you've said into a stale, infertile land.
With mono, you delay our introduction.
Baby, be my baby girl.
Count a blessing in your hands.

I'm not paranoid anymore.

I believe in angels now.

Yes, belief is strong now.

Cleaning out your father's den and I'll stare you down.

It was two hundred.
Not one hundred.

Two hundred miles per hour I drove his brain into a coffin.

His poor mother so alone on that glass table.

Be I above.

Or below.

She remains beautiful.

Her lips on my chest.

But baby, sweet angel...

I'm listening.

Watching your lips move over and over.

It's not a knife I belong to.

You know as they do.

My dear, sweet little muse.

One hundred and twenty days of your torture.

I'm coming back.

It was good to know I wasn't coming back.

Stay my animal.

Believing now that we are born pure.

Or impure.

Whichever secures my mouth on your throat.

Darling.
Tragedy
Why die a thousand death everyday
when you've the option to choose the easy way
of dying the one death faster and supreme
slipping into a blissful sleep sans the bother of dream..


Her voice tried to be uttered from mouth horribly agape
but words had sunk too distant to take anymore shape
the horror shadowed her eyes like when death is too close
mocked by his hand's syringe now emptied of overdose!

He smiled to have accomplished for a cause another ****
help a life escape the pain of a grinding mill
by being a stoic missionary out to achieve a goal
decreed by heaven's will to cure a tortured soul.

He would now record his notes on her physical state
the stage had reached terminal death was natural fate
so her people would be convinced to bury her peacefully
and not approach a coroner to perform autopsy.
Harold Shipman (1946-2004), the doctor who murdered more than 200 of his patients.
Fall down with the chains of your wrists.
Broken  reflects in thousand shard beauty.
I've found that splinters are calm.
Hunting deer.
Hunted runs home.
Felt in growing stains.
Reach.
My glass, sheltered.
It is no break yet.
Not without your little dog.
Your little pain.
All night saying.
Be different & open.

All night I say that this is not.

And only yesterday I played this game.
Serial drifts.
Everything you love, never wanted.

I'm seeing now as we speak.
Just clutch your head.
Clutch and strap.

Be a cradle for yourself.

Your breath stained louse.

Assuming language I'm not seeing.
Coming, resting under your house.

The wind raining, shaking my will acerbic.
Now I.
Under your bones.
Dusty willows shedding.
No reason for your family's passing.
Which giant now?

We're joining.
We've joined.

Talked alone
in halls nestled by tree top paradisos.

Thank you for moving, your bruises scared me.
Release them, divide them, spend us on yourself.
Tell them to show us your heart.
I feel so far reversed.
It's not yesterday.
Dive deep inside me.
Before black became white.

Pink with all my one's new love.
Possession date.

Somewhere after.
Somewhere scarlet.

Pushing pencils into skulls, releasing the wills of high noon slumber.

Closing my eyes, New York is found.
Opening my hopes & lowering my head to pillow.

A slip, a pill, a transport's operator.
Such a structure filled with bones and blood.
Sometime today, my layers shift.

Awaken for inspection.
This mirror never cracked.

New lose.

Sullied dramatist.
Resting ill-famed.

Fitting healthy portraits over wicked loughs.

Entering this storage.
Silent locks, silent enclosure.


My hair thins.
Loses glow.

My gums decide.

Rejecting ancient bones from behind my cracking lips.

Beauty does fade.

True love with the past.
Nothing .

In the morn, my clothes are burning, my incision is bleeding.

An ***** less, now I am whole and complete circle of life.

With my kidney, a child was torn.




Small stain to clean & forget.

Resting forever behind my eyes.

This pillow, a temporal crib.



In my hands, holding the bloodstained square of linen.

Bloodline prospers.
Scars run gene deep.

Our history's beauty, surfaced in the pool of life.

Power and degeneracy.

From high to low, the fall is the same.
August Twenty Fifth

Avenue.
The sky with your family.
If we had more information.
More lies.

Without a vocal why.
I ask.
Words dying silent.
These minutes define a life sentence.

I stop.
Examine shoes.
Reveal to you.
Grave spectacle.
Tar soaked heel and sole.

Cities swallow.

Lies and *****.

Dyes of the month.

Years later, alleyways  beckons.
Skirts slid towards Hell.
Dull knife.
Reminding her to dive deep into royal gene pools.

Reminding her to avoid boys with boots.

Retraining my exhalation sacrifice.

Difference of four hundred thousand dollars.

It is this effort is too much.

Exhale.
Sky.
August 11th

How am I so smart to endure my head's turns or locks inside a box.

With some worth forgetting.

My erecting
inessential to come, we've all waited.

The diet of cowards.

The invisible exercises in...

New Guinea
New York
Japan
France

Gaining

Exonerated

Senators.
Wives.
Daughters.


Over years or weeks.

A lot to hold in. I'm here.
A lot to hold on to.


A pint.
Three.

Jigger.


Fly into roses, Broken Wing Heartache.


Later on...


It is only one small amount of sweat.
A pool filling and shifting with each of my breast's breaths.

Now maybe I can tell myself why I care.

It is you.
A leg paler.
A chipped smile.
A new thing with nothing shamed.

Time for a movie.

A bright future.
Fuzzy dream.

Picture you and I waking.
Picture the naked light.

Witness your hollows.
Amount short.

Void transaction.

Pay once.

Enter the transaction void.



Two beers and one or just one shot of one fifty one later...


Do the days go by and call your name?


No they don't register a mood.

A look see.
A look see reveals all of these new found memories.

But our memory is low and hazy.


Baby.
Oh beautiful showmanship, tell me...

Of love.
Of youth.
Of my eyes.
My hair.

My unbroken bones.

My perfect *****.

My golden hair.

My tan.

My ability to hold and stay

not too warm or dry

not too cold or wet.


Your tomb.
Undisturbed.

And now I wait.

For you to warm.

Oh it is you.

Only you.


I will recite also.

In regrets of my open heart.

Strange that father holds his chest in staples later than I.


I spoke of you.

To blood ancient and blood to see.


You know.
Or you don't.


I.
Here in new clothes.


Waiting beside the museum.
Under the cold window.


For you to interfere.

As close as I am.


And then you apperceive.

Love.


You appear love.
 Jul 2015 Steffanie
ji
Forever
 Jul 2015 Steffanie
ji
I think I'll forever long for your kiss like how the desert longs for rain.
And crave for your touch like how a wound demands pain.

I'll forever ache for your "I miss you", with the tumid wish for things to stay the same;
     like how, from then, each and every "I
            love you" would ache for your name.
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