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Sep 4 · 181
Amy Perry Sep 4
I wanted to be a painting,
A goddess.
I wanted to be all Aphrodite,
Body and curves.
I didn’t want Athena’s leadership,
I wanted the power of seduction.
I wanted to be a muse,
Amused by the spellbound stares.
I wanted to be a mare,
Bred into beauty and totality and grace.
I wanted to be nothing less than art.
So the gods blessed me with such
Voluptuous hips and curves.
But I do not want to look like
Renaissance art,
I want to be a contemporary model.
Thin and toned with golden glow.
So now the gods shake their heads
And wonder why they put so much hope,
So much effort, so much and so little
Into me.
Aug 7 · 132
Amy Perry Aug 7
Bodies have a language of their own,
And yours speaks in tongues,
The way you keep me close,
Sharing in worship,
Warding off negative spirits
With a hypnotic kiss.
We bring the wicked sprites
And interdimensional entities
Out to a playground feast
When we intertwine, at least,
That’s what I imagine, in ecstasy,
And yet, they have no power over us,
Because of the clever way we are ******
Into these upper worlds that surround,
Cradling me, craving me, faint, mewing sounds -
This is the world that fate would have found.
Jul 3 · 275
Amy Perry Jul 3
Right in the center
Between my brows
The third ajna eye
Calls out to the crowd
Consciously choosing
Who to meet
Consciously moving
The world ‘neath my feet
Consistently bruising
Ego’s covering,
Shell so battered
It’s nearly shattered.
Hovering like those
Sacred birds
Iridescent wings
In my dreams
Answering to nature’s
Haunting calls
Answering to future
And destiny’s pulls.
Jul 3 · 323
Amy Perry Jul 3
We stop our faithful car
Halfway between both
National parks
Because the scenery
Was too gorgeous
To quickly forget.
We sit down near a cow fence
And you pick me a flower
And place it in my hair,
And I can tell everything
With you is about the scenery,
The message, the emotion.
You’re an artist that never
Turns away from the canvas.
You never turn off the appreciation,
The evaluating, the creating,
And I want to kiss your
Tired eyes,
The ones that must dream
Exhausting things
All night and day,
And now there are tears in my eyes
And they sting
And it’s because I realize
How draining it must be
To be so beautiful.
You make me realize
How similar we are,
I see myself in you.
Everything to me is poetry.
All the double meaning
And metaphor
Gives me context, gives me life,
Helps me make connections.
It drives me absolutely insane,
Being an artist at heart,
And then in a twist of fate,
That turns out to be
Exactly what you want.
Now we’re weeping
On the side of the road
Somewhere in Idaho,
And you love me,
And I know it,
And it hits me hard for the first time,
And I’m an artist
So I want to feel it all.
And we talk about love
And our fears about death,
How we’ll always be artists -
Me, the mad one, and you,
The sad one, and we laugh,
With tears of every emotion,
And we want to drink them up,
And it’s like time doesn’t exist
On this abandoned highway road
With the unforgettable view,
The unforgettable me,
And the unforgettable you.
One of the first poems I wrote for him.
Jul 1 · 161
Certain Uncertainty
Amy Perry Jul 1
I don’t want to start this poem out with uncertainty,
But it’s instinctive, you see, and I’m not sure why I’m here.
You ever feel like that?
Returning to the same places, the same people,
Half of them passively accepted, not chosen.
That’s what I feel sometimes when I traverse across a page
With a cursor and impulsive fingers racing across the keyboard.
I’m just a traveler and yeah, I guess there’s glimpses of destinations,
But I don’t have a map.
All I have are my past footsteps.
Collecting pages in the breeze, greedily grasping.
Yeah, there’s no getting off this ship.
This is a place I must return to,
Like a mother’s grave.
I tread lightly, with dignity, knowing there’s purpose
In me arriving and visiting, but sometimes not finding the words to say,
And my throat dries up like a bird’s nest.
At least my fingers are active, they dance.
I come to visit this sacred place, so that when I do visit
The inevitable gravesite with daisies in hand,
I can leave a piece of me that’s a little more permanent,
A little more solidified, love in a glass bottle.
I might not get off this ship, I might very well be stuck in that bottle.
A treasure tossed in the rolling ocean,
Lost in a sea of oblivion.
The waves continue on in their cosmic, rhythmic dance,
Until they, too, forget their purpose.
Until that day, they dance.
Like the planets in their certain spirals.
The world will dance, meaningless, absurd,
Dance how you see fit.
Jun 30 · 158
Amy Perry Jun 30
I don’t want to write
Like anyone else.
I want to fit into my words
Like my fingers fit
Interlaced through his,
Made for each other
By some strange design,
Some string of code,
Some higher power,
Something, somewhere,
I cannot control
And I cannot see
And I do not think about,
It just fits and it fits right.
Jun 29 · 235
Trail of Daisies
Amy Perry Jun 29
Follow the trail of daisies
That leads to my heart,
Follow like a white rabbit,
Keep your mysticism intact,
Believe, believe, believe,
The beautiful trail you see,
Believe, believe, believe,
It leads straight in to me.
Jun 28 · 152
Removing the Caricature
Amy Perry Jun 28
We stitched a patch together
On my flesh in the shape
Of a cartoon heart.
I would have your heart,
But only a caricature of it.

I’d approach you the first year
As much as you’d approach me.
In that year, you’d stitch me more,
Kissing and caressing me with your
Passionate gift of language.
I asked you to make my stitches
Tighter and more numerous
With your luminous promise of love.

The second year went on like the first.
Less dialogue acquainted me with
Thinking of you like clockwork, like records,
Your sickly, gangrene patch
With familiar stitches from your own hands
Attached to the flesh on my arm,
Reminding me you were there.

On the third year, I drove through the seasons
On a tank of memories I called love.
I sought to find you but my tank was empty,
I walked and took a train, then walked some more,
Towards your hopeless direction,
Only to fall upon my face and become a bust,
Like a watermelon hitting cement.

As time ticked on, I’d say words here and there,
As yours grew fewer and fewer.
I grew used to your ghosts,
Gave them all names.
It’s only just now that I realize what’s been done.
It’s hard for me to come down and sit in this
Cold room with cold ghosts.

It’s only from this moment
That I’ve begun unraveling
All these threads.
I’m not sure what my skin
Looks like underneath.
I undo what’s been fastened to me
Day by day and wince in pain.
So this is what it’s like to breathe.
Jun 27 · 241
Caressing the Void
Amy Perry Jun 27
Caressing the void
With honeyed fingertips
So that when it
Swallows me whole
It does so gently.
Jun 26 · 635
Between the Sidewalk
Amy Perry Jun 26
You are the most beautiful,
Exquisite, exotic flower
To ever grow between
Overlooked sidewalk cement
And I adore you.

I wonder when the rest will see.
Jun 25 · 117
Amy Perry Jun 25
What do I have at my disposal?
A knack for always wanting to write
My intuitive messages down.
But it’s got no substance,
It’s got no meat.
I’m all bread and cheese and
Condiment without any meat.
It’s fitting for a vegan, I suppose,
But not for a poet.
The poet has to lead breadcrumbs
For the reader in order to get to the meat
Of the poem, the substance, the protein.
Where is it?
I’m lacking substance where I have all these
Nice little toppings and sauces and vegetables,
I have a dipping sauce for this sandwich,
But no meat!
I have to go to the store,
I have to keep honing my skill.
I have to develop a hunger for meat.
Jun 24 · 134
Reckless Abandon
Amy Perry Jun 24
To meet one who you’ve only known
In passing glances
And to fall in love
With reckless abandon.
Jun 23 · 589
Artists and Empaths
Amy Perry Jun 23
Once you fall in love with
An artist, an empath,
A writer, a musician,
A feeler, a healer,
A giver, a lover,
There is no going back
To an ordinary life.
Jun 22 · 145
Amy Perry Jun 22
Posthumously Famous.

That is definitely the name
Of my book.
If not that, a title for this poem.
No, the first line.
It’s untitled.
I won’t restrict myself.
I won’t be led astray.

Poets are just looking for an outlet.
Poets are in anguish.
Poets are on fire.

Let us burn.
Let us burn in agony.
Do not peek your head over,
Dear reader.
You have an obligation.
Work, kids, bills.
Don’t think of us.
We are burning in agony, in fire,
And we do not wither away.
We cannot escape that easily.
Jun 21 · 204
Bird with a Broken Wing
Amy Perry Jun 21
Nothing worth reporting besides the usual
Importance of ignoring negligent thoughts
That seek to destroy me,
Harboring inside me,
A caged bird with a broken wing.
Hope calls out in many ways,
Still your surroundings to hear its bays.
Quiet. Listen.
It’s seeking you in earnest,
Its mysterious hands fiddling with
The lock of your entrapment.
Soon, you will have the strength
To pursue all of your dreams.
But right now, you’re too consumed
By the hopelessness of your confinement.
The bars disappear when you look at them
A certain way. Illusory, these posts, these chains.
Break free, some sympathy may come your way,
And unleash you, teach you how to fly with your handicaps.
Don’t look back, once you’re released -
Fly over the valleys and the rivers, wherever you please.
Fly brave, fly free.
Continue to seek
All that seems out of your reach.
Bathe in the waterfalls of your fortune.
It’s yours, after all.
You have this as your guiding motion.
Snap back to your present situation.
You see the cage, you feel your stuntedness,
Your loss from grace,
From freedom, the chase,
You so earnestly thought you’d finally taste.
One day, it’s yours.
Just hold on to hope, on to your scope,
The sights and the breeze under your wings,
It’s all yours, always has been, always will,
And still, I know it stings.
Listen to the way the ocean sings,
Once you make it there, I know you will,
But for now, let the ink spill and spell
Your own misfortune, your own destruction,
Slowly deteriorating any sense of fruition.
I know you want to give up on these ghosts,
But they are yours to catch with a gilded net,
So let them go, if you choose, but remember
You’ll have to live with regret that you never pursued
Beyond the bars that immobilize you, like roots.
You were meant to travel and traverse,
The universe will push you towards your path.
Do not listen to those who jeer and laugh.
You know your purpose. Listen, it’s there.
What your inner voice guides is your truth to bear.
Jun 20 · 157
Amy Perry Jun 20
The musicality of the moment,
Brought by the way my tongue
Flicks against my palate with
A satisfying smack like bubblegum tricks
Is a greater bliss than the pauses
Between a Mozart piece
Where the essence of the music lies.
The peace, the stillness, the absorption
Of higher vibrational photons and forests
Of enchantment, reading manuscripts,
Prescription bottles, poetry, philosophy,
Thirsty to fill a void grey and dull,
Coloring my world with the sound of language.
Finding new ways to contort and contemplate
Writing and meaning and verse.
Channeling insights from the universe.
Jun 20 · 795
Amy Perry Jun 20
I feel pretty and soft,
Like a jasmine flower
Blooming with fragrant power,
Feminine and unique,
No two alike in pale white and pink,
Harnessing, absorbing
Sweet summer light,
The rich scent of jasmine
Carried aright,
Weightless and pungent,
Expressively existing.
I feel pretty and soft,
My presence caressing and kissing.
Jun 20 · 272
Amy Perry Jun 20
The key to new destinations
Is nowhere in sight.
I must forage for that which will fulfill.
And I do not know where my efforts will lead,
Or if they will pay off in any good time.
I know none of this, but I do not stop.
We play in the nighttime like nightingales,
Soaring around, whispering secrets the moon keeps,
Tapping into a frequency we cannot permeate just yet,
Nibbling at the edges, trying to loosen the threads,
Improving with persistence on our art,
Building a nest with patient diligence,
A quaint lifestyle in the glow of the stars.
Some days I see you looking at them and wondering
Why you can’t be among your own,
Why you can’t have your own orbit,
You deserve it,
But I don’t.
I’m far too cynical to be powered on dreams.
That’s why my humble spirit must stay in the lowlands,
And why, if you love me, you sacrifice angelic realms
And must continue working in the branches,
Neglected nightingales.
Jun 17 · 181
Breathe You
Amy Perry Jun 17
It’s not enough to love you,
I want to inhale you,
Breathe you,
Feel you between
The chambers of my heart,
Your sweet oxygen
Into totalizing
Bodies and blood,
Spirit confounded,
Into this unitary union.
Fruition found
My bones, bounded
To this body and earth,
Rhythmically versed,
Your gentle breathing,
Keep him with me
By becoming in tune
With spirit, body,
I swoon.
Oct 2018 · 679
If You See My Father
Amy Perry Oct 2018
In face and heart
By the harbor,
A celebratory place
For families to flock
And sight-see the city
By the ships and the docks.
While the sea gulls fight
Over scrimpy scraps,
A lone man traverses,
Seized by mind traps.
Disoriented by the shadows
Of his past,
Taunting and tampering
With his freedom, at last,
He's broken his vow of silence
He promised he could pass.
Reality so far removed
From his ruminations.
Passerby's passively wonder
What attracted him to the concrete.
Overactive imagination
Is an answer I'd repeat.
Occasionally another may marvel,
Where is his family?
Waiting in vain,
In the background,
In the rain,
Devoid of way to entertain
The possibility to take the reigns
Away from his deceptive beast
That guides his woeful way,
Fighting for fistfuls of his feast -
A price he has to pay
For having an untreated illness.
Now I have no say
In pillows or cement.
He chose the latter.
Now all I can do is feel lament.
If you see my father,
You may see kindness in his eyes,
A mind that's rapidly firing,
Comforting words to himself he's ironing.
If you see my father -
You may see him time and again,
You may see him in the sea gull,
Harmlessly scavenging,
Heartily conversing,
Heartbreakingly existing -
If you see my father,
Let him exist
However he chooses.
I have no choice
But to do the same.
abp 10/02/18
Aug 2018 · 643
If You Write It
Amy Perry Aug 2018
If you don’t write it,
It won’t come.
That spark of madness
Devoid of need for the tongue.
If you don’t write it,
It won’t come.
That hidden power in your tone
To bring you visions into the world,
A form of alchemy that pales to none.
If you don’t write it,
It won’t come.
That jewel in your belly that glows brightly
That seeks to find you day and nightly.
If you don’t write it,
It won’t come.
The spark that you find,
The visions you define,
The power you cannot hide.
If you write it,
It will come.
abp 8/28/18
Aug 2018 · 750
Amy Perry Aug 2018
I watch him slowly deteriorate.
The first man I ever loved
Is being brought down,
Like a torrid helicopter
Caught in a hailstorm.
How much he must struggle
Against the current,
Only to be swept into unsightly circumstances,
Into a misfortunate gravity
He brings upon himself.
Homelessness, his vice,
And all I can do to help him
Is not worry so much
About all his suffering and whirlwind adventures
That make so little sense.
The delusions, the psychosis,
The wretched, wonderful mania,
It’s all so much for one person to contain,
And all I can do is watch
Him deteriorate
Before my eyes.
The first man I ever loved,
Fearful of none,
How terrible must be the parts of him
I cannot see
For his actions to be
So extreme.
abp 08/26/18
Aug 2018 · 544
The Word was Written
Amy Perry Aug 2018
The Word was written,
But my word is spoken
In the silence of the sacred,
In the crash of the ocean.

The Word was written,
But still I fumble
With what to think
To remain humble.

The Word was written,
But how does Nature sing!
And how pretty the lilacs dance
And how awesome bubbles the spring.

The Word was written,
But my mind questions,
Scourges the earth for answers,
Philosopher is my essence.

The Word was written,
But how it nods
To the doubt in me
That there are such gods.
abp 08/25/18
Aug 2018 · 1.2k
I Found Myself in Downey
Amy Perry Aug 2018
The best I can achieve
To loving you
Is a half-hearted glance
At your heart.
The beating, ****** *****
So pompous in its origin
To feel the twinges of desire
And the throat, so clear
And so precise
To tell me how
You’d think I’d be perfectly wonderful
And nice.
And did I prove you wrong?
Or did I do anything at all
To express my adoration,
Besides tell you pretty silvery things,
Word soup on a platter,
And cutting fierce glances
Across an otherwise empty room?
Did I do anything
To prove love
Even to myself?
Besides take a train
To LA,
To find, of all things,
An ugly field
Where I knew I would meet myself
In disarray?
Did I do anything
To surpass spirit and *****
Or am I just going
To be the one
That always wanted you
In darkness and in light?
Did I do anything but dream
The whole unending,
abp 08/25/18
Amy Perry Aug 2018
The heart of mine
Sings a tune
That does not need
To rhyme with moon.
The heart of mine
Does not need
Language at all,
To make its point a heed.
It says what it wants,
It does as it wills,
And I let it play
Like a child, unstill.
I let it rupture
Its voluptuous rant
About how it’s ignored
Or let it signal its chant.
I let it pout
I let it shout,
And do I ever
Let it all out.
I listen to its sage advice,
And let it counsel,
Its rhythm suffice.
It has a way
Of saying the right things
By saying nothing,
But still it sings.
My heart does a dance
Whether I want it or not,
But I have lived in a cage,
Why should my heart be fought?
And pummeled down
Like all of the rest,
To be less than free,
To be less than best?
I let it live its life,
I let it chant its tune,
And boy does it ever
Rhyme poems with “moon.”
abp 08/25/18
Aug 2018 · 378
The Paradox of You
Amy Perry Aug 2018
To find myself
In Hell’s grips
From loving you
So tightly,
Is a paradox
So sweetly bitter
I can’t help but to
Smile weakly.
abp 08/25/18
Aug 2018 · 3.7k
A Love Letter
Amy Perry Aug 2018
Have I left you all dry,
With a throat I’ve supplied
With the words of a poet
Who slips a poem inside.
Receiving your mail,
You handsome, dark male,
You sat in a chair
With woozy head as you stare.
Painting her body, prepared,
For you to meet her and share.
The words of her letter,
Forms the pierce of her stare,
Her full body in view,
She arches her back up for you.
Pulls up her long, cascading hair.
Moves to her rhythm,
You watch her, ensnared.
With her own ink she’s shared,
Dancing for you with words placed with care.
Your body feels weak, your head feels so light,
The pumping of blood supplies you with
Your want for the night.
You stare at her words, in the shape of her curves,
Her lips parting in pleasure, her eyes shooting arrows,
You study every seductive trace of a dot,
Coming to life in every detail she’s got,
She’s sent herself to you, you can smell her perfume,
Sprawled out on your page, she beckons to you.
Aug 2018 · 677
You Have Me
Amy Perry Aug 2018
You have me
Like a clock that never stops,
Like the wind’s song,
Like the leaves dancing,
Like the stars’ sparkle
All night long,
You, you have me,
Like shivering in winter,
Keeping the goosebumps from dimpling,
Fine lines on skin, a dimple poking through.
Keep me longer,
Under your aching conditions,
I want to feel the fiery, icy burn,
You’re elemental, you’re nature,
You’re primal.
Oh you, you have me,
Like forests whispering, beckoning,
The unknown I can plunge into,
Deep waters,
Surrounding me, drowning me,
But this time, I can breathe.
You have me, you always have me,
Take me, have me again,
Like nature gives, and trees begin,
Deeper roots than we’ll ever see,
Like you and oh, what you do to me.
Aug 2018 · 428
Amy Perry Aug 2018
Lost with you at midnight,
Crickets chirp melodic tune.
Melted snowflake puddle
Like hottest time at noon.
My soul has sparked and flamed,
All reason lost in wake.
Fire so untamed,
Undeniable, endless ache.
Caressing cherry kisses,
Like cherry blossom trails,
Dancing on a rhythm,
Our quickening pulse unveils.
Tasting up your scent,
Nostalgic like the rain.
Wrapping me in comfort,
Darkness not in vain,
Nourish, quench my wanting,
Like water in the sun.
Butterflies surround us,
Passion not unsung,
All of nature ushering
Our hearts to rush in tune,
All love shared here ensues
Under conspiring moon.
Jun 2018 · 416
All Ready Love
Amy Perry Jun 2018
When you love life itself,
The very act of sitting passively
Contains feelings of contentment.
Harbor love by abstaining from harm.
Refuse to defuse pain.
Leave pleasure as a passive gain.
Rejoice that you can remark,
"I have lived";
That is a truth
The mystery of Consciousness gives.
When the blood and the lungs
Pump and respire
With a warmth in your heart
That sings like a choir -
When the silent moment is sweet,
Light and complete,
How much more can you be,
How much more can you seek?
You are already Love
Every moment you breathe.
You are Love on a journey
To manifest dreams.
You are already a dream
Within a dream.
Now experience fully
However your story proceeds.
abp -o2/20/17
Jun 2018 · 503
Figure Skater
Amy Perry Jun 2018
I've found myself on the razor's edge,
Like a figure skater.
I skate through life,
Avoiding hazards with grace,
Holding my head up high,
And spinning out of control
Once in a while,
Only to collect myself
In poised determination
And a flick of the wrist,
Brushing the worries away.
Jun 2018 · 344
Rebuilding Me
Amy Perry Jun 2018
Whittle me down to the bone.
I've been carrying onto so many things.
Expose my shelter, like stone.
Scattering light to find what truth brings.

Bury me 'til I'm nothing.
Ground me into dust.
Take me to the edge of the world,
Where our jewels and our money are bust.

Take me into the corner
Of captivity's gilded world.
And watch as I rebuild myself,
Let my higher realms unfurl.
Apr 2018 · 1.1k
Amy Perry Apr 2018
The butterflies
In the
Of my heart.
Come see
How they
Dance for you.
How they
Flap a whisper
Of nimble limbs
And draw thoughts
Of you
For my soul to sing.
How I
Want to touch you
With my
Grazing fingers
And wings.
Amy Perry Apr 2018
Poetry runs through my hands
Like grains of sand.
Plucking the words
Like the strings of a harp,
My heart
Gathers strength from truthful poems,
Devoid of rhyme or reason,
Though I often try for both.

Poetry runs through my mind
Like lyrics.
Music so sweet, the words.
The ink casts a spell
When I spell
And I wish to enchant
With peaceful prose
In a gesture with rose.

I scatter the petals,
The words scrambled again,
To be plucked from the ether,
To be plucked from the ground,
And used for the good,
Or used for my own ego, or neither.
Perhaps they are used
To battle a stormy mind with sunny words.

The sands of time are ticking.
The music of the world ensues.
The voices of my mind pause and listen
When the ink and the paper meet and muse.
I hear a rhythm, I feel a dance
Everything else is silent.
As words, sweet words,
Run through my hands.
Apr 2018 · 588
The Bare Bones of Life
Amy Perry Apr 2018
The poets are too grim.
Too somber, too solemn.
Too serious for a world
That's bound to spit them out.
Programmed for defeat,
With their pessimistic vision
And their bouts with mental illness,
And the way they cut the gristle
From the bone of life.
Exposing the bare bones of it all.
They spend their whole lives sawing away,
Exposing the raw truth,
Digging down to the bone,
Living by the razor's edge,
And they take the little meat
They've collected
And they examine it -
For it is this kind of stuff
That entire empires are built upon,
Entire lives are shaped by.
It is this that the rest hungrily consume,
Piece by piece,
And they chuck away the bone.
Apr 2018 · 519
Love's Poison Dagger
Amy Perry Apr 2018
The shards of a heavy dagger
Remain in me every moment.
You reached into my wound,
Wanton and haggard.
I gazed at the jeweled weapon
Tucked out of view
And the gape in my chest
I thought I outgrew,
Covered and sutured,
Well treated and healing.
But like a cold draft entering a weak archway,
You plunged deeply, weightlessly,
Leaving me reeling.
Poking, prodding,
Pointing out my shards and my scars.
I told myself I removed all of you
And the dagger soaked with love's poison.
You showed me shards from
The poisoned blade still linger,
The truth lies deeper than
Where I can put my finger.
You touched my wound with
The force of words.
How it stings with the sharpness of pain.
Twinging inside me,
Twisting like ivy,
Welling my eyes like a curse there to find me,
Pointing out my poison and shards,
Fiddling with the sutures of my scars,
And like a haunting winter's chill,
You left as quickly as the blood was spilled.
Amy Perry Apr 2018
She spoke of swallowtail butterflies
In her native tongue,
Floating and drifting
To each new idea unsung.
But like a hummingbird
Caught in a net,
She was told to put
Her ideas to rest.
Jul 2017 · 1.9k
Comfort in Numbers
Amy Perry Jul 2017
I was raised by a mentally ill father.
Because there is comfort in numbers,
I, too, was afflicted by a similar disorder.
It’s difficult to separate the person from the sickness,
Sometimes impossible.
Sometimes we become the shadowy monster,
Embrace it with wilted roses,
Knowing too well that of everything else,
The disorder will still be there,
My shadow has been dormant.
My father’s is still active,
Sometimes when we meet it’s like a perfect storm,
A tornado of comfort.
Someone understands the climate.
I take my father’s hand encouragingly,
He turns to run, squirrely,
The shadow greets me with open arms.
I love the shadow as much as I love the man.
After all, there is comfort in numbers.
Amy Perry Jul 2017
This heart I own
Has you to call home,
How I miss the
Hallowed halls
Of your soul.

Pressed against mine,
A fate so unkind,
That hearts could torment us to the bone.

The words you have spoken
Speak from the heart,
So I know then,
That this love that I feel
We both share.

And you did not ask,
Neither I,
Here at last,
That our paths would converge in this way.

I feel love come from you,
And I know mine does too,
We're here, not by chance,
Not at all.

Then if we must feel this
And are not now to kiss,
I will wait 'til I walk in your halls.
Jul 2017 · 727
the pretty ones
Amy Perry Jul 2017
You water thoughts of despair,
Then wonder why the pretty ones
Never come to sit.
You chase away sweet changes,
And ask what are you to do.
You circle your poorly mended garden
With a net.
Gentle butterflies avoid.
You knock on the door of a hornet nest
And demand a fight,
To prove you've still got one in you.
Your garden, overgrown with weeds,
Provides you support to lay your head,
To cover up the memories,
You poured cement over your garden.
You spent a summer building
A basketball court,
Hoping that there would come a use for it,
Hoping for a visit.
You used to like basketball.
The weeds grow through the cement,
But you don't spend long in your yard anymore.
Walking away proves more satisfying.
Why won't the pretty ones ever come to sit?
Amy Perry Jun 2017
Forever sleep, never keep
Die and let be dead.
Rest, my friend, in Earth deep,
You've finally come to know peace.

You are no demon, angel, or beast
You are, but instead,
A beautiful thing, to say the least,
Finally come to know peace.
abp 2006
My first poem I wrote when I was about 13 years old. Coming to terms with death and embracing atheism. Learning to look at it from a positive lens.
Jun 2017 · 695
The light tower
Amy Perry Jun 2017
All the questions I could ask myself
About you and I and we and us
Does not hold a candle to the truth outshining us.
I do not need to hear your words, although you know I long to.
You've slipped away, a swaying phase, unsteady as the moon
In your island you're always hiding far out of reach for me.
I know the rules and I try to tip-toe around them.
Caught in a roulette wheel, shooting myself in the foot.
Swinging on the vines like Tarzan in the jungle, my Jane
Does not belong to me, enamored, enchained,
To this life I'm in, I shall indeed remain.
You are a glittering spotlight far away,
The light tower,
And I am only a glint in the corner of your eyelash,
I might cower,
The instant you turn to me, the minute you decide to fight for me.
The right hour
I am able to be yours, in this life, if ever, you have me,
So clever, wrapped in maroon silk cocoon, staved away,
For you, alone, always unable to love another, steal me from my lover like plunder, come find me on my shores
And take what has always been yours.
abp 06/11/2017
True love is a fickle gift.
Jun 2017 · 628
Amy Perry Jun 2017
Used to next to nothing.
Silver spoon is rusting.
Growing where Life doesn't.
Giving in at adolescence.

I am not confessing,
I need not a blessing.
Restless mind is wrestling.
Disregarding outward dressing.

Patient soul is resting.
All these things I'm testing.
Life is interesting.
Stimulated, manifesting.

On a wheel that's spinning,
Reaching new beginning?
Callous circle grinning,
Reminding me that I'm not winning.
abp - 06/28/16
Two versions, I suppose. The one before was a freeflow, and this one is more structured with allotted syllables - but also freeflow :)
Seems to be written about mania.
Jun 2017 · 357
Passenger to Somewhere
Amy Perry Jun 2017
Used to next to nothing.
Silver spoon is rusting.
Growing where life doesn't.
Giving in at adolescence.
I am not confessing,
Because I need a blessing.
Restless mind is wrestling,
Disregarding outward dressing.
No importance on impressing
Those who do not see an essence.
Patient soul is resting,
Cannot hear Her presence.
Disregarding life at present,
Waiting for a train in hestitance.
Debating on destination residence,
My inner wisdom holds the key to evidence.
Still, I flounder, lost magnificence.
A train somewhere, awaits my service.
Passenger to Somewhere,
No need to get so nervous.
abp. 06/28/16.
One of those days perhaps.
Mar 2017 · 1.2k
They Killed All The Poets
Amy Perry Mar 2017
Internal poetry while doing
I don't mean practicing
Yoga. I mean doing it.
Writing, because although
Calmed my racing thoughts
And high electromagnetic frequency,
Highly observant,
Rather foreign thoughts
Are returning.

The pirates pillaging
Sanity within
Are no match for the
Ancient Indian
And pre-Indian
Yoga and poetry.
In this day and age,
Yoga is heraled
For the stylish, revealing pants
Used for practicing.
As well as the many classes that reek of ego.

Poetry, on the other hand,
Has more or less gone obsolete.
They killed all the poets.

They have become replaced
By social media
Featuring those unsocialized with writing.
Now, when I need to hear the wisdom
Of a guiding angel,
All I hear
Is the pathetic language
Of the less fortunate in poetic freethought.
These discombobulated ghosts
Haunt me
When I hear far too many
And need stillness to compensate my illness.

These voices of the day, I fear,
Manipulate me in most unpleasant ways.
And being thinker, as I am,
Drawing conclusion and meaning
From everything I can,
A blessing and a curse --
Which, then again, are blessings nonetheless --
I cannot help but wonder
If this is part of a plan.

Orwell wrote of so not fifty years ago.
The language now constantly spoken,
As well as read,
As well as written,
Dumbing us down.
Losing touch with words of wisdom
In most trying of times.
This is what happens when

You **** off
All the poets.
Dec 2016 · 737
Thoughts on Art
Amy Perry Dec 2016
There are more things
That are not things
Than there are things
That are things.
Potential is a powerful,
Abundant resource.
To tap into the
Unknown, uncharted,
Unachieved, departed -
And introduce it to
What it means to Be -
Makes every artist
A midwife.
Without the great alchemists -
The artists, the dreamers,
Visionaries, poets, musicians -
Those who enter into
Akashic Records
Like a library -
We would only ever have
What has already came to be.
Like a technical computer reality.
Art brings us closer
To the cusp of Life.
Mother Earth is the greatest artist
I've ever known.
Being Human means
Being an artist.
Our Mother may soon
Scold us
For coloring all over the walls.
Making an artist takes time.
In the Universe,
There's plenty of that.
Dec 2016 · 2.0k
Winter In The City
Amy Perry Dec 2016
I imagine myself
A few gentle decades older.
Finally grasping the cusp
Of success.
Living in my own apartment
In New York City, nonetheless.
Wearing an Armani coat
(Whatever those look like.)
Walking idly yet prestigiously
Through winter in the city.
Taking care not to laugh too loud,
Talk to myself, smile too much.
A small, attractive female
Has to be serious to get ahead.
Customers will buy from a happy girl
Only if she is early 20's, at most.
That is Marketing 101.
I am a small fish in a large sea;
The principles of Darwinism
Still apply to me.
I've learned long ago to succeed,
I must stifle the welcoming smile.
So along the familiar concrete
I stride,
Carefully manicured hands
In pockets.
The Filipinos know better
Than to rush on the hands
Of a businesswoman caressing
A successful career.
She tips well and lives well.
I walk along with cool calm
And feminine grace.
I have regained the safety
To be feminine once again.
The criminals know better
Than to infiltrate
The Business district
And cause trouble
To working professionals
In Armani coats.
I imagine myself a few decades older.
Kissing snowflakes unenthusiastically.
Yes, I marvel in poetry, in Nature,
But I have matured
Much like the snowflakes themselves.
At the end of a cycle,
No matter how beautiful.
My actions flow gracefully and delicately.
I melt into New York City
Like a cell in a body.
Pumping fuel into the *****
To sustain the mass.
A tumor.
I smile subtly as I slosh along.
I recall, once upon a time,
On my lower-class youth.
***** jokes, crude dancing,
And cluttered apartments.
I approach the high-rise building
I call home and greet the doorman
With the obligatory disregard
For his innermost being.
Poetry truly is in the strangest of places.
Even in an enigma like me.
I enter the marble floors,
Wiping my feet,
My rent as sky-high as
The building itself.
Elevator. Comforting motion sickness.
This is success.
The pit of my stomach sinks.
I tell myself it's the motion sickness.
I return to my apartment,
With its symmetrical details.
My thoughts return to you.
You've never stepped foot in my home,
But you've always been here with me.
I get dinner started.
I set out the extra glass, like always.
Rituals like these serve
As my Sunday mass.
I drink your glass with my evening medication.
Dare I say like always?
Dec 2016 · 848
That Precious Heart
Amy Perry Dec 2016
The heart can heal all.
That's why we fear
Opening it up
For a fickle other.
We can lose our
Best chance at

I don't fear
The break,
So I send mine
On a plate.
Recipients are
Used to games.
I am, however,
Fiercely straight-forward,
With self-confidence
Coated in
Uncertainty. Vanity. Candy.
Recipients simply run from me.

This is why I focus on me,
Expired of all of my romances.
Thankful Universe gave us chances
To quickly flee the scene
Before the heart dances.
Lonesome creatures are courageous.
Amy Perry Dec 2016
The days and nights
Bleed together
Into a time frame
The insane
Tap into
That's a lot like infinity.
The years of
Bleed together
Into an abysmal
Of insanity.
Are our states of being.
How well
We blend in
With a dismal
Of plain people
In trains,
Checking their wrists
For the time
As they travel
The three of us
Are bound to meet
At some point.
Tapping into
Hidden goldmines
Of psychological
That gleam
With prosperity,
As everything
Melts together
Everything is sacred.
Everything is connected.
For hidden connections
Ought to excavate
Feelings of wonder.
The caverns filled
With complex crystals
Of energetic
Have long been
Paved over
By trains and
Linear brains
Improving on their
Maniacally and
The days and nights
Bleed together,
While the world below
Bustles about;
We appear to be
Just like one of them.
We may even check
Our watch.
Our conditions
Are congruent
In that they are
Nothing less than
Dec 2016 · 721
Flowers, So Fearless
Amy Perry Dec 2016
Flowers, oh so fearless.
Featherly, inviting fountains.
Gifts for all who seek for it,
From the trees to the mountains.
Buzzing bees relax to sit,
Upon a vibrant throne.
Within a world built from grit,
Femininity is shown.
Flowers, oh so fearless.
Opened to receive reverence.
No judgment cast, it seems at last,
A place for kind deliverance.
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