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 Feb 2015 Anna Mosca
hushhush
Explanations;
In every day that I speak
and every day that I hear myself thinking
I just keep on
finding that words are impossible.
Yet they hold so much possibility inside
and that's something I see now even more.
What I take from this is at least I can try.

So now I'll try,
So if you just could listen,
(Not that it's ever been a task to make you listen to the things I say)
When I tell you this one thing:
Never do I leave it long
because I long to leave.

This is something you really have to know.
(I'm not entirely sure that this makes much sense at all)

But, little stranger, I think you know it now,
In some kind of way,
And mostly I think that because
somehow everything is strange now.
'Little stranger';
Less little than me, but somehow equally as strange.
Everything is strange now
but it all makes more sense that way.
(A part I separated from an old draft, not great but owellllll)
 Feb 2015 Anna Mosca
Jeffrey Pua
It's not a scar.
This is love overflowing.
I cannot give it anymore.
You are gone.

This is my life's work,
My genius showing,
My own Black Square, a poem
That won't explain.

This is the eye within my eye,
Or should I say, soul
Breaking through its windows,
This viewer of my heart.

This is the night falling,
The weight of the weightless suns,
The length of my journey,
Pain's pinnacle.

This is my curfew.
I need
     To go home.*

© 2015 J.S.P.
Draft.
I’m the kind of person who
will sacrifice an entire night of sleep
just to be next to someone
who will disappear as soon
as morning comes.
This past summer I burned for a writer.
Our first date, by a lake.
We sat on this old, worn out picnic table.
I should have known it wasn't going to work out.
We talked.
Hand in hand, crossing running water,
Dark.
The road was rocky and unstable and it  was the same way out.
I should have known it would turn out this  way.
She wrote all over me.
Touching,
Leaving fingerprints mistaken as ink stains.
She was writer and pen and keyboard and  backspace.
I was paper
and just paper.
She took me home
Lips to lips,
up in flames I went
She did that to me.
3rd degree burns shouldn't have felt that right.
I should have known,
I should have known
This was all too good
I was too good.
she was too good.
 Feb 2015 Anna Mosca
Heliza Rose
words refuse to die,
so do not give the wrong words life
You message me in tired morse code,
Now a sort of quaint, ancient art.
I certainly love the pattern of sounds,
But lost the translation key forever.
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