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Anne M Mar 2019
Snaps shot over top of head
Lit phone kept by the bed
Group outings and distracted toes
Modern ways to make a ghost
Anne M Mar 2019
Pardon me, while I pull
The stomach from my throat,
Take a look across the sea
And realize that it’s a moat

That I dug
And I filled
And I fed.

Now I sit upon the shore
Brittle tree among the reeds
And I wonder how I came to this,
Locked in sand up to my knees

I wonder if I’ll grow in this
And I wonder if I’ll leave
And all the while I’m wondering
The winds begin to seize

On joins and bends and brave young growth
And pull it from my form
Cast down across the waters storming
Unceasing til I’m shorn.

I gaze with straining vertebrae
Atlas’ burden at my neck
Upon my whorls and twisted limbs
Interrupted in reflect

As calming winds bolster
Such debris across the moat
I feel unburdened in acknowledging
Only strong wood floats.
Anne M Dec 2016
She once loved a boy.
With him, every moment was a movie.
And when he held her, it felt like home.

But that home was not built
on stable ground.

Swept up in fierce winds,
Dorothy darling.
Kansas couldn't be farther.
(in progress)
Anne M Aug 2016
Love languages are meant to be understood. But with no dictionary, no encyclopedia, and a map only written by chance and time, understanding is an act of fate.

And who are you to fight fate?

Envision:
A boy & girl--more than children but not by half--moving ever closer. Swaying. Pulsing. Knowing each other's middle names but no more, they connected. Pressing. Clasping. Grasping.

Know more.
Anne M May 2014
Curled like an ampersand
around a telephone
that never rings in time
with the words that sing in her ears,
She waits again.

Her hands and lips become assassins
cold-blooded mercenaries
that ****** what she can’t quite hold
with silence and questions.
with ellipses and time.

So she pushes again
seeking definition.

But finding the horizon has never been so hard.
Her vision so thoroughly blurred.
And the sunsets force her closer to a Something
she can’t quite believe in.

So she pulls what she knows
into herself,
rolls into a familiar shape and waits
for a phone that has always been ringing,
A voice she isn’t ready
to hear.
Anne M Oct 2013
Our flesh makes words
which are caught
like peanut butter
on the roofs of our mouths. Trapped
by teeth
until they can be freed.
But they’re too alive
for our unmoving lips
and we’re choking
on the verbs that won’t cease,
the nouns that fight,
and the adjectives that breathe
and beat
against our natural rhythms.
We've got participles
dangling from our tonsils.
On our imperfect palates,
they form sentences.
Thoughts.
Ideas
that must be spoken.
Shared.
Heard.
These words that form
in the madness of our hearts
and bubble
in the heat of our cheeks
aren't questions,
suggestions
or even statements.

They are commands.
Anne M Jul 2013
Ceiling quaking.
Flaking asphalt, falling
stars--cement breaking.

Murdered by hope
under stained promises
presently forsaken.

You're (barely) living
under the overpass
I've been doing a lot of traveling lately.
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