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bekka walker Jan 22
poems of boys broken boys breaking boys boys breaking
silly little girl you never thought your world revolved around your involvement with boys but even distance was deliberately calculating their gravitational push and pull silly little girl i say to my old self i wonder what my future self will think of me?
bekka walker Oct 2018
Suffocated by groups of women who take all the chairs in the outdoor seating at the coffee shop after walking a quarter of a mile from my parking space just to get my tuna salad sandwich and a mint mocha.
Listening in on desperate conversations, I’m staring at the poster wall advertising pictures of your face for a great deal of $599.99, all the while standing in an agitated congregation of people also anxious for their morning fix.
Suffocated by my own disdain for a city I once loved with all my heart.
It now eats me up.
There’s not enough space outside, and The City of Angels is asking me to pay rent to occupy my own flesh; slowly my soul is being pushed out.
bekka walker Jun 2018
I painstakingly try to do things right,
As you take flight.
Higher higher higher you soar-
Icarus inching close to the sun.
I run-
Beside your train of thoughts.
Tangled in knots-
Unraveling words whipping through your mind-
Giving you a place to whack your maligned persecution against the wall of my heart.
Your art-
I am bathed in.
A duck covered in the grease of your past,
Looking for the dawn.
The sun-
The hot sun,
Through your wings I feel the heat.
I feel-
Lackluster love down a one way street.
Unable to see-
Unable to recieve-
I encourage you to soar,
But, be careful-
Not too close to the sun.
Before we’re done,
I’ve been your wind-
For better or worse,
in pain and fun.
Lifting you up-
With every breath that leaves my tongue.
To see you soar,
Higher than ever before.
But, where am I when you’re alone?
While you’re basking in your new self shown?
Im like a comfortable sweater you’ve left on the floor,
Ready to slip me on when you need me, sure.
Not adored-
Buried, and stored.
A thrift store find, once more.
Another poem from 2013 called “thrifty” was about the same person. And now, here we are, years later, in a relationship. The development of life and love is constantly shifting and endlessly unpredictable.
bekka walker May 2018
If I let my eyes glaze over just right, I get a nice film quality picture.
I hover out of my body- like a mad director, evaluating what we've got, I snip the film strips from my memory, franticaly re-piecing together the story.
I didn't get the shots I wanted.
I feel hollow and sick.
Playing and re-playing the scenes where it all went to the dregs.
Maybe if I were paying closer attention- I could have gotten it right.
I could've rearranged the shot list- so "major life accident" was at the end of the movie- not the beginning.  

Sorting through what we're left with,
I hear no mellow music scoring my mothers choked sobs.
No soft glow to hide the harsh lines of grief described on her face.
The bottles of liquor weren't props.
And when the sound of silence rendered her breathless-
no one was there to yell "CUT"!
I grit my teeth and hold back my seething anger at such a **** writer.

This is not a sci-fi film.
No alien plummets to earth eager to turn back the sands of time because there was a fluke in the configubobulator.

Not a romantic comedy,
where his smashed body miraculously recovers and my mother, him, and all the kids pursue their dreams as a family of comics on the road- The jackson 5 of stand up!

No inspiring action film where the government tests a bionic exoskeleton, connects it to his brains nervous system, and after wild success he dedicates his life to intergalactic vigilante work, as well as a remaining a reliable family man.

There's no sending it back for re-writes.

There is no 1 hero to lean on.
No villain to hate.
Only us.
I hope one day, it's enough.

I hope one day we have a film we can be proud of.
5 years ago my step father, my hero, suffered a severe traumatic brain injury at the hands of a motorcycle accident. Today, he's bed ridden- and can't even **** himself. Leaving my mother, and 6 kids.
bekka walker Mar 2017
I am thankful for the way his soul sits on my lips.
It lingers there like sweet citrus on a hot sticky florida day.
Tangy and reminiscent like the joy of youth, my face twists in sweet and sour pleasure.  
He reminds me I don't need to carry the load of the past alone,
as he picks up my basket of oranges, sifting through the rotten ones, biting into the saccharine remains of who I used to be, while planting seeds and whispering to me all I will become.
The future never tasted so ripe.
bekka walker Nov 2016
My feelings are unprocessed quinoa being **** out in whole chunks.
I stare at them in my toilet bowl of a brain.
"huh, you look exactly the same... maybe a little *******"
They say those words back to me.
Savage little beasts.
They tell me my body was supposed to take them in, absorb them, and be healthier.
Well, I was always taught to try , try,  again!
So I valiantly scoop my handful of **** from the toilet and scarf down my quinoa emotions... they taste even worse the second time around.
I cross my fingers as I gag down the last bit.
Will swallowing my emotions clog me up?
Maybe this time I'll be emotionally constipated, again, for weeks!
Until my insides internally combust and paint these frustrating  yellow walls around me **** brown,
To match the matte nails I got last Wednesday.
Or maybe it'll induce explosive diarrhea!
And I'll **** out every thing lining my insides until I can't even feel my metaphorical *******, while word vomiting my secrets to people I will later deeply regret.
Or maybe, just maybe,
My body will do what it's supposed to do,
And my enzymes will ferociously come to my rescue!
Maybe I'll feel it all being broken down inside me,
And released.
I'm so sick of eating ****.
bekka walker Oct 2016
I could be doing something worth my time, but instead I choose to drown my thoughts in ****** mary.
I am ****** mary.
I am a fake **** with problems that can’t even hold a candle to the depths of suffering.
But if I can’t hold a candle,
Then my fake **** friends don’t have a clue.
I have no clue.
They have no clue.
We have no clue.
It’s pointless.
I think it’s cruel for whatever creature who created us to give us conscientiousness.
You give us self revelation.
We question.
With no answer.
Nothing but torture.
What comes next? Eternal ****?
I’m living it.
But I'm such a half and half coffee with deadly French vanilla sweetener.
As much as I hate your guts, I'm a sucker to see a blanket of clouds.
And maybe that makes me ignorant, to question my atheism at the sight of a scientific beauty, or maybe I’m an idiot to question my faith with the lack of answer.
Or maybe I'm just an idiot in general.
******* joke.
I talk so much, and still say nothing.
My words mean nothing.
My life means nothing.
Even a legacy means nothing.
Only the greatest evil and the greatest good makes it’s mark.
And I’m neither.
And what good is even a stain in history.
Time has an agenda of it’s own.
You're are nothing but a ticking **** of time.
That ******* *****, teasing me with full moons that I believe I fall in love with, but are nothing more than markers for my demise.  
Whether my life is good or bad, it has nothing to do with the past or the future.
And the present is the only thing that exists, but what good does my present do.
Why be good?
Why be bad?
Why have a compass?
What are my passions for?
Why do I want anything?
Where does my want stem from?
Why does my hurt matter?
What is it to feel?
It means nothing.
It all means nothing.
None of it matters.
There is no heaven and there is no ****.
There only is.
And We want to believe there’s reason for our madness, but it’s merely the tragedy of our evolutionary consciousness.
But I don’t believe that.
It all feels too painfully beautiful to be pointless.
Why does a mother hugging her child make me cry?
Why can’t I stop staring at the stars?
Why is the question of an afterlife so painful?
If it’s all evolution…. Why do I feel so deeply?
What is love of people that no longer exist?
That serves us no purpose… purpose... purpose… I’m not smart.
And I'm not profound…. I’m an idiot searching for answers I’ll never have.
I found this almost a year later, drunkenly hidden on my computer. So, I thought I'd share.
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