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 Jan 2014 Beth Ivy
unnamed
I'm awful
Pathetic
Worthless
No good
Stupid
Naïve
Dumb
Hurtful
Torturous

A *****
An idiot
And a liar

And I'm never
Going to be
Good enough

*Repeat. Increase speed.
 Jan 2014 Beth Ivy
Wang Wei
In a happy reign there should be no hermits;
The wise and able should consult together....
So you, a man of the eastern mountains,
Gave up your life of picking herbs
And came all the way to the Gate of Gold --
But you found your devotion unavailing.
...To spend the Day of No Fire on one of the southern rivers,
You have mended your spring clothes here in these northern cities.
I pour you the farewell wine as you set out from the capital --
Soon I shall be left behind here by my bosomfriend.
In your sail-boat of sweet cinnamon-wood
You will float again toward your own thatch door,
Led along by distant trees
To a sunset shining on a far-away town.
...What though your purpose happened to fail,
Doubt not that some of us can hear high music.
 Jan 2014 Beth Ivy
arubybluebird
the culture club mix-tape section from nylon magazine completes me. sometimes I don’t feel like capitalizing the first letter to the first word of a new sentence. feelings can be so useless sometimes. I use the word sometimes too much. I think I am in love with Keaton Henson. I think I have a crush on one of my co-workers. I’d rather have a crush than be in love with you, it’ll last a while longer that way. I like coffee mugs, they are so comfortable to drink out of, they make me feel safe. I like it better when you’re warm, I want to give you warm feelings. I remember this one time I wrote the saddest poem I've ever written during one of the saddest points in my life, I sat there with legs crossed on the cold ground of a dim hallway on the third floor of the humanities building at school. It was on a yellow blue-lined sheet of paper, I folded it in three, I left it there anonymously and fled. I’ll never know who found that piece of me, perhaps no one ever did. every day is another year. I’m sorry, I always end up writing too much. I’m sorry, for being quite a crap person sometimes, truly I am. There are many things I’ll live to be sorry about, but I've no fault for the words inside of my head. All tomorrow’s parties are dead. Listen to The Babies all night with me instead.

Oh darling, save a place for me in your heart.
 Jan 2014 Beth Ivy
Ritalin Rat
Anxiety.
It's like a big wave that crashes over you.
It drowns you almost.
It's like being drowned.
You can hold your breath at first.
You can act like your fine.
But then it builds.
And builds.
And builds.
Until you break and you can't breathe.
Your gasping for air but you don't get any.
You can't hear.
Only muffled screams.
Telling you to calm down.
But you can't.
You have no control.
None.
Zero.
Zippo.
Zilch.
~m.a
Do not stand at my grave and weep..
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry..
I am not there. I did not die.
They say that God lives very high;
  But if you look above the pines
You cannot see our God; and why?

And if you dig down in the mines,
  You never see Him in the gold,
Though from Him all that’s glory shines.

God is so good, He wears a fold
  Of heaven and earth across His face,
Like secrets kept, for love, untold.

But still I feel that His embrace
  Slides down by thrills, through all things made,
Through sight and sound of every place;

As if my tender mother laid
  On my shut lids her kisses’ pressure,
Half waking me at night, and said,
  “Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?”
November winds call to me.
I long to fly in the cold,
bone chilling air.
To make friends with the leaves
that dance around me.
To breathe in the fall
and exhale the winter.
These autumn nights
are attached to me,
and I to them.
This cold and me
we are a lot a like.
We both blow free in the wind
until winters dead end
stops us cold.
We live inside boundaries
and time slots;
yet we keep on pretending
that we are our own.
Though in reality
we are only just a season.
Lost souls riding on the breeze
searching for purpose and reason.
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