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I am afraid of you
But not really of you
More of what you do to me
You make me feel more intensely than I have felt
For the large part of a long while
And it is a foreign feeling
But one that I welcome with open arms
I am sure that you know that men have not been gentle with me
My eyes alone could tell you the story even better than my tongue could
I have spent too long with hands clasped around my throat
Your hand gently on my waist is a welcome respite
You treat me as though I am made of glass
To be fair, there are days where I feel
Like cotton candy caught in a rainstorm
Fragile and fading
But I want you to know that lately I have been feeling okay
I feel your worried eyes when I shake in the cold or when I push away a full plate
But I am trying and most of the time the victories are mine
And oh how wonderful it is to come to two roads in a yellow wood
And not care which one I pick
Because I know that no matter what
You’re the one walking beside me
as i bleed my heart out on this keyboard
you instantly flashed in my mind
my face in between your large hands, as you started to lean forward making our forehead's touch

i do not write for you,
i write about you
more importantly, the little things you do
like how you rests your hand, particularly your right hand on my thigh or how you'd take mine and press them against your chest while whispering to me how much they made your heart race

i remember how childish of us to pass a stupid crumpled note
back and forth
just to exchange i love you's
but i love to watch that smile slowly stretches across your plump lips

we're tangled in the sheets, strong arms wrapped around me
it certainly felt like home
your scent sinks deeper into my skin
i hope you don't see my hands reaching out just to touch yours

i'm running out of words
i think you have given me enough to write about that even flowers grew on paper
— bmva
 Jan 2020 Carterrae aunders
A B
Why pity the fool
when he is free from thought?
Because he tried to look cool by writing a 3 line poem.
the old man stank
but he
stank more
of ***** and cheap
tobacco than
filth

his mouth missed
a lot of
teeth
and his eyes
would never
look
in the same
direction at once

but worst of
all were his hands
Now those were
really messed up

He claimed he had
paint tanks
under his nails
and he wasn’t lying

he was mad
but not a liar

He could paint
wherever he was
on any surface

And he did

pressing the stump
of his fingers
against walls and
furniture
triggered immediate
bleeding

and then he
would trace on and
draw something
Usually a ***** or
some hairy **** or
some silhouettes
******* or
something like that

Then he’d step back
admire his creation
and laugh
and **** at his
****** fingers

Ol’ ****** Brush
was a celebrity
around the
block
He never had
to buy a
drink for
himself
There was always
someone to treat him,
an admirer
a fan, a disciple

Yeah, at 66
Ol’ ****** Brush
was living the life
unlike other wannabe
artists who devoted
their existence to
the craft and got
nowhere

These guys,
they had the talent
and the drive

bout Ol’ ****** Brush,
he had the madness

and the world
was coming to learn
the difference
why do
squirrels
try to
cross our
streets
and die?

why is
life seemingly
taken away
in the blink
of an eye?

why do
green leaves
turn yellow,
brownish copper
and reds?

why do i
feel life
so DEEPLY
that sometimes
i would
much rather
be dead?

it's a
balancing act,
wanting to
live
life,
that is.

sanity and
insanity,
God's and
the
grim reaper's
kiss.

my struggle
each day
is as real
as
these words
that with you
i choose
to share.

i'm happy,
i'm unhappy
and...
my poetic
bi polarness,
just doesn't
care.

most of
my days
are toiled
through
and,
few
feel
worth living.

my poetic
verse that
i share
with y'all
is all that
i feel
like giving.

words of
   advice to thee,

never judge
what you
can't see.

they may
be a
soul...
as tortured
and wounded
as me.
Be gentle with us.
please.
or not
it's your call
but keep in mind that we as poets
we feel too strong
which is not to say that that is wrong
we don't ease into love, we quickly fall
we love like we're dying
we live like we're small
but in our minds.
in our minds we are flying

we feel everything at once
you wouldn't think it by looking
looking at our normal fronts
a disguise, a charade
but prey don't believe a masquerade
a poet can be but anyone
existing silently
a poet can be but everyone
existing violently
we all make up stories
we're all acting to a degree
so things aren't so different
no not so different you and me

we notice the quirks
we notice the nothings
if you meet a poet then you should believe
you should know that we
we love what we see
and appreciate all forms of beauty
for to us imperfect is lovely
perfect doesn't exist
we have those markings on our wrist
of all the awful places we've been to we kissed
we've kissed the devil when we went
to hell and back again

so now that you have been informed
that a poets heart is easily scorned
knowing we feel deeply
knowing we feel more
more than we really should I've warned
we don't just love a person when we fall
we love their whole world
we love it all
and when we're hurt it is hard to trust
and thus
please.
Be gentle with us.
 Nov 2019 Carterrae aunders
Nylee
the girl
she makes the world so beautiful
she had come to rule
but she was never given the chances equal

she was forced to silence
forced to smile
give those people another glance
even when she will be overlooked this while

the girl did it all
she made big from real small
learned the smooth and the rough
but she was given another bluff

her, she was thrown around
laughed and joked about
but she smiled throughout
her tears for herself when she drowned

she went ahead, even behind at times
she fought for herself at every step
her thoughts evident in every line
well thought, did have a bite.

the girl,
her success was a victory
not hers alone, from all bulls
she rose to make a history
.
 Oct 2019 Carterrae aunders
Day
In your arms,
this ghostly heart
wants to live.
happy halloweekend
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