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 Oct 2013 blankpoems
 Oct 2013 blankpoems
She is Sunday service love letters written in the centrefold
of a hymn book.
A coffee stain smile hiding the words of my favourite pages
of poetry that sits every night next to my bed.
This is my doomsday notebook rolled into the edges of cut off jeans
and you were my judgement day,
standing on the edge of a cliff pretending that my life didn't depend on it
in that second,
depend on me.

She is my Maundy Thursday:
give away everything I own like I can live with nothing.
Live like I don't exist anymore.
Leave without a trace like burning,
because that's how I am when I don't remember you now.

Sitting in my bedroom with the lights turned out
you moving next to me like dancing with the covers off.
She promised me Saturday nights and feather dreaming
and now all I can do is this.
She told me the next evening:
'so many of these boys are clueless, I really hope I'm not'
I tell her 'I don't think you are
She says I'm down to earth.
I think she is too when her head isn't stuck above the clouds
there are things I would give to see what she sees
when she looks down.

I want to talk about gods with her.
I want to know if every medicated son of god complex really was
a psych case
or simply someone trying to finally send us down something good,
like we pretend we would see it when it happens.
Someone tell me how people
can paint the sky with their guts and the broken dreams of strangers
and call it religion.
How can these gods hate any kind of love?

Tell me why you wanted to die the year before you were a teenager.
How you're still trying five years on like you can't face
the seven months before you become an adult.
I don't know if you're terrified of real life
or being a child,
or if you still sweat in the middle of the night at thoughts
of an incarcerated man's hands touching your innocent body
like it was ever supposed to know what to do with itself.
Your body a haunted house, breaking from the cracks
you left in yourself.

You couldn't leave your own ghosts out.
Is this why 'god' lets you be so afraid of living in your own skin?
that you will dice yourself into pieces
praying for bad fate for once, tonight,
you're out of luck this time honey.

I'm sorry I don't know what to say to you nowadays,
I just don't want you to be all my fault.
I'm sorry I can't talk to you like I used to, like I didn't know
you were a time bomb
but I can't pretend you didn't light your own fuse,
because all you feel is leaking out the lines you left in your own skin.
I find it hard to believe you will ever actually detonate,
but I am more than over prepared for any hint of explosion:
buried my head in a glass case,
pretend that whiskey could ever take away the pain
like you were barrel aged.
So go ahead
knock yourself out.
I can pretend I didn't feel anything like you did all those years.

You sit, breathing in the last shreds of sunset like the sun reclining could make you any more alive I tell you
just stop trying.

You are a painting.
Da Vinci,
3 years on,
no idea of your own beauty.
Your glazed surface
isn't cracked yet.
You are a work of art waiting to be fully formed.
Paints hand-made, every brush stroke a sacrifice,
you're more than this oil
not an acrylic, he can't paint out your mistakes.
Tell me how does it feel to be the pigment in your lips does it feel like home?
Can you see me?
How does it feel to hang all those years
do you forget every face?
Can you hear what I'm trying to tell you
for once?

If you see her, can you tell her:
I only wish I could have captured her on film
before she left
grace beadle 2013
 Sep 2013 blankpoems
Bailey Morse
I spent my whole life treading water,
but the tide never ceased to
rip my feet out from under me
any time I tried to stay grounded.
I remember being pulled down
at the mercy of the waves.
they tossed me around
like a feather-weight.
but it always felt the same:
the sting in my eyes, the fire in my lungs and
the infallible silence that
made you want to stay under
even when you knew that
the world was just as infinite
above the surface.
I have a habit of packing a labyrinth in the back of my hippocampus,maintaining balance,like coasting through ocean,its outlandish.I'm on the tangent of ravenous madness complete with calculus captiousness capturing the effect of parabolic randomness.Long story short,I'm just dramatically imagining,I think my genius is overactive again.Calamitous analysis compatible with harzardous pathogens passing through passages to the abucus of antagonists,but its backwards,shhh.
 Sep 2013 blankpoems
when i was a little girl -
i believed my daddy was the smartest man in the world.
he knew everything. everything.
if i had a question, daddy had an answer, and a good one.

his degree was in biology,
but he preached from a pulpit every sunday.
his friends, colleagues, congregation, all knew him as Pastor Brett.
to me he was just daddy -
and he was the smartest man in the world.

on days when i couldn't understand my own head,
(which were, and still are, very often)
and got frustrated with myself to the point of tears,
he would kiss my cheeks and promise me i wasn't stupid.
and coming from him, the smartest man i knew, that meant the world.

as years passed and i grew, my naivety remained with me,
and so i thought i was too smart to fall into life's traps.
i fell. i fell fast. i fell hard. i fell often. and i shattered.
each time, the smartest man in the world picked up my pieces
and reassured me i was still welcome in his home.

he never loved me any less, much to my bewilderment.
however, as my faults increased in frequency and severity,
he picked up my pieces now with weathered hands and weary eyes.
his smile was weaker, and a deep pain stirred in the chocolate irises behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

my deception morphed into vines that constricted and twisted and choked out the truth.
he poured out his love onto an underserving me, and said that God would still forgive.
but i, daughter of the smartest man in the world, am a fool.
and by my own two hands, i continued to sink.

he leaves me to pick up my own pieces now, not loving me any less,
but too weak, too exasperated, too heartbroken to do it himself as he always had.
he is done. he loves me and i know it. he shows it. but he is done.
my tears bore him. my half-true stories and pitiful excuses move in one ear and out the other.
he is stone-faced, no longer shocked by my confessions so i leave them unspoken.

his kisses, sear my flesh. his love burns because i know i don't deserve a single shred of it.
i wish he hated me. i wish we could fight. that would make things easier, right?
but he won't. he just won't. he loves me so much and i can't stand it.
but he is done. i broke my father, and his heart, for nothing.

he asked me why i do the things i do,
why i don't just stop it. why i keep on hurting him and my mother.
i didn't have an answer. all i had to offer the smartest man in the world,
was a dry mouth and empty hands.

 Sep 2013 blankpoems
 Sep 2013 blankpoems
I watch tv with the sound turned off just so I don't have to hear anything that reminds me of you anymore.
Chest down, I'm trapped against the ceiling and I'm flirting with the impossibility that limbs so heavy could take me this high.
Neither of us know what day it is, one of those afternoons before December that never really rises and I am keeping the lights on just so I can promise myself that you're not really here.
You see, I get the usual 'I can't breathe without you around', but I can't float, even with you standing over me.
I lead-lined my lungs with both our insecurities, tied my tongue so that I can only make my eyes speak. I can't cope with mourning the lost words that hang in the air everywhere other people have been and I choke on you every time I speak.
And my bones break like insecure scaffolding every time I stand,
they tell me I weighed myself down with all these useless metaphors,
that they never had all four feet on the ground.
You pushed me off balance. My joints could never hold out long enough to hold the both of us up. My bones are like the wood that didn't get enough water:
I break under your touch. I crack when you speak.
You're still telling me you're leaving.
grace beadle 2013
 Sep 2013 blankpoems
 Sep 2013 blankpoems
I want to leave 100 post-it notes in the glove compartment of your car.
I loved your smile first. That toothy grin, stretching lips wider than life, that wouldn’t stop talking. Fancy dress parties make you happy. High on sugar. High on life.
I introduced you to some friends and they had highlighter pens at the ready to welcome you into the group. You laughed.
You gave me your number but you didn’t realize those were the digits to unlock my soul too.
Twenty four.
My parents pick you up and you wear a jacket brighter than the sun and it makes me smile like the rays of summer. We go to the city.
Twenty nine.
She makes a fool out of me. I’m sorry she embarrassed you by telling you how I felt. It was not her place. I cried a lot that night. But your text was lovely and allowed me to sleep.
Thirty six.
I had given up on you but you were at the party and we took smiling pictures together and we made tea at two in the morning while they were all out of it. I
Thirty eight.
Forty Three.
Forty Seven.
Fifty five.
You are too much want I want and not enough of what I need.
Sixty two.
I ******* hate you.
Sixty three.
I lie to protect myself.
Seventy one.
You are drunk but I find the courage to talk about it. You tell me we are good friends. We hug.
Seventy seven.
You are not high on sugar anymore. E-E-Enough. Your childhood is over. You are a man.
Eighty three.
We go to the gallery and sit close on the tube. I want to kiss you.
Eighty eight.
You break the shower curtain so I shut the door on us and we try to fix it but you’re too out of it. You hit your head and laugh harder than I’ve ever heard you laugh before. We sit in the bathtub, legs hanging over. Hung-over.
We walk on damp grass and you talk about how weird it is to not see your parents at the dinner table together anymore. You can’t understand why it didn’t work.
Ninety one.
We drive back in your car, in the rain. Music plays. I want to hold your hand.
Ninety two.
You won’t ever listen to me. Please listen one day.
Ninety three.
Ninety four.
You’re not who I thought you were but I still care about you.
Ninety five.
I lend you a Stanley knife. When you carve into that paper, I feel the slice on my palms.
Ninety six.
I can’t save you. You wouldn’t let me if I tried.
Ninety seven.
I am merely a spectator watching you from the crowds. I hope you know I am cheering you on.
Ninety eight.
We are the right people
Ninety nine.
At the wrong time
One hundred.
But that is fate.
And nothing and nobody can deny fate. We will both grow old and I will regret not telling you all these things when my eyes were shining and my complexion smooth. But that it something I must live with, not you.
I want to leave 100 post-it notes in the glove compartment of your car so that when it’s late at night and you’ve stopped at some temporary neon shelter for fuel, you’ll reach over the empty passenger seat or your best friend’s knee and you’ll pull the handle to release 100 different reasons why I loved you.
 Aug 2013 blankpoems
When I get here, don't ever ask me to leave.
I'm not saying I won't ever leave just that I can make up my own mind
and I've been a long time coming
and you can pack my bags for me if that's what you want,
I was never one for folding,
for folding,
for folding creases,
for creasing folds down the middle like I was waiting to be split in two,
I am waiting for you to split me in two,
split me in two,
split me in two,
cut me in half and all you will find are mirrors.
Your face staring back at you. Jagged edges so I could feel you from the inside out,
feel you,
feel you,
finally feel you.
I've been knocking at your door,
staring through your windows every time I had your door shut in my face,
knocking on your walls,
knocking down your walls,
cracking your safe so that you know
when the sky seems like the most solid thing around you,
that you are always a porch light.
You are a struck match, a roaring flame and I am orange, fully open,
I can always be your accident.
You are the oldest thing in the universe made new for me,
a lens,
my left hand,
my right hand,
my arms, clutching hold of my wrists
so I can feel your heartbeat in my fingers,
your pulse a busker, singing only for me when the clocks have stopped and the lights turned out
and we've been waiting at this door for too long.
And I'm just stuck at my boarding gate,
halfway across the world and you're still dragging behind
like it's all too fast
and all I can tell myself is that I would always drown in you.
I will always choke on your words so I can taste them in my mouth,
taste you in my mouth, like a warzone,
taste everything you've ever said, ever been.
I will make up my own mind. I will keep you in mind.
Keep me in your mind like a cemetery.
I'm a long time coming.
grace beadle 2013
 Aug 2013 blankpoems
andrea hundt
Do you remember yesterday?
The day you loved me.

We wrote letters to tomorrow
and savoured every moment.
We floated in each others laughter
and you stole my misery from my lips.

Do you remember today?
The day you loved me.

We burnt the letters and wrote new ones for new people, and cringed waiting for the day to end.
The laughter was muffled by the sound of that ambulance they took you away in, and my misery planted itself in your lungs.

Do you think about tomorrow?
The day you love me.
Or, maybe the day you don't.
We'll stop writing letters, and we'll wash down yesterday with what the doctor ordered.
We'll listen to laughter that isn't ours and wonder why nothing is funny like it used to be.
My misery grew back like a **** in me, and you still haven't uprooted the **** thing out of your chest.

If only we could turn back the clock, and wind it differently.
Yesterday could have lasted.
Today might have been saved.
Tomorrow might not look so hopeless.

I don't know if your clock ever got fixed
But every day feels like tomorrow to me.
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