I felt your envious eyes,
whisper tales of my true rank in life.
Untouchable, the dirt you wouldn't
grace your spit with.

A well fabricated quilt of lies.
To smother my heart and hold it
captive in the fires.
Of pure narcissism and self hatred.
Long after you left me here.

May our souls both find their peace.
Respectfully and may our hearts as dark and broken as they may be.
Mend themselves in the warmth, love and truth of the Sun once more.

I woke up in the wrong world
At the wrong time
I know the right words
But they don't rhyme

In the wrong shell
With the wrong mind
I'll never stop looking
But I know I'll never find

The wrong lips
Speak the wrong line
The wrong eyes
Miss the right sign

The wrong voice
For the right song
The perfect sound
Where it doesn't belong

The winter here is proper,
not like the weak attempts
of childhood.

I put on one of my father's old records,
and sinkdrown
into the swirl
of old memories -
the scent of oil and wood
his workshop
the musicdrone of cicada's
(that signaled the arrival of hot summer sweat and slick)
the scent of musk mixed with coffee grinds
and bodyperfume made sick with wine.

Old roofs
in the distance -
redwashed and orange
by the blood of a dying sun,
trickle blue smoke
from the mouth of an ancient-
         Baal of cold nights
         Suburban Moloch.

Hands are turned palecold.
Dove's once ,
dexterous fish now -
white and roasting
on the hot whisper
from a cup of coffee,
sometimes they
(mechanically or artfully)
invoke the means
to my own blue trickle.

A time machine
to that junkyard of stolen moments
we christen "memory".

Yet the sun still bleeds
and the sky is cauterised
by it's sacrifice.

to become whole
i must become
    empty

to live in purity
i must cleanse my soul
of suffocating thoughts
   to be swept away
and replaced with
        the truth
           of heart gripping love

the love that surrounds me
has been suppressed
   quieted
       muffled
i will allow it
a voice
so it can sing to me
a song of beauty
           and peace
while offering me a chance
               at pure happiness.

We will leave you in the midst
of a poetic truce, as you spill
experiences into our open palms.

Writing to make sense of what
has happened, nestling your
deepest secrets in our fingertips.

Our roots so deep in our poetry,
if you tried to unearth us, we would
shriek louder than banshee's.

Unravel our words, enter the
labyrinth of our minds, there are
sunsets in our stomachs, and
December runs through our veins.

We are the stars to your blank skies,
the pause between each ragged breath,
the tragedy suffocating the air.

We are the pause before the applause.
We are rarity's like Haley's comet
making you scramble for a telescope.

Only crows writhing with broken
necks are more twisted than the life
stories resting under our tongues.

We are poets, engraved in history,
fluent in all that is artistic and worldly.

Poetry a warm blanket we remain
hidden in on a cold winter morning.
Reality is a cold floor that our
bare feet are too scared to touch.

*By JannaLee Perry and Rapunzel