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bailey goranson Jun 2019
she begged for god
but god left a long time ago.
i could understand
where she saw hope,
but the light she saw
was just the spark of a lighter.
another day passed,
another moon risen.
we paint our faces like
babylonian ******
and step out into the streets
to drown our troubles
in ***** and older men.
we lie to our parents
when we come home,
but we are still little girls
who smell like cigarette smoke
and ***.
her room is filled
with dead artist on her wall,
records in the corner,
a forgotten guitar
she often glances at before meeting
me under a streetlamp.
we quote jim morrison
and sing amy winehouse
as whiskey slides down our throats
and burns our chests.
the men we drink with say
we remind them of their daughters
but by the end of the night
the liquor in them draws them to our
'old souls'.
and now you watch her
from the other side of the bar,
the eye contact holding
a lust and desire
only eros could create.
as you swig back
the amber liquid
in your glass,
only one thought suffocates
all others;
you'll have her begging for god tonight.
bailey goranson Jun 2019
i miss speaking french in your mouth.
i miss holding you in my arms.
i miss the smell of your cologne.
now you've just left your scars on my heart.
bailey goranson Feb 2019
the worst type of hurt is not
the red-faced, hot tears,
scratchy throat, puffy-eyed
sadness we all see, but instead
it is the empty space in your
chest that you cannot seem
to fill.
it is the sound of your favorite
song playing on repeat as you
try to diminish all thoughts of them
and how they made you feel.
it is the sight of seeing them
happy without you because
you know in your heart
the only thing ever holding
them back was
yourself.
the worst type of hurt
is knowing you
were their hurt,
and being just as hurt anyways.
bailey goranson Jan 2019
i'd rather his lips were yours.
i'd rather it was your arms.
i like him, sure, but there's no replacing you.
there's no replacing your laugh,
your touch,
you.
bailey goranson Dec 2018
one day we will all be forgotten
and no one will remember the way your eyelashes
fluttered in the moments you retained conciousness.

they will not remember
my melancholy eyes as you spoke words
that sounded like waves crashing through my ears.

they will not remember
the sight of your hand enfolded into mine
with our innocence being the main focus of the image.

one day i will no longer
remember who you were or what you meant to me.
however,

i currently have no plans of forgetting you
any time soon.
bailey goranson Dec 2018
sometimes the sun will set
on a day that doesn't feel over.

someday i'll have to forget
all the love you gave me.

but it's been hard losing
the feeling of your smile.

especially since you've
started doing it for another girl.
  Nov 2018 bailey goranson
Dylan Thomas
From love's first fever to her plague, from the soft second
And to the hollow minute of the womb,
From the unfolding to the scissored caul,
The time for breast and the green apron age
When no mouth stirred about the hanging famine,
All world was one, one windy nothing,
My world was christened in a stream of milk.
And earth and sky were as one airy hill.
The sun and mood shed one white light.

From the first print of the unshodden foot, the lifting
Hand, the breaking of the hair,
From the first scent of the heart, the warning ghost,
And to the first dumb wonder at the flesh,
The sun was red, the moon was grey,
The earth and sky were as two mountains meeting.

The body prospered, teeth in the marrowed gums,
The growing bones, the rumour of the manseed
Within the hallowed gland, blood blessed the heart,
And the four winds, that had long blown as one,
Shone in my ears the light of sound,
Called in my eyes the sound of light.
And yellow was the multiplying sand,
Each golden grain spat life into its fellow,
Green was the singing house.

The plum my mother picked matured slowly,
The boy she dropped from darkness at her side
Into the sided lap of light grew strong,
Was muscled, matted, wise to the crying thigh,
And to the voice that, like a voice of hunger,
Itched in the noise of wind and sun.

And from the first declension of the flesh
I learnt man's tongue, to twist the shapes of thoughts
Into the stony idiom of the brain,
To shade and knit anew the patch of words
Left by the dead who, in their moonless acre,
Need no word's warmth.
The root of tongues ends in a spentout cancer,
That but a name, where maggots have their X.

I learnt the verbs of will, and had my secret;
The code of night tapped on my tongue;
What had been one was many sounding minded.

One wound, one mind, spewed out the matter,
One breast gave **** the fever's issue;
From the divorcing sky I learnt the double,
The two-framed globe that spun into a score;
A million minds gave **** to such a bud
As forks my eye;
Youth did condense; the tears of spring
Dissolved in summer and the hundred seasons;
One sun, one manna, warmed and fed.
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