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 Jul 2016
Akira Chinen
Her name was Mad Violin
We had met at a bar
Where I was half past midnight at drunk
And she had spilt smoke
And smoked whisky
And I remember her talking
About suicide and music
And writing and art
I was halfway through a strange dream
And she was completely undressed
And we were ******* our way
Through the nightmares
Of hope and illusion
She stood there watching
Our bodies tangle and sweat
As she played the violin
And strangled the life out of me with its strings
I woke up stiff and hungover
In an empty bed
The dream still clawing at my back
Her ghost still playing
That ****** violin
It was in all the papers
And on the all the news
Another death
Another suicude
Another note with a name
And a goodbye
I didn't have to read
Or listen or watch
I already knew
Mad Violin
Wouldn't be playing again
She was gone

Gone...
  Gone...
              gone...

I wiped off a tear
Before it crawled out onto my face
And choked back a sob
And pretended to laugh
She got out of the lie
Out from under the strings
Burned her name and violin and stage
And set the whole world ablaze
No one noticed her before
But now everyone claimed
To know her name
And I couldn't actually remember
So I just called her Mad Violin
 Jul 2016
spysgrandson
the gray grasses sang sweet songs,
without even a breeze to move them
the coyote howls were marrow yellow,
crimson, as their sour colors sifted
into the night

lightning streaked my charcoal
sky, and I could taste it, a salted butter
that tickled the throat on the way down,
the sonic booms it hatched smelled of baked bread,
and I hungered for more  

then a white owl spoke to me,
but I did not hear it call my name
no, not mine--though its hoots formed ice,
chunks which pummeled me, froze me
to the bone
most of you know the legend, usually attributed to Native Americans, of the owl calling your name being a portent of one's death
 Jul 2016
CV
I'm the person who cleans up after
parties -
the kind of person who makes the
host ask
"Who cleaned up?"
and leave the room wondering who the
kind guest was.
Maybe it's because it eases my
troubled mind
when I'm the only one who's awake,
but then
you come down the stairs and I feel
a sudden calm
as you hold me in your arms.
I have an itch to party really hard with friends once a year, and I am spent until next year
 Jul 2016
N
i. The soft hum of someone playing Claire de Lune next door and you putting your hair up and exposing your neck makes me feel like I am in a film so perfectly made I  just want to capture every single movement of you and keep them in the safest and sanest corner of my brain.

ii. You say it's such a divine night; I say I'm so sure that even the
Devil's knees would buckle when he hears you speak.
I noticed the fireflies are lighting up themselves even more brightly.
I bet it's because they are trying to outshine you, but they will all fall dead even before they do so.

iii. There's a marching band inside my chest and for some reason tonight feels like Christmas, New Years and my birthday all at once.
The other day my mom said she thinks I am getting better.
I said, yes, mom, my old self finally decided to come home.
 Jul 2016
N
I am God's draft,
something He was meaning to finish but
got distracted in the process with rainbows and tulips,
the birds and the bees,
certainly the much more beautiful and riveting things.

I was born three days late so I am always apologizing to
other people for my tardiness but mostly to myself for
constantly missing the good parts.

The angel keeping an eye on me would have six fat books of
the lies I've shamelessly spat out for almost two decades now
and I wonder if they would let me stack them up so I could have
even just a peek of what heaven looks like after Atlas
finally decides to retire.

I constantly think about death, tragedy and loss.

Maybe it's because of my problematic playlist or
the sick humor of my friends. Maybe it's just me trying to find
meaning in everything and studying things but in the back of my head
I can picture the philosophers howling in laughter.

Maybe it's because they know I'm meant just to be a draft.
I read somewhere that
                               *A work of art is never finished, only abandoned.
---
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pxN1YnVUfjM
---
 Jul 2016
Faith K
Clear
My favorite color is clear
I always admired plastic wrap
Even when you put it over black, you still know it’s black because you can see through
For so long I wanted you to see through me and every time I told you I was okay, you saw around me
I never liked the smell of your favorite perfume
It reminded me of every Saturday night you came home with a different man
And they told you how much the loved your scent
Every Sunday morning you sprayed it on like God didn’t know what it smelt like
You asked me how you looked, like saving your soul was a Fashion Show
I couldn’t apologize enough for feeling ungrateful for being here
It wasn’t my fault you had to lay there lifeless while they lusted over your body
Each night reminding you of the night I was conceived
And tell your sister, whenever she’s not penetrating her skin with needles,
That I want my body right next to her daughters
So we can play hide and go seek in the graveyard and sing each other to sleep at dark
Like we used to do when both you and your sister were pasted out in your high place
Isabella, we killed her, and now I’m going to join her. They were her last words, make mine too,
“Don’t wake me, I’m finally sleeping in my sanity”
This poem is dedicated anyone who has ever attempted suicide or had family members that committed suicide. Remember, you're the only one who can save you so that you can save others. God Bless

— The End —