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 Jun 2015
b for short
One phrase, thought-- but not spoken.
Offered unsafe passage past the lips.
Then I blink.
Suddenly, I'm standing, stripped,
naked, exposed and confused.
Screaming in a language
that isn't native to my audience.
Balled fists writhe in the air,
cool sweat drips
down the length of my spine.
Blank expressions paint
the faces of this grey panorama.
I find that one pair of eyes
and beg with my own, with their tears,
with ache, with a raw, beating heart.
They do not understand.
They will not understand.
I'll be up in flames before
my words are all translated.
My ashes kicked up in the wind.
The epitome of too late.
© Bitsy Sanders, June 2015
 Jun 2015
Amitav Radiance
The blank pages
Invite the poetic wanderer
With a wanderlust heart
Visiting undisclosed locations
In search of rare experiences
Roaming the edges of known
Where the real adventure is
Gathering some rare pieces
Strewn here and there
Not oblivious to poetic eyes
Allure of the blank pages
Is difficult to ignore
For all the adventures
Of the wanderlust heart
Waiting to be chronicled
Sore feet and tired soul
Heals when the muse smiles
After all the secret journeys
Poetic heart will return to
The blank pages
 Feb 2015
Sjr1000
I was invited,
She was dressed in red,
A long sleeve blouse
to hide
the upper arm gills,
Cuts inflicted with
perfect knife skills,
Invited by the friend
of a friend's friend,
That never slowed her down.

She appeared before me,
Inviting me to her bed,
When I said, "Hello"
She was wounded and insulted
and told me to go.
When I started to leave,
She lay on the bed,
Threatening suicide
if I left.

She held me in high esteem
or so she said,
When I came forward
she told me to "drop dead. "

It's a black and white world
in her head
with no hues or colors
but dripping dread
it's what happens
with trauma's invalidation,
No boundaries, no barriers
rip tides running
takes her under.

Everything changes in a
moment
from tears to rage
and back again.

"I'm warning you," she said.
A gut check,
I thought I was up
to the task,
When she was silent,
I just had to ask,
"Is there anything I
can do to help? "

She jumped out the window
made a mad dash.

I sat on the curb
to consider my fate
smoke my last cigarette
she had taken my pack.
I fell into my shoes,
Staring,
Waiting for one of them
to move.

"I love you sweetheart" she said,
"You'd better go,
I love you sweetheart
don't go away.

I love you sweetheart
stay here - no not
there
over here. "

A dancing puppet,
I learned to love her truly.
I made the moves,
Learned acceptance, too.

Then she saw you.

I returned from the borderline
a little less smug
not so refined,
Now late at night
when anxiety has passed,
She comes into my mind,
I toss and turn
fall off the bed,
I don't know if she's
alive or dead
in
heaven or hell,
A test for all those
who think they know love.

If you fail, you pass,
If you pass you fail.

Beware of uninvited guests
dressed in red.
 Nov 2014
DC raw love
POEMS ABOUT POEMS
POEMS OF SILENCE
POEMS ABOUT JOY
POEMS OF KINDNESS
POEMS ABOUT LONELINESS
POEMS OF SADNESS
POEMS ABOUT SORRY
POEMS OF LOVE
POEMS ABOUT CARE
POEMS OF FORGIVENESS
POEMS ABOUT LIFE
POEMS OF DEATH
POEMS ABOUT DRUGS
POEMS OF SWEAT
POEMS ABOUT RELEASING
POEMS OF DREAMS
POEMS ABOUT FEELINGS
TO RELEASE EVERYTHING
THIS IS MY LIFE
NOW THAT I'M CLEAN
 Nov 2014
PrttyBrd
You tell your kid to give the dog food and water. He mishears you and asks what moonwater is, and you fashion his mistake into a poem. ;)
11714
Follow the collection You Know You're a Poet When..., it's not mine, but it's a hoot.
 Oct 2014
Dr Strange
The ability to write poetry is the ability to understand life
To know it's not always about being the best
That it's not always about who can do what
Poetry is emotion
It is the silent words that lurk in our minds
It is our unsaid weaknesses exploited to their full potential
Which then makes it our strengths
It is the bridge that connects us to the mortal world
It is the proof that we are human
That we can cry
That we can laugh
That we can have remorse...
To us poet it is so much then just words on a piece of paper
It is our heart and our pride
As poets we all have our reasons why we write
Because we all come from our different backgrounds
Some of us have lost sight of the light
Other bath in it
There are even some who sit upon the border because they can't make up their mind
But as poets we all have one thing in common
We write because we are not immortal
We write because poetry is our life
We write because  poetry is our hope
And if we didn't have it we'd all be in a different place
Most likely a place beyond darkness
Even if the reason we write is joy
What's the point of being happy if everyone else is not
So we write to share
That's what it means to be a poet
 Sep 2014
b for short
In this state of mind,
I swallow my pride like I’m born to do it.
**** it back and let its bitter bite
coat my tongue and slide down
sides of my pretty pale throat,
caressing each of the guilty lumps
on its way to the below.

When it’s been stomached,
I thread my golden needle
on the first try.
I press my lips together
to pierce and sew them shut.
Crisscrossing over, under,
around, and through.
The tinny blood tastes
much less bitter than my pride.
I pull tight, ending the job
with its little uniform knots.

But certainty is key.
So I break each and every finger
on my small, able hands.
Once the most amazing
and interesting of instruments,
now hang crooked and limp;
however, as I watch them bruise and swell,
a deep pink to a fresh blue-violet,
I am wholly relieved.

None will be spoken,
None will be written.
Here, safe in my man-made silence.
© Bitsy Sanders, September 2014
 Aug 2014
Court
I want that waking up at 6 am to make you breakfast kind of love,
that my friends think I'm absolutely crazy kind of love
the kind of love that is reckless and addicting
that I don't care what you look like I just want to stay up all hours to share secrets kind of love
that every time I see you my heart throbs kind of love
that I see you upset and you don't have to say anything and I already know what to do kind of love
that stand next to me because I love you kind of love
that "you can have the cup with more coffee" kind of love
that you get my heart and the world gets the worst of me kind of love.
that you are my everything kind of love.
I just want you to bite my lip until I can't speak and can't scream anyone's name but yours.
I want you to touch the places that my ex forgot to touch.
I want you to let me scratch my brokenness into your back so that your moans can be the only thing that can fix me.
Let me make your body sing songs your lips don't know the words to.
Resurrect me so you can be all that I live for.
I want love.
 Jul 2014
cheryl love
The oceans between us
are nothing
just drops of blue
The sky between us
is just a flight
We are so far
yet so very near
because Sally the
friendship we hold is dear.
Like the rushing of the wind
I will be there
Like th rays of the sun
The cool of the snow
when winter's begun.
We are so far
yet so very near
time travels fast
yet seems so slow
My thoughts every day
are with you Sally
I am as far as a stone can throw.
I am around the corner
sitting at the bend
I shall be your friend forever
untll my very end.
For the rest of my life
I will be a loyal friend to you
never ever forget me or lose me
That is something I will not do.
We are so far
yet so very near
Sally this is for you to keep.
 Jul 2014
AlanK
In the beginning was the word
The ideas flowed like wine
Grappling through the night
We explored
The ramifications of the past,
The indentations of the present
The permutations of the future.
We delved the endless font
Of our literal lives
Page after page we turned
Swallowing chapters, misspelled loves
Grammatical wastelands spread across the crumbled sheets,
All could be corrected.
Those words, I can still remember
Embossed on my brow
Like Braille, I’m blind enough to read.

In time the words went dry.
Perhaps we said it all.
Or chose to say no more.
The questions were replaced
With smug complacency.
The river of curiosity slowed,
And trickled between our toes.

In the end there were no words.
Passion took the podium
In tender speechless quiverings
We pressed the meaning on our flesh
Somehow it was enough
As we devoured our silent summations.
The unspoken proclamations
Confirmed my doubts
Reaffirmed my hopes.
As the last page was turned
The rising sun filled the empty room.
 Jun 2014
b for short
I have this revelation—
like some eerie recurring dream.
It dips and cleanses my conscience
for a full five seconds of clarity.
A situation, short in stature, where
I can take slow breaths knowing that
I am able to walk away from this
bearing enough grit and grin to
repair all of my cracks and voids
with something stickier—
something I found on my own.

I have this revelation—
and in it, the boy is just a smudge
in the upper left-hand corner
of a yellowed photo
depicting a new me
and a new someone else
skinny dipping in some unnamed waterfall
deep in the secret folds of Appalachia.
In it, the smiles on the faces
are so incandescent
that the person holding the photo
doesn't notice
the charming tummy rolls, disheveled hair
or the smudge in the upper left-hand corner.

I have this revelation—
happiness should not be Rubik's-cubed into impossibility.
I have this revelation—
happiness should be simple.
Happiness should be simple.
            Happiness should be.
                                   Simple.
© Bitsy Sanders, June 2014
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