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 May 2013
Brycical
I said,

I believe because
you inspire me.
That's a powerful trait--
not just creatively,
but also to be a stronger person
in mind,
body
& spirit.

<3

She says,
I wish
I had your eyes
to see myself with.

The I say,
This is why I write
you poetry
& get lost in your eyes--
Why I can't help but long
to be in your presence,
because it is a gift
for those around you,
though you may not be aware.
As a poet,
I'm always trying to capture
fleeting moments
of the cosmic beauty
you bestow upon the world
**everyday.
This morning I read your name for the very first time.
The sad thing is, any other day, I would have just seen a name.
But today I saw a cinderblock on the vital organs of those left in your wake.
Laying heavy in the mouths of those trying to remember the
importance of breathing, of moving on.

Today we are forced to remember that no one is ever just a name.
You were a heartbeat. A soul.
A vibration of the universe that felt anger and pain and love.

Someone should have told you that, the night you tried to find wings.
For the boy who took his life at LU. It is the world that has failed you, not you who has failed the world. Rest in peace.
I tell you that I just want
to be wanted.
Needed the way a lock
needs the safe feel of
it's key's cool skin,
the gentle memory of it's
perfect cuts and curves.
If only we could open up
our lovers the way
we open our front door.

Maybe it was how you wore pain.
The way your tears, lazy little rivers on
your perfect face, would wash down in
chaotic lines. Prisoners of emotion
trying desperately to escape being absorbed
back into the flesh prison of your skin.
Skin that used to soothe my fears as
my fingertips put on a ballet across its surface.
Smelling of cool autumn promises, blue sky "I love you"s,
and thoroughly damp memories. Slightly marred
with emotional pock marks and raised
scar tissue that mapped out your life
in a secret language known only to you and the blade.

I'm pretty sure
you'll forever feel like home to me.
As broken as that home may be.
She was, I guess, contagious.

      An epidemic to people's hearts.
      It seemed her face was everywhere,
      just as scattered as her thoughts.

She was addicted to the thrill of it.
Watching people fall.

      She would fill her syringe with their longing
      and send the needle between her toes.

It was clear she was a ******
and she knew her veins would surely burst.

      How much can you take from someone else,
      before you realize you lost your self worth?
Writing exercise #2 from my creative writing class.
 Apr 2013
Brycical
We're following the full moon
Morrison crooning "LA Woman"
dancing around the burning fire pit
remembering a prehistoric time when
we helped share light with the tribe
through heavy exhales
the lung-piercing smoke signals
sashay toward the midnight stage in the sky.

As we dance around the fire
orange embers laugh crackling
illuminating the dark midnight
all are thankful for brief moments
of smoke blanket warmth on our backs
waiting to be tucked in by the glowing moon.

Too soon do we trapse back to reality
smashing glass bottles
to satisfy some primal urge
for ancient chaos screaming energy echoed
in caves and canyons years before the pyramids were even an idea.
Your lips are a permanent marker.
Inscribing your love for me over every inch of my body.
They have written your name on my collar bones.
Covered my hands in your fantasies.
Left adjectives of affection on my stomach and thighs,
and turned my back into a portrait of your lungs.
Promising to spend every breath you have left with me.
You laid out our someday's, and sealed them with a kiss.
Not sure about the title. As always xP
I remember the day I re-met you.
With friends I no longer talk to,
pink hair that had been a mistake,
and a reckless way of flirting.

I ended up on your lap that night.
Could you sense my surprise?

My hands can still feel the memories of you.
A slow smile, sad eyes, they play through my mind on loop.  
You always looked at me with such tenderness.
When did you become someone I can't recognize?

It must have happened somewhere in between the ***
and the drugs.  The kisses and the fake goodbyes.
Before you, I never knew I could be a monster.
At night I place my hand over my heart.
Feeling for the beat that means I'm still alive.
Still here. Still breathing. Still worth it.

I can remember the day you brought me flowers.
You showed up, shirt pressed, with that same sad smile.
I didn't want to tell you the truth.
That my lips had already known another man,
that my finger tips burned at the thought of his skin.
So instead I told you that I only saw you as a friend,
despite the weeks of rough *** and stolen time together.
After everything, how could I admit that you were so much more?
I'd already proven that you were clearly not enough.

Tonight I'll place my hand over my heart with tears in my eyes.
Praying that for once I'll be able to believe it's beat means I'm still alive.
When the girl with sunken eyes
and white lips mutters to herself on
the subway, remind her that there are
plenty of things to worry about, but for her,
losing weight isn't one of them.

When she gets off at your stop,
invite her for coffee. Even if her
eyes are throwing daggers at you,
and even if every instinct in a normal person
would be yelling that her track marks are just that,
track marks, and for all you know
she might just shove a letter opener into
your stomach for the contents of your pockets.
A few bucks for another spoonful of hell.

Lace your fingers in hers after she reluctantly
agrees, and without missing a beat,
talk about how no girl should pass up free coffee
or free alcohol. After all, there is the
economy to think about.

Gossip to her about people you
pass on the street, and when she settles
into her signature silence, tell her about
how you love to make up life stories
for the people you see outside your
apartment window, and how you've never
admitted that to anyone else.

When she leaves, after a warm vanilla latte
and two cinnamon bagels, tell her that
you should do this again sometime,
and make plans to meet her again next week.

When next week rolls around, don't be
surprised to see your alley rat friend
missing.  Instead, smile and think about
all the important reasons she couldn't make it.
Like staying in to finish a term paper for law school,
or picking up an extra shift at the local volunteer hospital.

Then turn to the little boy next to you,
scared, *****, and without parents,
and offer to walk him to the local church center.
Because these days, no one should have to feel alone.
Written late at night, finished the next morning. Love to hear what you think, especially on the title and the last few lines.

EDITTED!!
I started with a boundary line.
I found all my edges and started building in.
Every piece felt different.
Another personality come to stay.
And yet they all fit so easily inside my frame,
as if I'd kept this space open for them all along.

So I drank them in.
I flooded myself with their
convexed and concaved sides.
I let them find their place,
no guidance along the way,
and waited to feel whole again.

Then I realized what it felt like
to be assembled by a faulty machine.
To have a piece of myself lost on some dusty floor,
waiting to be swept away.

How am I supposed feel whole,
when I was never that way to begin with?
Who do I blame for my missing pieces?
I spend Mondays pulling pieces
of glass from the bottom of my feet.

Every shard reminding me of you.
Every line of blood bringing out your face.
And I smile with a bitterness,
as I throw the pieces away.

On Tuesdays I try to make
everything symbolic.  

I sit at my window in utter bareness,
and whisper to the cold panes that if everyone
stopped lying, we'd all be left naked.

Wednesdays are the days I drink
only water, and eat only celery.

Hoping to purge my body of poison.
Hoping to drop another pant size.
Wanting to get high off double zero skinny jeans.

Thursdays I always attempt to draw,
but never get past the art of words.

It's so much easier to stay in
my comfort zone.  Hang out with
punctuation, margins, and lines.

Fridays have a way of
being rather nostalgic.

It's never a happy trip down memory lane.
Too many wrong turns to be made.
Too many *** holes to get lost in.

Saturdays I binge on pizza,
realizing how much I love to eat.

The strangest feeling I'll ever know,
is that of feeling full.  I'm so used
to feeling completely hollow.

Sundays are horribly predictable,
that I can always count on.

To diffuse my energy I break wine bottles.
You'd never believe how it feels to walk
over something you've completely destroyed.
Late night writing, what're ya gonna do. Am I right?
Words can't make something out of nothing.
They can't bring you back or make me feel okay about losing you.
They just  struggle to fill the emptiness that's vibrating in
every part of my body, every part of my life, and they fail.
Leaving me exhausted and alone, planning a life you'll never get to see.

Words can't make you better. They can't dry your tears.
You can't clutch them in your hands and hold them
to your body with the warm reassurance
that comes from a baby's safety blanket.
If you could I would use them to stop
the rivers coming from my eyes.
Stop the slow drowning I feel in my lungs.
I would use them to plug up the hole in me
so large that at any moment I expect my insides
to come spilling out, navy blue and charcoal gray.
The colors of your absence staining the canvas inside my brain.

So now I abuse my body.
I punish myself for losing you, for killing you.
I can't explain the logic behind it.
The way you can't explain snow on Christmas
to someone who's never be able to see it.
I can't make you understand the feeling
I get from looking in the mirror and seeing bone.
But if I can't have you, I don't want me.
Cold and empty and broken, I'm useless.
If you had to wither, then I want to wither too.
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