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curlygirl May 2015
Loving you is like
intentionally drinking poison-
foolish and painful.
  Apr 2015 curlygirl
Danielle Shorr
Here is where I take your smile and
stretch it into a sunset, I
remember your words to mean
everything they didn't
I make haikus out of eyes and note how
they emit light when you laugh
This is where I draw you indelible
on the pages of a notebook
I color you vivid, write you
permanent, take non-fiction and
turn it fantasy,
Into something we might watch
together on a Sunday night
I designate you hero of the story and
I wait with tired arms
to be lifted into yours
Here is where I create a landscape
out of ash and worship you with
language you don't deserve,
vocabulary that is too big for your small
Here is what could easily be a love poem if
you were someone who wanted one but
the only want you have isn't for me
curlygirl Apr 2015
My skin
isn't fitting
anymore.
I wear it like a hand-me-down dress,
resentful of the way it
scratches itches pinches pulls pokes chokes
me.
It's tailored to fit someone else.
The person I used to be
but not this new me.
When I try to reach
I can feel it tear
with no point in trying to
repair it,
it doesn't fit me
keep me warm or
protect me.
I'm desperately fighting the urge
to rip it off with
nails teeth sheer will
ANYTHING
so I can free my rib cage and
inflate my lungs without restraint.
But as I examine the fabric
I realize I don't know what's
underneath.
What if I'm bare?
Nothing to hide behind or blame,
only my goose-bumped self
to stand before all eyes,
vulnerable?
Is freedom worth exposure?
The seams seem to grow tighter
as I contemplate,
"This is it.
I cannot wait."
**tear
curlygirl Mar 2015
Sometimes we get the itch.
It's annoying & persistent & insatiable.
We've all felt it,
that hand twitch when you hear
pen against paper,
that foot tap while you mumble
to yourself.  
It's actually quite natural.
It happens because
our bones are filled with syntax,
our skin is parchment
& our thoughts are iambic meters.
If they were to draw blood,
unwritten love poems would
bleed out of us.

We can't help it.
We can't help it that
sonnets & haikus & tankas & free verses
line our lungs,
that we breathe in rhymes.
Because if we try to repress
our God-given inclination
we'll get **the poet's itch.
curlygirl Mar 2015
That smile, right?
He was smooth.
He could tell you the sky was
green and you'd believe him.
Soon you felt special.
You were the escape,
the safe haven, right?
Promises were made in seconds,
and were supposed to last forever.
Like when you talked about running away.
Leaving one town for the next, heck, even
a new country.
All doors seemed open.
Until you started to go through one and
BAM!
You smacked into the glass lens of a
CNN news camera
Alone.
The smile was gone.
The promises broken.
Now it's inquisitions and allegations.
It's the 6'o'clock news and tear soaked pillows.
It's memories that were burnt into your mind
waking you up at night.
But who hasn't been taken in, only to be shoved out?
I mean, it takes 2 to tango, Monica,
but we all have dance cards that we wish weren't punched.
I guess the only difference between us is
*your guy was married
I don't condone cheating, but we all know what its like to get ****** into a bad relationship
curlygirl Mar 2015
If each star is a wish
then the heavens are
illuminated by dreams.
Each one is lovely,
dancing gracefully
in the sky until it
comes true.
Then it falls down
to earth,
back to the mind that
first created it,
to wait for rebirth.
The ones that don't
come true
continue their eternal dance,
giving hope to the one who
put it there,
reminding them to
*never stop reaching for
the stars.
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