I don’t like tuna fish.

I don't like it the way
I don't  like
men who study
little girls

I don't like it the way
I don't like
bullies
and
rich people
who won't share
or poor
people who are
cruel to
their own kind
because they have
to put their
pain somewhere.

I don’t like tuna fish
because my mother
told me, "eat it--
it's good for you" the way
she insisted I accept
the rest of
her distasteful
lies.

I dont like how the taste
of canned tuna finds
its way back into
my mouth long
after its been swallowed  
and **** out.

It reminds me of the
unbearable
that I thought I survived--
that I thought I left behind
but didn't.

By:  Evelyn Augusto

If you're a good writer
I've probably already fallen
in love with your words
if you make good music
you most likely own
a part of my soul
undoubtedly
if when you message me
you use proper grammer
punctuation
and complete sentences
there's no denying
I take you seriously
something in the way you word things
the way that each consonant sings
as I breathe in the simple things
you say to me

These lungs are still. 

As flameless fire,
We are breathing dead smoke.

Looking back at our love, 
began full of sparked ignitions and frictions of heat,  
red flames of 
passion 
love
lust 
trust
and comfort 
perhaps over sticks not coal.

We heard a whisper...
"to enjoy a lasting fire one must have a good foundation,
coal is key
not sticks nor paper
or it will burn out fast"

When tested, our fire sizzled out.
flameless love sticks was all we had to work with.
no foundation of coal.
nor that signature paper.

We've sat blowing at these sticks from all sides 
with hope of catching one last spark, 
trying to awaken the fire once again.
Campaigning within ourselves
let's live again, lust again,
love Against and beyond
ourselves

Have we lost sight of the ground?
taken by the wind of life's happenings
now barely touching at fingertips

we've forgotten the lips
that whispered
foundations of a true love's lasting fire.

are we hopeless?
our love flames are breathing on sticks
not coal. 

both locked on exhale 
no oxygen to our souls
back, neck and head coiled 
like a lifeless corps
hanging from the spine

we are dying, Love
we've blown all through and through
and I know somehow I still love you 
but while sitting in this thick cloud of smoke
I fearfully ask
how do I breathe for I and you?

i see her standing there -
and i'm wondering when she
will come inside.

it's below forty outside -
and the tears have frozen to her cheeks
and i can tell that she's becoming numb.

when will she come inside?
i wish she would -
so that i may wrap a blanket around her shoulders
and give her something hot to drink
and let the tears melt down her face.

i wish she would come inside.
but her and i both know better,
than to believe that we have any control -

over
this.
this.
this.
these feelings, i should say.

she'll come back inside -
when the feelings pass
when it's safe again
when i'm me again
when the world is righted on its axis.