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Joe Dec 2019
The devil has an angelic grin
As he holds your hand in secret
And whispers sweet little nothings in your ear.
The devil has perfect skin, striking eyes,
And a jaw that could have cut
Your wrists better than you will ever have.
The devil will write you poems
And speak to you in rhymes,
Fleeting little words,
Just to keep you from breaking apart
So he can keep playing
With your already aching heart.
The devil will come
When you are at your lowest.
He will come
with an outsteretched hand
Promising you heaven on earth
But, he will let go of you
right before you reach the top.

So you pull yourself up
like what humans do
in the face of adversity,
And when
you are on your own way to heaven,
Only then shall you meet your angel

Your angel will not have wings
To whisk you off your feet
And bring you to dazzling sights,
But he will have a smile
And more beautiful
Than any scenery.
Your angel will not look how you imagined him to be
all chiseled up and perfect like a Greek statue
But you will not be able to look away
From that crooked smile
Nor tear your hands away
From those coarsely cut curls.
Your heart will be full of his love
And you will feel safe
Even feel heaven on earth
perfection isnt always good
  Sep 2018 Joe
Bek Blanchard
Disconnected the more we’re connected
Our children are affected and feeling neglected
While our rights to privacy are no longer respected
An idea our ancestors never projected
The transgressions of technological progression
An obsession creating social oppression
A Millennial’s iDol, a prized possession
Joe Feb 2018
I am the ocean;
concurring ripples
rooted in my scalp,
dark waves cascading down my back
of which no one would see
the beauty within.

I am the earth
underneath your feet.
Haven of not only the living
But also the dead
of which no one would see
the beauty within

I am the painting
to be magnified to see specks of color
but, afar,
merely looks like a straight line
of which no one would see
the beauty within.

I am the sculpture
of a volatile beast
or, at the least,
its ruins
of which no one would see
the beauty within.

I am art
no one would be willing to see
despite of my obvious presence.

I am disturbing, distressing art
who’s crafted and carved from
cold hard truths
than painted
in pretty pink and purple lies.

I am the art
no one would dare appreciate
because that would mean accepting
how imperfect humans are
and imperfection
could never be art.
i got too inspired in my humanities class

Joe Feb 2018
As a child, I often imagined us as a royal family;
Dad as the king,
Mom as the queen,
And Myself as the princess.
Within our humble little castle,
You taught me how to be kind but resilient;
To be graceful but firm;
To respect other people and myself;
To love people,
Especially myself.
You have raised me as best as you could

But, a crisis swept over our kingdom
they called it.
It affected all the children in the land,
Making them even more rambunctious than usual.
They became irritated
and isolated themselves,
all the while their innocence fading.
Of course, it affected your little princess,
And you didn’t know what to do.

Dear Mom and Dad,
I’m telling you not to worry.
This is not a crisis but a part of life.
When I slam my bedroom door shut,
After we’d just fought,
That doesn’t mean I hate you.
My hormones are just not as calm as they used to be.
Be patient.
I’m not mad at you
For telling me to sit up straight
Or mind my manners at dinner
Or be independent.
I know you are just molding me
To become the person you’ve always envisioned;
You just want me to be more like you.

But, mom, dad,
I am my own person.
I have my own set of personalities and traits
A set of which you have inspired,
Not provided.
You have inspired me to become
A strong woman
But, I have to do it my way now.
You can’t shield me from the terrors of the world forever.
You have to let me out of my tower
Because I can slay my own dragons
and unfaithful princes.
I am not your little girl anymore
But I am still your princess
And you still rule my world.
a little tribute to my parents.

Joe Oct 2017
The best poems are all about
loss and pain and suffering.
It feels more natural to write a poem
about a long lost memory,
Or a love that never worked.

Poets aren't allowed to be happy.
They’d run out of material to write about.

The words
content and happy
in the same sentence as the word
feels like your tongue
never sitting right in your mouth,
like teeth getting in the way
when making out
like an itchy throat,
not going away even after coughing a fit.

The phrases
You are and my boyfriend
can't be a real sentence
like how
unicorns and fairytales
don't exist.
They just feel like
two jigsaw pieces
from different parts of the puzzle
forced to sit beside each other.

The word love
just doesn’t resonate
with the beat of my heart.
Maybe because
my heart stopped beating
a long time ago
and my brain had to carry the workload
so I think twice as much as I should
I overthink.

I may be the only poet
who doesn’t want to be happy;
a ******* clinging to heartbreak,
and loss and pain and suffering.
because it’s easier to let heartbreak
wrap myself in its familiar arms
than to experience an adventure
with happiness wrapped in mine.
i don't know how to love

Joe Oct 2017
Loved left marks on the walls
And took apart floor boards.
The cold air crept in
'cause Loved left the door open
when they took off.
So, the house got cold;
walls became frosted.
What’s left of the floors
became slippery that
one wrong move could
cause severe injury

So I gave up the mortgage
and sought refuge in other shelters;
Some houses felt too big
That I couldn’t possibly fill it up
with my simple wants and needs.
Some houses felt too small,
I’m afraid that my complexities
on top of complexities
Would topple over each other and shatter.
Some houses were too complicated;
Floor plan with secret passages
between secret passages,
That even I’m too plain to figure out.

Then love arrived
And fixed up the walls.
put in fresh cut wood as floor boards,
installed new light fixtures;
Made the house feel like a home again
Made me feel home again
And thus, I am safe.
send our love to the ex lover

Joe Aug 2017
Perfectly normal house
Perfectly normal girl
Perfectly healthy body
Chaotic mind.
Her thoughts
As loud as waves
Clashing on rocks.
Yet a voice
So quiet
Like a breeze
Through palm trees.
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