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 Jul 2015 echo
arubybluebird
sabado
 Jul 2015 echo
arubybluebird
I like things that make me sad
I don't think I'll ever not be late
I'm trying to figure out a way to think outside of myself
I'm so limited within this unconditional heart
I'm trying to figure out a way to think inside of you
Lift my body from your bed, and leave my soul tucked in to rest
 Jul 2015 echo
Mary Neagle
Beauty.
 Jul 2015 echo
Mary Neagle
The stars
The moon
Leading me back to you

The sun
The trees
Unleashing my soul to be free
 Jul 2015 echo
andrea
/ˈbyo͞odē/
 Jul 2015 echo
andrea
In the Webster dictionary beauty is defined as:
"The quality of being physically attractive"
And it never specifies what attractive is...who gets to decide it
but...
The screens, the magazines, they all scream
In high definition their definition of "beauty"

Beauty is itty bitty waists and walking twigs
negative spaces between legs that subtract another's value
if the gap is not there
It is lipstick and pale pink blush on rearranged faces
like children playing dress up
or a giant game of make-believe we are made to believe
that something is wrong with the way we look
And we have been directed well
the cruel criticism oozing out of over-injected lips
typed out with freshly manicured tips
"she has weird *****" "you have a weird nose" "lay off the cookies"
we read off the scripts, taking turns playing the villain and the victim
and there are no heroes here
There are no standing ovations, no thunderous claps await

Is anyone really watching?
                                                  Does anyone really see?

With pain hardened eyes we glare
we compare compare compare
ourselves to the models, the barbie dolls, the flawless magazines
our friends, our sisters, strangers on the street
and in our rooms before the mirror
our reflection the bearer of bad news
"you are not the fairest of them all"

will we ever be?
So much trial for so much error
we are worn thin and even so
even so we are told to lose a few
And we run, endlessly
in the hopes that we may be worth something


If only we would realize that beauty is a noun, a word created by man
between beaten and become
If we win this race we will have beaten the monster society has become
and see
that we are all worth more than words                      
                                                                ­ **we are flying off the page
June 8th
This was a spoken word poem I did for an english class concerning the beauty myth. It's very lengthy, but I am very passionate about this injustice.
 Jul 2015 echo
andrea
Solstice
 Jul 2015 echo
andrea
"Jude," you said,
looking up at the clouds
the skin between your brows beginning to bend

"I don't think I can do forever"
and I tilted my head upwards, searching
the clouds for the shapes you saw

you walked

                       walked
                  
                                        walked
and the sun was so bright too bright
I couldn't see any of the **** clouds
but I could sure as hell see your shadow
growing longer larger as you walked away

that to me, that was the longest day
I wrote this on june 21 which was the longest day of the year, so let's say that was the source of inspiration
 Jul 2015 echo
andrea
what is this all for?
if i'm human and you're human
do you have the same scars?
the same stars? behind your eyes i mean

and can we share our stories and find where they intersect?

(what i'd like to ask every being i've ever met)
thinking out loud here
 Jul 2015 echo
SøułSurvivør
---

poetry. folded into my back
pocket dark garnet pages are
left frayed and friable like
leaves on the bottom
of a teacup

poetry. stancion of
formed glass emptied of
its torch by breakage
each shard a grain
of obsidian
sand

poetry. lamp of a great
beast structure struggling to
find its way through the labyrinth
Minotaur myths blackness
camera obscura to a feast of souls
who's meat is dusty tomes
skeletons in tombs
choking on their crusts of
parchment owls

poetry. oil of anointing
for to wrap the Christian
alive as he burns in
the garden of
Caligula

i am poetry. all of these
am i. a paper soul clipped
from an origami bird's wing
frayed like a homemade
leaf but never

*empty
Thanks to Nat Lipstadt
and Shaunna Harper
for the inspiration
 Jul 2015 echo
Chris
~

My heart is the poet,
*I am merely its scribe
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