when it rains,
i sometimes stick my
arm outside
the confines of my room,
close my eyes,
and try counting
the number of kisses
the rain makes
with my outstreched arm;
i never keep count,
i just keep thinking
of the attiring
trees and other plants
with my own,
inverted set of lungs.

  2d Emily B
Woody

The heart knows
no boundaries
except for the fences
and walls
you build upon it,
so you better keep a plot
for yourself or
someone's liable
to lay a stake or
a claim to
every sad, aching
bloody acre.

Emily B Aug 8

I keep my inner poet
Put away.
She is dangerous.
Doesn't understand her own power.
She thinks she can fly
And she'll make you believe
That you can, too.
But her wings are paper thin.
Too fragile for flight.

Her eyes shine too much
When the poetry is flowing.
I've seen the devastation
That can follow in her wake.

Grown men don't believe
In poetry.
Get lured in by siren songs.
Feel cheated
when the music ends.

I keep her put away
And hold my gaze on my hands
In the dirt.

We are safer that way.

Emily B Aug 8

But i need a day
To lay in bed
And twine toes with somebody
And stare at the ceiling

A day to talk
About nonsense
And be really heard

And laughter
I could use
Lots of that

I just need
A day

Or two or three

Emily B Jul 29

I haven't seen
So many angels
Hiding
In the clouds
Since John died.

They seem to be
Equipped for war.

Necesito
Todo
Los angeles.

My heart is heavy.

Emily B Jul 28

Some girls
Have butterflies
Beautiful winged elegance
Flying through their cerebrums

Me?

I've got old ghosts
That turn into whiskey drunk monsters
Saying
"I should put a bullet
In your brain".

I saw him yesterday.
Standing in front of me.
Blowing his brains out
Over and over.

A movie stuck on repeat
In my brain.

And some small part
Of me
Hopes he does it.
So he doesn't come after me
Anymore.

Maybe
The monster is me.

I don't know
  Jul 26 Emily B
r

Love can be like
trapped light
existing like dusk
the likes of which we can't see
physical but not optical
gravesites for stars
a waystation for dreamers
a delta to cruise through
paradise on Sunday
cold as ice on Monday
a hundred pound block on tongs
with a butterfly at its center
your temple of madness
or the Egypt of your sex
lands of mystery
an island of death
proven theories of sorrow
your lineage, children, tomorrows.

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