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 Jan 2014 Emily Larrabee
Aarya
If I could,
I would pick up my ink pen
and drown an ocean into you
instead of drowning you in it.
Extract these rotting feelings
for the sake of your ignorance.
Carve scriptures into each delicacy of your brain
so you wouldn’t have to dwell in such misery every day.
Wire faith
to your blemished heart.  
Imbue purity
to your sullied soul.
If I could,
I would write you through all depths of insanity
without any harm
so that your
mind no longer persists the thought of death.
There was a time I thought you were dead.
Only you were painted red
in a black and white world.
Like you have been walking barefoot on a broken road
your whole life.
Your demons imitate life
And life imitates the demons.
You are the one being tied down by invisible, nonexistent chains.
So unaccepting of help that has come for you
Watch  
the sun touch the horizon
reach the meeting of sun and ground
and
Find further still,
The limits you would like to reach only run from you.
You have such a murderous tongue
for society  
people.
But one day I hope to see you write yourself into existence
Rather than to let yourself drown in it.
Why has you dying become something so habitual?
Darling, death is not a friend of yours
Nor are you a friend of his.
But I know of your frequent dates with death
Tell me
Does his neck feel like happiness
And do his lips relieve you of your suffocation
Now
are you lost?
or are you found?
Do you recognize the irony  
Of the most terrifying things happening in the most angelic places
Charm yourself upon that bridge
Whose lights light up the city in golden arrays
With a glazed look
you’d think.
In sadness seen go by
You are charmed by either war or hope.
These occurred robberies have taken much
But they left opportunity
Important people
And a moon in your window
A future that only you know the ending of  
And a slice of the midnight sky.
So it goes.
Like lightning it hit me,
those true colors
so revealing.
The next
flavor of the month
ain't ice cream,
it's real flesh & blood,
sensitive-skin &
brittle-bones
you're tasting.
Beware the honest man
For honest men have nothing to hide
Her voice echoes through the empty hallways. She is loud but alone. The tears that you see are only a fraction of all the tears she actually cries. Her hair is long and blonde, but she despises it. She wants to shave it all off, to tattoo her skull to show that caring is superficial and WRONG. She lines her blue eyes with a liner called "denim". She throws on jeans that hug her body and a t-shirt stained with hot chocolate. She covers the brown stain with a scarf. She puts on chapstick because who knows? Maybe someone will think she's important enough to kiss her. Her brand-new bangs cover her forehead and eyes. They cover the hoop earrings that feel too girly, too pretty. Everything about her today just feels WRONG. The boy she likes is just one table over, and he doesn't glance at her once the entire hour. She hurries out of the room , not looking back. She bursts into spanish class, out of breath and ready for the boredom that will be the next hour. And then it is back to study hall. It is all too repetitive for her. It is her first day back and already she looks out the door, ready to go home. It isn't like she's got any friends there either, she's an only child and her dad works overseas. The rest of the day is a blur. It passes and she doesn't notice or care. And that boy still hasn't noticed her. No one has. She is but an empty shadow of a heart in a hollow shell of a body that wants to be warmed by another.
But it isn't meant to be...
just a random excercise about describing myself from another point of view :)
 Jan 2014 Emily Larrabee
Zak Krug
I can feel the spiders crawling through the bed.
Hear the car horn,
keeping me up.
If this is how the world ends,
it will be annoying.
The empty wine bottles roll around,
crushing the cockroaches like Indiana Jones.
Only,
he escaped.
The snow surrounds my car.
Helping me forget that
the world is ending soon.
Oh,
the red wine is raining down on top of the bed.
The spiders are content sleeping at my feet.
It is a truce.
I can hear the upstairs neighbors fighting again.
Heel walkers,
they stomp and thrash about.
Scaring my spider friends.
*******!
We are trying to sleep!
The hearers and sayers are moving the truth around again.
Why are they always coming up with different reasons to die?

Especially when it is the world's hands at play;
Her gracious hands, wrapped in cellophane then thrown from the window with hate.

Oh and how we have shattered those precious porcelain fingernails.
All of that money gone to waste, burnt out on family funerals and stock exchange.

You should have spent more time outside in the shade,
Rather than lick the sweet taste of revenge off her switch blade.

To just spit back in the face of a once upon a time love.
It's the wanderers from the beginning that always come back for more.

Heaven has a special place reserved in hell for them.
It's only a matter of time before I'm trapped in between the two again.

So I'm back on the floor, with my face in the eye.
I have bitten off the last shadow.

They should be able to see the light soon enough:
But I let it slip again, out into the *nighttime stardust.
I'm still not sure of this one. I have been in a writer's block as of late and this was my attempt at breaking it. ("tear down the wall, tear down the wall, tear down the wall. . .") You get the picture.

Love, A.
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