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 Oct 2012 Emma Johnson
liz
neruda.
 Oct 2012 Emma Johnson
liz
Let me be a woman you write of
with montaña curves
tuffs of hair

I want to be admired like chile
and upheld like your literature
kiss me with ink and paper
acid free
and coo me with love letters from mistaken authors

pablo, release your fire
and aim towards my fur;
Am I not a worthy candidate
for an unhealthy obsession
an ode to pablo neruda, one sultry sultry man
On Wednesday nights I
drink a little too much
and become obsessed with the lines
of my palms, yours.

I count the bottle caps and wonder
How many it takes to get
Your clothes off.

We should have kept a tally going.
We should have been softer and
Turned some music on.

I laughed as we crossed the street.
I shivered and you shrugged but did not
Take your coat off.
 Oct 2012 Emma Johnson
pascal
all they want is a sweet flesh hole to harvest in
pink wet and tight to the fit
let me get in
get that, get in that
let me get in
open your doors to me
please please, just be with me
all i am is what they want

i see their eyes and how they lie
i see their eyes and how they lie
i see their eyes and how they lie
i see your eyes and how they lay

im not naive
my soul is old
intutions, intutions cutting in on me
cutting in on me
cutting in me
keeping me awake at night
keeping my brain buzzing like a plane running low on gas
running out of circulation
loosing blood, ounce by ounce

get that get in that
get in get in
get that get in that
let me in
If we called them threads,
and managed to catch them
in the palm of our hands
and just hold it there forever,

Would that make it easier?
Would that make life better?
Will it make us happier?
Will it be like a little charm
exchanged in-between friends?

The kind that makes a person
grin? The kind that they take
out and stare at secretly when
the world has walked out on them
and it still makes them smile?

If we could call the rays of the
sun, thread and tie it around
our wrist, like a symbol for something
bigger than you and me, like a symbol
of change, could we be happy again?

Maybe we would be, but would it
scorch us and brand us with it's
unforgiving heat? It would look like
a burn from rope tied too tightly and
for too long, showing our courage,
our will to look ahead.
A will made of fire.

With such a bright, harsh symbol,
would the facades of many crumble to
reveal their intentions?
Would anything come out of it but anarchy?
Anything but turmoil and not knowing
whom to trust.

That symbol of change and hope and something
so much more bigger than humanity itself
What would happen if we could hold
one ray of sunlight in the palm of our hands?
 Oct 2012 Emma Johnson
September
She, only exists in the dusk hours.
Clings to the breath after April showers
The Angel sings with a halo and wings made of lust
The bust of his lover still hovers in his hand
Meetings unplanned but demanded by both.
An oath meant for growth and simply no more—
Purely to adore his virginal *****, who never gives
What he lives for; only a taste for the lonely.
His mind is reeling with the thoughts of thieves.
     She leaves, and he waits.
Plans dates with weights made of steel on his back
Soon to crack from the lack of a meal,
His stomach filled with a ravenous zeal.
Thrilled with the build of his lover now returned,
She is burned by the flames of a snake spurned.
This is about a friends-with-benefits relationship where the woman is not giving him completion. He takes what he wants.
the truth came
tumbling in on a cold
winter wind
i was asleep,
the world became chaos
my grandmother told me to
face my eyes in
the mirror
i found after much
distress,
i couldn't
 Oct 2012 Emma Johnson
pixels
Step on the scale
fidget
fidget
"Three Digits!"
f a t

Shuffle back to Your Room
p r i s o n  c e l l

8:00AM
Drag yourself to the main desk
The Morning Medication line is long today
m i n d l e s s

Pretty pills fill your palm
They have changed colors today
They are all shapes, large and colorful
c y a n i d e

PLUNK PLUNK PLUNK

They dive into your empty stomach
Swim in acid and glide through your veins

Emotional Morphine-
You await the glorious numbness
s a n i t y

and still you crave the blade.

*b l o o d
Written on 9.24.2012, while in the psychiatric hospital.
4
Everything is real,
But everything is false.
The contents of the cut-up hourglass
Stick to the beat of my hand,
Running through sands,
Like the tick-tock of a well-worn clock,
Nothing ever lasts.

The rose in loom of a razor blade,
Cut deep into the name of that
Recently deceased, elderly man.
The rose in name of the razor blade
Cut deep into the palm of his hand,
Everything is beautiful.
Everything is real.
But nothing ever lasts.
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