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I am bad at flirting…like…really bad
and
I **** at being subtle.
Your blog is quality and so is mine (on good days, anyways).
I may not be that pretty, but I am a good person.
                                        I won’t ******* over.
And I will make you tea at 2 a.m. and not judge your tastes in music
(out loud).
We can watch Spirited Away or Howl’s Moving Castle or Nausica
and tumble and have *** and wear **** shades.
I will make you breakfast and vegetarian dishes
on Meatless Monday.
We can read Bukowski on swing sets, smoke cigarettes, and drink whiskey, stumble behind bushes and kiss until my lips hurt.
We can have coffee in some place in Asheville and sit really close together and make fun of black-keys hipsters
(even though I really like the Black Keys).
You will probably have to listen to lots of Hole and Rising Appalachia
and read my poetry, but I will always
read your work when you hand it to me.
And probably buy you nice things.
Like a flask with some quote you like on it. Or your favorite pack of cigs with something cute like, ‘let’s have *** in that bathroom’
written on it.
Or a nice sweater because…sweaters are nice and my blow jobs are of legend.
I may not know you that well, but I’d like to.
And I think you would like to get to know me
because I’m pretty rad.
And I look nice in green and dark navy blue,
and my hair looks pretty in the sunlight.  
I’m saying all this because I’m lonely and people with good tastes in music are rare.
How I wish that my eyes shone
Like a garden of delight
Free of time I've spent alone
And every stagnant night

There are times when I am she
Though such perfection tends to fade
Know that I cannot always be
This woman I have made
 Jan 2013 FictionisReal
MoMo
I.
Heatwaves rise,
from the grey ashes that used to be your home.
Wind blows,
a sorrowful song through the trees.
Failing to dissolve the thick black smoke.
Embers burn,
royal red and gold
and sparks fly into the night after a stray beam falls,
crumbles,
as it lands on your singed teddy bear.
The only thing left.
You were almost three.

II.
Little laughing child
you were so sweet in life.
Your fawn colored eyes were always dancing,
your round plush cheeks always rosy,
your tiny doll's feet always running,
your chubby dimpled hands always reaching,
your frizzy chocolate hair always bouncing,
your tiny rosebud mouth always smiling, laughing,
flashing small pearl teeth in your miniature pink mouth.
I will always remember your smile.

III.
Oh honey child!
You didnt get to see much of life.
You never got to shop with friends,
or drive a car,
or go on your first real date.
But you did get to make those friends
you'd eventually have gone shopping with.
You got to run, eat ice cream, throw tantrums,
and love the people you came in contact with.
You got to make your mom and dad smile.
You lit their world like no light could.
And even though you've gone and your papa's gone with you,
your mom and your friends, those closest to your heart,
will always remember you.
I don't know..
What have i done without it..
No light.. no colours..
Things i see..
Would have been like rumors..
Although small..
But part of my beauty..
Is all black..
But shows all colourful..
Yes it is..
My two round eyes  ..

I don't know..
What have i done without it..
If you get lost...
Il be full of remorse..
You let me call..
All my pal..
I love to touch..
Coz you are such..
Yes it is..
My cell phone ..

I don't know ..
What have i done without it..
You got me able to live things..
You take me to the world of success..
You give me opportunities
And people's praise sometimes..
You are something
I could never abdicate..
Yes it is..
My lucky pen ..

I don't know..
What have i done without it.
Of all the things i mentioned
Your the one who gets me most addicted
And which i can never abstain
Something which is not dalliance
And will lst forever
Coz only the aroma of yours
Is paragon for me
Yes it is
My mug full of *coffee
For the things i love  :D
you left me

waiting

you came back

wanting

still fresh
yet oh-so fuzzy

these memories clog my pipes

and make me unable to sing
I see my purple bags 
From all my sleepless night of standing at the sink hands full of the medicine I hope will dull the pain
I see the rolls that make me cry slumped in front of the mirror unable to move for fear of looking up at myself 

I know soon it will be over soon this hell hole will stop burning with the constant pain
That finally I will go back to my three month heaven of friends that are so close to family 
The wind in my hair 
Ocean spraying 
I know it is Closer than it feels 
Each moment ticking forth 
Is a moment closer 
To peace 

January
March 
April
May 
June

a simple five months 
Can feel like a lifetime
Almost infinity
Self-starvation

                        It’s how she lives, how she breathes, how she sleeps

                                    Food, food, always obsessed with food

                                                Going hours at a time on nothing

                                                            Dizzy, so very dizzy

                                                                        The lights are too bright

                                                                                    She hides away in the dark

                                                                                                She sleeps and sleeps


                                                                                                                   Miserable, lonely and heartbroken
 Dec 2012 FictionisReal
Sa Sa Ra
eYe*                                                           ­ Float!!!!
            
bid                                                        ­                                  
              
your                                        ­                                              
                                       
Heart                                          ­                 *HEART                              
       
a feather                                                       ­   
on the scale                               
          
and will watch     *Your
 Dec 2012 FictionisReal
Brycical
A conscious choice we transform
into a subconscious impulse.
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