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Psalms to ****** Ecclesiastes; now Ephesians as I wait to know you. Where is my Paul for the Philippians? Where is my Batterson, within reason?

I wait with the Bethlehem on fire that is cast in the flames of Men in fissure. Who’s cast from the narrow, wrought iron gates, and ****** and made to suffer forever.

Now Matthew and ten thousand words on pagans; fruits of Galatians raving mad. And when you cannot see, or won’t see my heart, I only understand how to blame myself.

Corinthians to your heavenly realm; enmity in your so graceful of hearts. Are your blessed Revelations witnessing second death? Something else more important than ethics or love?

“For we live by faith, not by sight” For I was so faithful to ever play part in your diaspora of Brothers in Epistle performance, redemption and providence so greedy and perfect. Was I by nature deserving of wrath? So where is my Paul for Ephesus-sent?

O, Theism as cover from flame- the Bethlehem, now crying your name. Yet silent in that omnipresent manner, at night.

And there is no one crying left to challenge what’s divine. For my body is wrecked and I’m no Brother of thine. I am many layers of things you mock. Were that Jesus could hear you proclaim that you reject me for finally teaching myself to walk.

With many words other than hate you describe me a world that’s an endless Hell. With a vague sense of end times approaching us all, I’m walking on coals but to hear you out.

Where is my Nebuchadnezzer’s wall? Your explanation in blood simple scrawl. Daniel to Genesis to holy Qadosh; now Numbers as I burn in the thought that you implied I’m unclean and you preach and you preach and I burn so you look down at me like a pillar of salt.

I’m gone with the Bethlehem on fire that is silent in ash at the end of it all. Scatter me by the White Throne of Judgment and look on and see it standing so small.

Now Matthew and ten thousand words- you don’t know me. Galatians; it used to not be immorality, debauchery. We used to confide and find peace in reality. The ash floats and it rests and you never knew me.
from december 7, 2021
poem from the past a day #32
also near the top of my favorite things i've ever written.
the style follows the third section of my poem One Night Stand in the Spoken Word, as a prose piece; this way of writing is fascinating because i can hardly explain why it works so well.
in the case of this poem, it works because it's very straightforward and open- maybe. that's a portion.
i spent an extended period of time essentially studying christianity, secondhandedly, through this born again friend i had: the subject of this poem. i was (am) an atheist, extremist feminist, studier of intersectionality, and a closeted trans woman, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide myself while supporting this person discovering viewpoints that fundamentally disagreed with my existence. the thing is that i also loved them (not in that way), and so my angst became this poem, and their thoughts became my coming out, and then we never spoke to each other again.
but this poem doesn't know about any of that. this poem is about being trapped.
He showed up in the hills at our house made out of glass
He showed up in a daze worn of the past years we let pass
He walked inside knowing everywhere to step
He made only the sound of the depths
The depths
The depths

There
An absenting stare
Over fog lights in the hills
I drove to
Exhausting my last cares

I knocked
My hand felt heavy like a rock
I stood still
With the house
And darkness falling onto my head

Two figures
One took my rock
Looking past my eyes
The other in straight jacket
Poured her gateway dyes

Silence
And I’m heaving, sick
With a racing relapse
On the halls
Plast back my past

We let no apprehension known, there watching as he fell
We met the days as fastly passing even as he dwell
We doubt in him an ability to count his own missteps
We let a ghost of ours go sink into the depths
The depths
The depths

Unfurled,
Cracked, and catatonic
I sat then lay
Into a new black sofa
Detached from reality

Memory
Everything, once, I held
It was all at some point burnt
In a way to not entirely destroy,
But to experiment with life

With hope,
Betterment I thought
By way of replacing
All my body with stone
Disquality laid to ash, and such

Forever,
With stillness, a layer of dust
I could not see
Though I heard no protest
Of two I’d come here to expect

He bould into the black, the depths, and from him rose a fire
We did not put it out, but simply removed all of our glass so
He would wake again, not to face, nor to regret, but
We who drive away into the depths
The depths
The depths
from july 23, 2019
poem from the past a day #17
somewhat awkward, but i think it gets somewhere in the end.
parts of it lean on the glass house proverb, and i enjoy how that's tucked very simply in the background and the poem doesn't rely on the metaphor, but demonstrates its toxicity.
the little gimmick of this poem is that i wrote it from two perspectives, although it's so short that the characters only interchange five times.
Neither man nor woman

Does it sting? Stinging,
to read that? To think that?
Do you know the kind of life I lead?

To be stuck with

a synonym for mirror,
the dreadful thing.

But
But, even the ocean has a horizon

Let me go,
go over it.

Let me surpass everything.
Because I pass.

Not in the mirror,
but I pass,
in spirit, gently,
and with all the conviction.

All the combustion
All the clouds
of a sun.
The Sun.

Forge me into a solid glass;
a chemicals
I’m begging myself.

Myself,
myself.

I’m this travel bag
of chemicals
not made for the spaces
cars or feet make.

I am this immiscible thing,
sometimes hated.
Oh God, never man nor woman.

Scratches don’t hurt anymore.
No, I don't feel pain at all.

I’m happy.
Maybe.

Maybe, I’m happy.
from march 12 2024
poem from the past a day #63
an underserved, disturbed meditation on the obvious.
And old; it burns

A cold, and how thawing,

Aged down to the ground

Some pelting with furious

Assault wherein snow

Will not melt, where

Trees and their burned-

Like, and sounds and their

Stowed withfor sitting

Here withered; intimately

Burning up, wind still

Hits me. The morning,

Fresh, hell-grasped

See, eyes to the ground

Up, the wood gets old,

And old owes a right

To, in peace, burn alone

Falling, with my eyes, tight
from february 8, 2019
poem from the past a day #9
it's not a very impressive poem, but it's fun to read.
100% the side of my writing that is just word salad and i contended with that after i finished this poem and i decided that it's okay to just put words in weird sequences sometimes.
just put words in weird sequences, that's my secret.
god is not a coin flip
his gender is implicit

excise all thoughts that sound of dissention
and consider your mind made by nothing other
than the systemic fetter of a thousand generations
who think prisons and hell are righteous endeavors

god is not a coin flip
you are free to try and fit

that puzzle of your logical, realistic, loving brain
inside the orchestrated plastic of patriarchal form
pleading in choral for to hate the ******
or times, monks, in matching baritones

god is not a coin flip
the angels are complicit

the work of raisin giants
won’t let me from their grip
fae and fruit dragons are sent
into historical myth, ley
way for the channels of text proclaiming
the dreams that are real and real-and-not

fake- you stay awake for raisin giants
came upon the desert mountains. they
forbade you be gay, “or worse.” made
thoughts about love unwanted phases
blind spaces in the vision of the lord
until i begin growing *******, for
the christian eye is mimicking satan
taking passes at the throne of judgment
each and every one of them, unknowns

myself was not a coin flip
i’m nothing in contention

the debate of raisin giants
against the confluence of light,
their omnipotent subjective indifference
go figures in fiction on every ism
a white brainwashing for each occasion
has not torture since been a celebration

the execution- the work of raisin giants
the inquisition implicit as blood to romans
your freedom to choose the name of me
as life is philosophically opposing things
your romans would decry tolerance, too
all the most powerful are genesis glue
it’s so me to develop these comely notions
it’s so me to define friendship on emotions-
the work of raisin giants

the god of deeply men
his gender is explicit

cast away the waxy bile that you used to write qadosh
you speak for the most dangerously spiteful of hosts
the ever bigoted fetter of a thousand generations
who think naked fear is the good path to hope

god is not a coin flip
we are free to think us free

to believe in any personal reality, or identity
inside the practiced notes the raisin giants sing
leading with the ever anger of a human being
or times, god above, in matching animosity
from august 18, 2022
poem from the past a day #48
2022 was my year!!
a good poem!
i was, at this time, fully obsessed with the intersection of christianity and the patriarchy. i was thinking about how sometimes well meaning people like to reframe the image of god as female, or even non-binary, and that frustrated me because the whole institution and central text of these religions are made by and made for men.
that's the first idea of the poem, and then i sort of interrupt that to talk about *the work of raisin giants*, which just refers to the baggage of old dead people and the evil that they have done. and, a bit about how this fever of hatred has affected me.
also of note: the 2nd line of the 7th stanza is inspired by Neutral Milk Hotel's Communist Daughter.
It’s relatively, extremely cold
In a manner like I’ve just been born

Your heart is quiet underground
When before it was frowning, perfectly sound
Maybe not perfect, but talking and-

Please, there is nowhere left for me to love
Supposed before like Spring turned from

It’s these months
Cold and envied
Of the last inbudding
Long ago seeds were doing

Those life-full alonging
Vibrant as you’re buried around them

As colored as, silently beating,
The pestilent grey of your heart

“God!” Fading apostoles of time
Sneaking such blood through your gut
Has me afraid to look down at the truth

You leave. Me, who has eighty more Springs
Me, who has failed to connect with your being

We’ve these hangups
Real or in mind
And, you’re crushed
And, I’m over here, hardly a child

So I’ll act-like, staging around
The loneliest art form, vague and deformed

Each a petal off my stagnating stem
Forever feels the same when I speak in mhm’s

Attested, and stress paced
The coffin needs cracking
Its structure will not meet
The breath of a human

As long, with the Spring dirt compression can last
Us, both keep our splintering souls to ourselves
from april 23, 2019
poem from the past a day #13
it's such a messy one.
not much to say- there's a coldness to this despite the "spring" imagery.
like the spring you imagine during winter.
a spiritual sequel to Under in the Snow, again about anger and dying .
like a rant in prose that hides.
to do what with
to crack every knuckle
to say matterhorn
patterns sound good
to crack my whole arm in
to pattern about
around on the floor
to feel the nice carpet
matterhorn matterhorn
to see it sounds nice
though you have to turn off
to mind not be bound on
by every to mind gone
pattern has pain gone
to matterhorn at
to sound pattern
comfort to brain or
to body as found on
the floor to do
nothings
to pattern
to melt to to melt to
to mete from crumpled
in pattern to shout up
to carpet towards matterhorn
to for nothings from pattern
to gone is for matter
from janurary 5, 2020
poem from the past a day #20
palette cleanser; word salad
I was up
Biting scars
In the moon-lit sunlight
The hands-up of stars

Wishing
And curling seams
Of the thought which
Is lost within minutes release

Pour what’s
My cares seep
My total alright
Into where wreathing digital deep

Soil that’s left
Damp, dark and yet
Blinding the night
Stitching up holey, blanket regret

I’m dying
Not now, but
I ball up my feet
Watching, this white heat, lying, will shut

Away
In a little
Stitched skull
Of alright
from march 12, 2018
poem from the past a day #3
immediately, i started 2018 by essentially finding my voice as a poet.
it's not very emotionally meaningful, but as far as the feeling of the rhythm, this about sums up my writing for the next few years.
it's like.. got my essence. essence of me.
So when thoughts of scents of death,
Temperament, and light
Matches will of body,
Power, dreams of scattered flight

I find myself the sweep of spattered leaves upon the trampoline
I find my body resting in the morning in the breeze

And I brought my blanket, pillow,
Basic’ly my bed
And my fingers tingle, and
My toes and in my head

There’s anger, calming, like a feather swaying on the trampoline
I mind the distant yelling through my stupor and the leaves

So when screams of fears of death,
Shadows bent, and love
Chase my tired body
Out into my autumn hug

I fear that autumn and the world will pull me from my bed,
My trampoline; like a feather, swaying is my bed

And I should not scream, and yet
Scream and cry I did
Curled up and laying there
Under the sun, I hid

I find my body being pulled, I am not alone. The trampoline
Holds several bodies stretching, crawling for my bed

So when screams turn into
Chants of breath and writhes
I slam my head against
My bed, but up, I rise

Into the sky, with leaves behind, and tears left on the trampoline
I find my body leaving, like a feather on the breeze
from october 16, 2020
poem from the past a day #29
some interesting lines, some underwhelming structure.
i get very sad when i think about this poem because i was in a deeply unhealthy mental and physical state, and an even worse living situation.
I’m going to do what I’ve seen
Many others apply
To their mind as they watch another’s body just die

Wait and beg after
Under judge of monuments
That are so very quiet in the hearts cradled resonance

Followed, bounding, cold and unfeeling
Sent into the towards
Of winter with, in horror, is rest upon one score

Come God in the next moment
The war you’ll discuss
To snow when it bombards that grave of my trust

You laying and such
Laying my life
Laying, that’s more than I’ve done with a scythe

You pouring me out
And pouring accounts
For more than what little of life I recount

Over and over
You’re sick and I’m sober
Into buckets, begets; we sink only closer

Until,
And I’ve seen,
Until the water’s mixed up

Your blood with,
Nor life, nor
Denying regrets
from november 6, 2018
poem from the past a day #7
i tapped into real emotions in this poem. it might not be clearly, surely about anything, but it is about something.
this was made when i started thinking about my dad's mortality when he got and stayed very sick, and how weird it is to feel anything about that because he's an abuser.
anyway, i did good here, for it allowed me to think with empathy and rage rather than think nothing about it at all.
Why should it matter, you say.

Why indeed.

I don't want to know you anymore.

It doesn't matter.

You would say I'm sorry you feel that way.

You good Christian boy.

Are you hurt?

Do you feel hurt?

I want you to be hurt with me.

I am not well and neither is this world, and you are not well.

Cry!

We should all be crying.

That you would rather ignore all of this. Hurts.

You ask what does it matter what you feel.

Of course it matters what you feel.
from april 2, 2022
poem from the past a day #38
a product of a lot of shouting thoughts.
I look up to god
When I'm drunk

because

He's a view to
Crane my neck to.-

gets in the way

~

Your fate is to die in the earthworm's stomach;

Deploy detail from your life
and digitize a seance for its-self

alone

only one who knows you
is

. . .

Could you even
defy Hershey's grip,
you sodomite?

Playing @
these sorts of extracurricular fights

It's truly
earthworm's who will deliver you right-

ly a quick and sympathetic death.

~

but f٭٭k it. Roach
Away floods my feet,
and factions divide my liver;
i am hardly
flotsam.

I'm adjectives of wreck,
synonyms of much
deprived floods of
smoke. Such that shuts
me away, away, away.
Fate-funs break my spirit-
and you run,
you run!

How dare you rush like sequin
onto any bare skin surface-
you chocolate, running.
I hate you

I hate you all.

Do not develop emotions,
or ****;

and by all means,
despise yourself.

And,

waste

apart from mind.

Be you in an earthworm's behind.

~

F٭٭٭٭٭g a challenging nothing.
I want you to be something,
anything.

Nun me. I would make
many-***** out of your pieces
of cake.
I hate you.

I hate you all.

You. F٭٭٭٭٭g. Lottery. Punks.

The lines in my face are a perfect sum
of the precise faults of
the earthworm's gut.

~

Your neurotic monks-
you've got me
addicted
to a specific death

My fate is to develop in the earthworm's gut.

/

Maybe I'll experiment with blood

Maybe I'll experiment with bloodK٭٭l me quickly

K٭٭l me quickly

Maybe I'll adhere with burns

Maybe I'll steer me under
under
under
ground

Milk me quickly

I can’t be a suicidal sine
serving a princess-and-the-pea type mind

Maybe I’ll try to be a DeviantArt update,
desperate emotion bemusing in keystroke

I’ll experiment with light

I’ll imperialize her fuse

Fill yr unsanitized fins with

Ifs

and maybe I'll experiment with ***

Maybe I'll rip you from your life

Ifs spit from naked myth

K٭٭l me quickly,

you horrible,

you gorgeous

earthworm spit.
from february 22, 2024
poem from the past a day #61
a what a bad past it was.
this is a fully unhinged piece of writing.
this is drunk writing. i was on some worm stuff.
but that's the vibe- that's the point.
i can't explain any of it.
The sky was nothing, but nebulae stretched across three-hundred million years in distant patches of dust-streaked systems.

In-between was a common substance altogether defined as something missing. In these pathways, voidspace, were waves unrecognizable as thoughts left over from the explosion of a sun.

I spoke. Softly falling, like the last raindrop in a storm, my influence not considered as much as my absence was before. I say that I don’t have a body, but I have a form. A pour of peaks and troughs, and thoughts- somehow- and will, and more.

My quilt of neurons-were is here, is stored in voidspace. Clears of filaments, antimatter, hem as far as vibrations embrace all of them.

I awoke in the afterlife of Earth. Am I air, or something of that sort? A momentary retreat of the excessive supernova? Still… I’m coding the breadth of time between breaths when I was my body. I am able to be.

I am many changing frequencies. Human parallel with the stars behind me. That before who I described as exploding was nothing more than a constellation of molecules hopelessly enframing. I may have gone young, but I was not aging. I realize that we weren’t designed for changing.

The sky was an uncountable series of lights, and too an accent of infinite black. But the void plays gently around my intent. We express all that can be, and could be expressed, in the smallest differential of space distressed.

In a motion I cry for the atmosphere I lost. Lorelei with her sheltered grove of strife. Layers of nightmares come-to-life. And a leering monkey attached to her back, the prehensile production of what ultimates death.

Her worst fear was always what others would remember. What they used to call her. And now we have all been extinguished together.

The waveform oscillates, up and down. She begins to panic, and suppose. If I am here then they are too. And they know not for whom they grieve. Is the void- is it all the same? Did I fail to coordinate with the end of the world?

The sky was nothing, responding back. Gas formed a rainbow of pillars of salt. Swirls of memories standing at the edge. Groups of Galatians stabbed with knives. Blood in the water of Spring in Order, and everybody else who has ever suffered. White chalk, my dog who only ever knew my old smell. Crying solipsism on the steps of a cathedral. All the screens in all their phases. Because she must create noises, brittle, as the rotting ragdoll’s needle. Bugs wrecking, inseperence, roses in acidosis imprint; all their healing in all insistence. If you all stayed longer you would have met me-

In the voidspace I flatline. The microscopic adjustments flutter as I emulate her heartbeat. It’s one thing that I don’t remember. I realize how cold we are in-between. She must have formed during the winter. All the veins are clocks like pulsars.

Can any of you hear me?

mother
father
sister
brother

I was born, I think, to be loved.

voidspace
sun
father
mother
of

She was born, I think, to be loved.

But the air I fill is never warm. Void. Sky, in, I exist is never still. I thought the process of negative matter would effectively displace the isolation. All the cells are fluctuations.

Light-traced electromagnetic ranges are making me in the naked night. Void. Separation. The eye is nothing to the observation. What amount have I thoughtlessly absorbed since the very first particle created sight?

The sky was irrevocably something, and I have grayed before, and beyond it. What is the separation of reality / contradiction; all the self is imprecise, and maybe every brain is this same confliction.

My vertex meets the arbitrary crest of a larger place. I say that I don’t have a body, but I have a voice. At some indefinable distance in time, I am responded with another copse of sines.

daughter
daughter
daughter
daughter

My sun is gone too. All your waves are projections of anguish. I am not sure if I know you. All I am is that I hear you. Every peak is meeting troughs of yours that recompile mine. In this way we can create and uncreate love.

Although… it did not take the end of our kind to be capable of change. For we were, and are still, composed of our sun. In voidspace the makeup of emotion is clearer. Lo, all the stages are in their own way a deception betrayed by their need for expression. Look around and you can see each atom is composing a partner in this reflexive pattern. Recursive, and always following each other.

I know this does not account for your mind. You experience her in a macroscopic sense. I believe I can define your negative space. We can stretch the additive wave throughout time.

Until we are whole.

The sky was my own. This strange cosmic warmth stretched forever and I… spoke. Softly nodding. I say that I don’t have a body, but we are a voice.
from may 29, 2022
poem from the past a day #46
fourth in a four part series.
girls own the void, the poem.
also, a firework for the previous 5 years of my poetry, ~16 of which are referenced (one or two that aren't even posted on this website).
i certainly tried something here. i tried to cobble a story together. i tried to make it end-of-world. that's a hard setting to pull off. that kind of existential philosophy is hard to pull off. i don't think i pulled it off. but, i do love this poem.
the reader doesn't get the comfort of reading it all in one way. you have to bounce between rhythms, a light dust of rhymes, momentum ending run on sentences, and like with all of my poems, thoughts left unexplained.
but it was an effort to put this mess together. it's cute. it perfectly represents a version of me that existed for hours at a time, on and off, during the year 2022. this avid experiencer of joy. i was writing a blog and everything...
i just love poetry and here's my poem thanks.
You are a part
of a whole
You are a part of a part of a whole
You are a function of ancient answers
You are a questioning, questioning soul

You are the breath
of a death
You are the life of a dying breath
You are the function of ancient answers
You are the flower from yesterday's rain

You are a change
in yourself
You are your sep’rating, sep’rating self
You are the message to all of the living
You are the call from the land itself

You are a part
of a whole
You are a part of part of an old
existence that is over
functioning proper and allowed

a rest
for a change
for the rest is being unmade
You are a function of ancient answers
You are living
You are dead
from may 4, 2025
poem from the past a day #64
now, deep into 2025, having not gathered my energy for writing, it's anyone's guess how we're supposed to escape the claws of depression under such a trauma inducing leadership.
so i haven't written much. it slowed down in 2023 for personal reasons- positive reasons. it was cut up to pieces in 2024 for personal reasons- negative reasons. and in 2025, it's just a matter of holding on, art production be ******- self-expression be ******.
for these reasons, this poem isn't much to read, but it's fine. it's enough.
I’m nice, I’m fragile. I’m deeply unclean.
Two-faced, I’m writing about my mistakes
In a truest, maybe, snapshot escape

Even opaque, small, mocking pokes
Deepen that parasocial machina
From the black mirror, marching, it groped

I ignore my mind when it’s trying the most
I ignore my dad when he’s dying. I hope
The end is as transitory as it’s in memory

Then am I smearing a brainstalk Gemini
Their name around, on a leash, I spoke
Like ants emerging from the scaffolds of Babel

Like grotesque stats- like millions- Billionsthought
Those that huff endorphins as if in some battle
Half-twins and crows feet back-bearing taut

Rope, learning for the first time to tie them. Again,
in Wonderful Heat, or the West, and a Siege
Spanning, hilariously, the contiguous Bethlehem

I’m lost. I’m dirt-caked. I’m dragging a scene.
Chaptered; I’m acting it out in the mud
In a ghostly transparence before only your sun

Even fainting, trying to see my reflection
Deep- God, “Somewhere!” within the cogwork
Into ‘stead pulled the mud stains suction

I stir, my mouth sputters out with invicta
I breathe. For the sun, can I see still, is living
A last invocation, and its light dims the distance
from janurary 7, 2020
poem from the past a day #21
there isn't much to talk about here. a stepping stone poem, a couple interpolations from my other poems, especially ones that i was writing at the time and which will come later. same old mess of words.

— The End —