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 Jan 2015 Elvie Libby
Gigi Tiji
You are the art. You are the artist and the artist is love and the love is the creator and the creator is the artist and you are the art. The artist is the art and the art is the artist. You are love and you plant seeds of yourself. You plant seeds of energy, thought, and emotion in the garden of your life and you are the garden. You are the garden and you are the gardener. The seeds' shells crack, the insides come out, and everything changes, and your shell cracks and all your insides come out and everything changes. Tendrils reaching up and up and it is growing and you are growing. You are giving them time to grow, space to grow, and love and you are giving yourself time to grow and space to grow and love... to grow. The plants will grow and grow and you will grow and know that they will blossom and you will blossom and when they blossom they will blossom out of your garden and into another's and so shall you.
Turn your soil and turn yourself.
 Jan 2015 Elvie Libby
izzi3
~being~
 Jan 2015 Elvie Libby
izzi3
the thing is
we are all completely beside ourselves
with pain and anguish
but yet we continue through
the pain, feeling as awful as ever.

and then we allow it
to continue and we
let our heads fall down
our mouths scream in anger
and our words to drip with spite

for those that have it easier
than me or you
kiss the constellations and
you just pray you'll
make it out the other side
[i.k]
slam.x
 Jan 2015 Elvie Libby
izzi3
i feel the world is lifting slowly away from my shoulders and releasing me
after an eternity i've finally discovered i can breathe without her at my side
although my heart aches a little more with every waking moment
with the thought that i might never again see her or the galaxies that exploded within her

atop the mountain
i know the musky scent of pine needles will bring back forgotten memories
the frosty mornings we spent outside, side by side, the fire burning softly
our hands wrapped around metal mugs in which sweet tea tainted the air
with wild curling steam that drifted without a single breath of wind
and mingled with the smell of cigarettes and cheap ***** on her breath

we heard buzzards screech and saw them loftily wheeling in the empty skies
among our little mountain range where the wolves cried at the moon that lay among the stars
and where the sky seemed to stretch away from us infinitely with endless beauty
all i can think of now is the way her hair always smelt of the crisp apples we ate in the springtime
*atop the mountain
this doesn't really have a rhythm or rhyme, it's just a slam poem..

— The End —