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HR B Sep 2011
The blackness
that fills up the shadows of my mind in the daylight
creeps down my spine, under the stars
and into my blood.
My heart beats are muddled
with these veins full of lead.
Blood splattered walls
and decomposing kindness
are everywhere I turn.
I cannot escape my own violence,
my muscles taut
from a fixation
with unborn iniquity.  

But there is no need for concern.
I run, sprint,
from these nightmarish ideas
and these inky, wicked words
that take refuge
in my dreams.

I awake changed.
My subconscious,
a worthy adversary.
Battle scars, invisible.

Until I close my eyes.
© wordswithmypulse
HR B Aug 2011
my august crisped shoulders long for pallor
and the warm graze of sea foam green wool sweaters.
my tongue yearns for the pleasing punch of cinnamon
and the silent shocking spice of pumpkin.
long nights full of honey glazed tea
and apricot scones that melt me from the inside out.
electric bulbs resting on branches
illuminate the leaves who surrendered
to the numbing temperatures
that seep into all things they reach.
© wordswithmypulse
HR B Jul 2011
I squint so hard I can’t believe my eyes are not diamonds yet,

and there you are.

There you are, walking.

Away from me. With your dress on a date with the wind. I think you have a rock stuck in your left shoe.

Your hair is a 14 karat waterfall and I don’t need to imagine the skin you have pierced with your eyes, I still have a stud in my heart somewhere. It’s a nice memento but inconvenient at airports.
© wordswithmypulse
HR B Jul 2011
my ears rang for hours like phone lines leading to diamond mines. my breath stayed trapped in my lungs as stars flickered into view above our heads, lightyears above our heads. our veins flooded with spirits, our skulls clouded with smoke; we made lopsided eye contact and smile crookedly. my hands rested on your knees, itching to drift north. there was not space enough for words between our thoughts that linked with the brushing of our lips and it was known at once that our hearts nearly exploded concurrently, our hands were still, locked together like a riddle with no vowels, with no punctuation, we stayed, together, like that, until the air around us stilled and our ****** beats were so loud, the weeds were bewildered. and then we stood, the riddle of our palms still unsolved, and our legs took over, propelling us through a parking lot so dimly lit our pupils resembled dinner plates, and we got into the car to sit, to revel in our veins that seemed to connect at a point not visible to human eyes. our smiles askew and our brains charming each other amongst the crackling, we left.
© wordswithmypulse
HR B Jul 2011
I know that there are times, seconds, spaces of space even smaller than seconds in which I will decide to leave. I will move my feet and my heart out of reach and I will sit under the moon, begging it to light the way home. away from here, from the sound of the melodies that grew out of the trees in the mind. I know that there are days, pieces of days held together by only the breathes that I take, in which I will decide to rest, to fold my legs underneath me and hunch like I’m peering through a puzzle, and I am. the roadmaps back to my heart are intricate, twisting and winding like oak trees that have seen centuries. With each inch of ground I pass over, the leaves are drier, the soil is filled with cracks, the brooks have been parched for months. I carry a watering can the color of scorched orange peels and keep my Ts crossed in hopes water with trickle out of somewhere, sometime, so I that can grow again.
© wordswithmypulse
HR B Jul 2011
I have wings now and then, but maybe not today.
They're sensitive to glances,
quick to retreat into my bones and shiver me breathless, ruffle me wordless,
leaving me to fight gravity on my own.
They shine with a rich silver sheen
that threatens and beckons at the same time.
Fixed with fatal angles,
my feathers can end your life, or make it worth living.
I can be freed of the ground, of the pull that never lessens,
now and then, but maybe not today.
© wordswithmypulse
HR B Apr 2011
Your words are still here
like the streaks of mascara
that drip off my chin
and may never
wash out of my jeans.

Your eyes are still
in front of mine
like the spots that coat every image
after glancing at the sun.

Your songs are still here,
echoing through my day
as if this planet
rested in a cave.

I tried to run.

Broke down that wall.

I found myself.

I thought that would help
to fill the pocket in my chest
you filled.

It didn’t.
© wordswithmypulse
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