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1.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
1.
There are rockets in my feet.

Take me to a new level.

Where the oxygen falls into my lungs

and my blood slides through my circulatory system.

My love is unmelting ice under the sun.

Here I am.

Where are you?
1/30, 2012
10.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
10.
For a long time 
I thought that the smell 
of the elderly, 
"that old people smell",
was the smell of decay. 

A smell so honest, 
other fragrant molecules 
could not bear 
to intrude 
or cover it up.

I wonder when 
I will start to emit a scent 
that signifies my adventure 
turning to departure.

Will any of my atoms 
transform 
when I arrive 
to a new life? 

Will I fill the noses 
of strangers with 
rebirth? 

With beginning?
10/30, 2012
11.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
11.
Only in retrospect
do I put together the pieces
that form the key
to my own sexuality.

The weeks when I bought
spearmint gum
and prayed to Jane Lynch
hoping that the girl who sat next to me
in third period Chemistry.
would ask me for a piece.
I didn't like spearmint
as much as I liked peppermint.
But she did.

The lunch breaks I spent
in the classroom
of my vertically rewarded
gloriously collar *****
and beautifully articulate
English teacher,
when I knew very well
that there was nothing wrong with my
essay.

The nights
when I was slide
as close as possible
to my best friend in sixth grade
thinking maybe she would turn over
and look at me
the same way I gazed
at the back of her head.

The smiles
that landed on my parent's faces
when I told them,
"I want to kiss girls
the way my friends want to kiss boys."

The hug
my best friend gave me
when I told him
I didn't want to join the
Gay Straight Alliance
because I didn't want people to think I was gay.

Because they would be right.
11/30, 2012
HR Beresford Apr 2012
How do you get those boots on?
I’ve never seen any straps or laces or snaps or velcro.
When did you know you could fly?
Did you fall out of a tree when you were five and missed the ground?
How does Gravity feel about this?
Does that spandex itch?
Do you wear underwear under the spandex under your underwear?
Do those cuffs rub against your forearms?
How does it feel to a lift a car?
Like a tin can?
Like a paper bag?
Like a bucket of feathers?
What it is like to look eighty stories down and know that you are safe, that you can always save yourself?
Do you have a sixth or seventh sense?
Does it ever wake you in the night?
Do you experience the blistering heat and the chilling cold?
Do you feel it in your bones like I do?
Do you want to destroy your living room when someone has lied to you like I do?
Have you ever destroyed your living room when someone has lied to you?
Does your cape get stuck in the elevator doors?
Do you ever take the elevator?
Do you ever take the remote into the kitchen during a commercial break?
Can you stay on the couch and reach all the way to the counter?
Do you wear a mask?
Does it leave those red marks like my glasses do on my nose?
Do you want **** people who are dangerous and rotten in some places on the inside with one hand?
Does evil reside in you as well?
2.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
2.
I am a flood.

Take me to a desert.

Unleash me when you are facing a drought.

I am murky,
I can soak you through.

I am teeming,
I am sure I could be heard,
splashing into the hollows of you.

A tin can,
rasping for rain.

Creak to the tune,
of the dripping from my veins.

Pouring bubbling trickling.

Come here,
basin.

Empty me.
2/30, 2012
3.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
3.
Embers under my feet.
Burning into the earth’s memory.
Scorching my way to you.
3/30, 2012
4.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
4.
cotton swabs.

iodine.

needle.

deep breath in.

deep breath out.

deep breath in.

deep breath o—.

a spark lands on my nose.

smoldering and burning.

metal is hot and loving.

rebirth is a pyrexia.
4/30, 2012
5.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
5.
Regret
sounds like
knees hitting carpet
faster than words can travel
through a cellphone receiver.
It looks like
a black left fender
on a brown Honda accord.
It feels like
boulders placed
between your joints.
It does not leave
until you pick it out
from between your teeth.
It is a filling meal
that leaves you unsatisfied.

You must recalibrate your scale,
convert the value of moments gone.

Wipe your shield clean,
and watch the road ahead.

Asphalt under your tires
can fill you to new depths.

And you can be light again.
5/30, 2012
6.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
6.
There were days when I was sure
that those jars in the back seat of your car
held the breathes I couldn’t take when I was with you.

Did you take them for me?

When I did breathe, it was deep and slow,
I wanted you to dive into the micro veins at the bottom of my lungs and stay in my mind.

For months your name and my pulse were made of the same letters.

For hours our hands were not our hands,
they were one warm sizzling popping absently ever present hand.

You told me you felt altered
and we were.

We birthed a new shade of infatuation when we swirled together.

Never before had such a hue been found in the spectrum,
but we were sure we had seen it before.

Some place,
some time.

Maybe we can paint a house that color together.

In a different place,
in a different time.
6/30, 2012
7.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
7.
I never walk through a crowd without scanning for the back of your head.

Those beautiful black strands dancing just above your shoulders 
lure me to those blades 

that you sharpen during the day and you pull out at night. 

They threaten but their beckoning is stronger. 

When I squint hard enough, I can see the magnets in your hands. 

Your fingers brushed mine enough to configure my blood to run in your direction. 

Like the river you are everywhere.

Every branch sways with your rhythm. 

You have a beautiful act. And you never revealed all of your secrets.

I am here 
and you are here
but we have disappeared.
7/30, 2012
8.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
8.
My heart begins to
quiver, and makes a show of
my trembling hands.
8/30, 2012
HR Beresford Apr 2012
I sweep up the pieces.
Methodically
and with the same rhythm
of the feet that walked through me.

I gather them and I spread them out.

I touch
and feel
and remember
each piece
and who resided there.

I think about all of the places
they took them
and all that they must have seen.

And after studying and remembering
and maybe imagining
some of the history
since I last pulled out my needle and thread,

I write.
I stitch together things that were,
I thread through myself
the things that couldn’t be,
and I plunge
into everything
that will never exist.

I come out of it
shocked
and sober.

I draw my heart
into a Venn diagram of sorts
and try to keep experiences separate.

The lines fade after time.

Sometimes I awake
in the middle of the night
and must sort through everything again
because it has all slid to one side.
I walk carefully,
attempting to keep balance;
the road is not smooth.

I cry.
A lot.
I flush out the sadness
and fill myself
with emptiness instead.

But then I feel hollow
as if a breeze could pick me up
and I might blow away,
and I allow the thoughts of what was
to weigh my heart down
and anchor me;
this heaviness leads to
me ringing it out again.

Heartbreak is a vicious cycle
that tears me apart
but teaches me how put myself back together.

I also drink a lot of chai tea.
I warm myself from the inside out.
And do a lot of ballet.
Discipline my muscles.

The most excruciating part about heartbreak,
is that it is completely irrevocable.
I do not,
cannot,
remember
what it was like
to not feel this way.

How did I sit still
without my heart quivering
and making a show of it
with my trembling hands?
How did I smile
without feeling untrue
to the inner most workings of me?
Will there always be these cracks?
9/30, 2012
HR Beresford Apr 2011
I see you in the stars,
and you lay in all the grass,
you are linked to every tree.

All the oceans and the atmosphere are
you
you
you.

Supernovas in your heart,
lightyears of my love.

All for you.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Feb 2011
Love is like putting on a new pair of glasses.
But not realizing you're wearing them.
Until it registers that you are looking at small things in big ways.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Dec 2011
When I am done here,
I will be given to whom I owe everything:
Earth.

My body will become one with the soil,
and so will the invisible scars you've left me with;
and botany will bloom,
and a garden will flourish from my body,
thus making you and I:

forever.

Long after I am gone,
people will walk by at this time of night,
and if they are of the observant type,
they will see the glowing pedals in the moonlight,
and they will pause and whisper,
"Wow.
So lovely.
This has been grown will love."

And, silently, they will wonder,
"Who keeps this up?
Who trims and preens and cares for it?"

And the wind will rustle the leaves on nearby trees,
and a Black Eyed Susan will blossom before their eyes,
and they will utter a small disbelieving,
"Oh."

And that small two letter one syllable will dance
off of their tongue and into the night air,
and Luna will smile,
and that person will keep walking,
and the waves will roll on,
and the Sun will rise again.
HR Beresford 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 Beresford Mar 2011
There was a planet within us
and a bridge between our minds,
two walls between our hearts. 
The echoes of our sighs 
bounced off of raindrops 
and soaked into oceans.
That cold morning my heart expanded, 
it tried to fit all of you inside
but your voice alone
filled it to the brim and
now these quiet nights
leave that pocket on my left hand side
aching for your love.
I've never been good at arithmetic
but you were more than fraction.
Infatuation is a slippery *****
and I've never been someone with traction.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Sep 2011
I check my pulse.

I count the milliseconds it takes
for my blood to get from my heart
to somewhere else in my body;

my toes,
my head,
my ears,
my fingers.

An inventory of my beats.

Measuring the strength of my heart.

Some nights it takes longer.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Jan 2013
I had been flickering
for months

I became deaf
to my own white noise

I did not hear
the sizzling
of my own
dying candlelight

perplexed by
the burning
between my fingertips

I looked to see
miniscule carcinogens

I stopped feeling
the breeze
I could not calculate it
without equating it
to the swaying
of my flame

Without an internal inferno
it is cold in November

My hands are sore
from the friction
I have been causing
myself

with gratitude
I am burning again
my heart beating
with lovely combustion
HR Beresford Nov 2012
the soil in my soles
is wet
this time of year
the cracks
filled with summer sun
are mending

the seeds
of recovery
have been carefully
placed between
my veins

with every heart beat
I can feel the green
starting to make way
to the surface

it will be a long autumn
blooming with sobriety
nursing the chrysanthemums
adorning my lucidity
HR Beresford Apr 2011
Can I crawl into your mind?
Is there room in there?
What about your chest?
I could sit on the right hand side
and watch your heart all night.
I could be lulled into slumbering
with the rise and fall of your sighs.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Nov 2011
November rain,
you slay me with your bravery.

Falling without hesitation.

Gathering in clouds.

Praying;

for destruction,
for implosion,
for release.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Oct 2011
Dear Autumn,

I kneel at your oak alter, hands clasped around my steaming coffee cup, defrosting.
I silently count the copper leaves that fall around me, pulling your crisp raw air deep into my lungs, hoping to dust out the recesses of a rowdy summer.
The soundless spice of brown sugar cinnamon feels like a prayer in my mouth.
A combination of knee high wool socks and chestnut brown boots halt the cold from traveling from the morning’s frozen dew that rests, stubborn on the the lawn, into my bones.
Sweep clean, the ground where my heart leaped, when a net did not appear.
Healing is never over, but the seasons always come.
Fall, be kind.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford 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 Beresford 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
HR Beresford Mar 2013
I thought about running my fingers through your hair a hundred times. I didn’t. I stayed exactly as I was. I was afraid of the electricity in my hands. I did not want to start a fire on accident. I did not want to mend the burns. I thought about resting my hand on your wrist. I didn’t. I did not want to wake you. I imagined lacing our fingers together as our body temperature dropped and our breathing slowed. I didn’t. I do not know how to sew very well. I was two heart beats away from lightly placing my leg over yours. I didn’t. I was afraid of wanting to wake up beside you too much.
HR Beresford Jan 2013
“Do not peek under your armor,
Do not peek under your armor,
Do not peek under your armor.

You can feel the rushing of your rivers without them leaking through,
You can hear the thundering of the heart beats inside you above the murmuring of sickness.

Though your darkest parts may scream for a silver lining,
may beg incessantly to be let out,
do not let them breathe,
do not let them breathe,
do not let them breathe.

You are stronger than the snarls echoing in your ears.

Scream louder,
drown them out,
drown them out,
drown them out.”

I cannot always find my voice.
HR Beresford Jan 2011
I want to hear the words
that come out of your mouth.
I wish I could see them forming in your brain
then coming out a little south.
I would crawl into that cranium
and be surrounded by your deliriums.
I would stroll around your memories.
knock on doors that lead to your own realities;
the malleable perceptions that you resort to during deflections.
I want to see what you see
and hear sounds through your ears.
I want your nerves to be mine,
get familiar with your gears.
I want to know the back of your hand
like I know my own.
But I wont enter your heart.
No, I'll leave that alone.
The asylum for your darkest parts is not mine to rearrange.
Nor would I if I could, there's not a thing that I would change.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Feb 2011
so I think its time to come out and say it because I’ve been hiding behind other words all this time and I’ve been allowing my subconscious to do the speaking but the aching of my body with you so far away has sanctioned to me to gauge just how hard I’ve fallen for you. luckily there was you to break the fall and in your arms I know I’m safe and I have finally realized that this is what I have always been without I have always fallen alone. I have always ended up face to concrete but with only a nosebleed to show what occurred. I never imagined that to stumble doesn’t mean to injure and that to love doesn’t mean to empty the contents of my eleven ounce lifeline. a quiet passion sits at the soles of my feet, waiting for my pulse to speed waiting for my pulse to dole it out, limb by limb and vein by vein until I am flushed in the face and salty in the eyes. any thing in the world you could say and I listen as if I am being explained how to cure cancer or establish world peace. every second in the same with room is like a cycle of the sun and every minute spent in you arms the rest of the universe does not exist and the only language is hysteria and heart beats. and I have always been under the impression that love is something that you are and there are signs to coming to the conclusion that you’re in it but all at once I realized that I have always felt a pull towards you and that is must be love hauling me your way.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Nov 2011
We were meant to be, darling.

But only for a little while.

Long enough to discover our artistry, but not long enough to create together.
Long enough to know each other, but not long enough to forget all else.
Long enough to learn of love, but not long enough to be lovers.

Not long enough.

Not long enough.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Apr 2011
If I could crawl into a furnace and not melt I would crawl into you. You would warm me to the tips of my fingers and the ends of my hair could draw glass letters in the sand. I could glow orange and red with your veins glowing with the combustion of our love filling your form to the brim to the brim to the brim. Let me lean in, I don’t want to you to spill any of that love on the carpet.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Apr 2011
the windows
to your soul
lead me into your guest rooms
show me the print on the carpet
its a good print to find words in 
the artwork on the walls in your head
the hues that were splashed onto the frames of your dreams.

the windows
to your soul
lead me back into my house
show me the wood floors that I have cried on
they are good floors to cry on
the curtains that fall onto the medium dusty floor
the shades that don’t shade but instead bring on the floods.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford 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 Beresford Feb 2011
when I see you
I want to strum a chord
water flowers
make footprints in the sand
when I see you
I want to write write write
and let the silence of my vocal chords
make room for truth
when I see you
I want to create something beautiful and lasting
to show the world what its missing if it doesn't know you
to fill every moment that lacks eye contact with warmth
when I see you
I want to configure a new word
a word no one has heard or read
but everyone has felt and attempted to explain
when I see you
I want to see you
with your eyes and my eyes
window through window
to try the depths of our increasingly less imaginary story
when I see you
I want to paint a portrait of my heart
only using every shade you've caused me to blush
and pin that canvas to my sleeve
when I see you
I want to fill my lungs with oxygen and you
allowing the pressure on my ribcage
to prove this is real
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Oct 2011
Out into the dark forest
I will go.
I will wait for him,
not patiently,
but I will wait;
at the mouth of an ebony river,
listening to what the Mother has to say.

And out into the thick dark forest
he will go,
hunting for me.
Searching
like my warm breath
on his neck
keeps his heart beating.

From miles away
he will hear me
whisper his name,
my love rippling through the soil.

Leaves will fall
with the trembling of my hands,
just before they rest on his shoulders.

And in the unearthly spotlight
we will be guided
into each others minds,
for there sleeps Salvation.

And we will thrash and thunder
and bang and crash
and Salvation will find us,
too alive
for it's deadly grace.

We will march on,
our hands clasped
with a fierceness nearly flammable,
into oblivion.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Apr 2011
Hold me.
Squeeze me.
Hard.
Break me.
Shatter me
into p i e c e s.
Lay me out on the cold wood floor.
Put me back together.
And tell me how you did it.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Mar 2013
I never dreamed of sitting in the meadows that blossom in your chest. I only allowed myself a small window to hope, to wish, to crave. I know now that it was big enough to climb through. We were meant to align, to feel the pull of each other, to recognize the thirst. We are lock and key. We are the lonesome trees, greeting lighting. We are the sound of jars taking their first breath after so long. We. It tastes so soft when I say it, falling out of my mouth like honey vanilla.
HR Beresford Jan 2011
look into those windows and see inside yourself.

look into the living room and see that beating valve which has taken the place of a couch.

look into the chimney and see those reels of dream turn to ash.

look into your hands and see the gears, the gears, the gears.

look into your ears and see the words that were rejected by your membranes.

look into your stomach and see the insecure skeletons.

look into your sequined brain and see the chemicals, the chemicals, the chemicals.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Oct 2011
With a smack
and an echo,

things of mine are broken.

Blood vessels detonate,
spilling, flourishing, blooming
under the seven layers of my armor,
blushing shades of
red, blue, green.

They are embarrassed
by their fragility,
shy about the reminder
that they are not steel.

Immortality is
flamboyant as ever,
my shining ichor,
a beacon for the reaper,
whose mouth begins to water.

Only a false alarm,
the green and yellow
glistening contusion whispers.

Dust myself off
and keep walking,
Pain fades,
and my heart keeps beating.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
oh.
HR Beresford Jan 2013
oh.
My heart is a deck
with vein blue grip tape
and you are the wheels.
The trucks get looser
and looser
and before I know it
I am
swerving
across the white line,
dipping into love
like it’s a bike lane.
I cannot steer
with you
holding my hands.
The sun is a retired drum set
beating
on my shoulders,
your hands
land on my hips
with the sound of cymbals
murmuring.
Our melody is silent
banging,
the sweat
and the blood pressure,
the only remnants
of the music.
HR Beresford Sep 2011
There was a girl. A girl who loved to love. She thought her infatuations to be so full and strong and solid, that they were nearly tangible. She immersed herself in other people and rapidly became attune to how their mind worked, their habits, their emotions, all of the minuscule characteristics that make them who they are. She washed herself bare so that she could absorb every ounce of them. It was magical; to hold so much of someone without them knowing. The only complication to this living, is that it is not living. It is existing, whilst filled with someone else. It is a species of love that is dangerous. And she knew that. Even so, the heaviness brought on by someone whom she could soak up so completely was life changing. But the weight began to make life difficult. Her feet began to drag and it wasn't yet time to get new shoes. Her neck began to ache from not only the sum, but the magnitude of her thoughts. While her knees wobbled, her heart expanded. She did not want to empty herself again. Her veins were filled with just the right amount of joy. However, by filling herself with someone else, she forgot what was there before and she couldn't watch the road ahead while so captivated. She had to open herself up and let it all fall out. Right then and there she swung her ribcage open and let go of everything that bonded her to those who she had allowed to occupy her. She felt light. She felt alone. She felt free. And she began to sprint instead of walk. She shouted instead of whispering. She reflected on the people who once resided in her and she smiled. And she cried. And she yelled. And she knew that without her own minuscule characteristics crowding around inside of herself, she would not be able to truly live, live wholly. And so she started to collect the pieces that were once her. And she rebuilt herself. Strengthened herself. Cast her nets wide, unafraid of losing those who she knew would be found; not by herself, but found nonetheless. And she lived. Lived thoroughly and fiercely. And she wrote about her love, and her sadness, and her anger, and all of the things the changed the shade of her skies. And she was happy.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Apr 2011
If I
was a tree,

I would hollow
myself

o u t

so that you could climb inside.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Nov 2011
there is a silent boom

that paves through the bones which I call “mine”

the vision I use, blurs
and the heart sputters

I think that maybe
it will not start again

that maybe this is it

that the blood will finally slow
and stop

that the skin that holds me in will cool
and harden

that the eyes I see out of will glaze over
but not leak

that I will exit
only to enter
somewhere new.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Sep 2011
thoughts of violence.

smashing
splintering
crushing
snapping
every hair at attention.


bleeding
bruising
bashing
bursting
hands clenched, fingernails digging in.


sweating
burning
twisting
cracking

the worst fight you will ever go through
is a fair one.

the only fair fight you will ever go through
is against yourself.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Nov 2012
with lotus hands
I have surfaced
from the mud

I mistook the suffocation
for the ground loving me
it felt too good
to be true

it was thick with leaving
warm with sunlight
I was a *****
for the murky

tired of the cloudy
I am striving
to exist
in the space
next to godliness
diving into
clarity

a flowering proclamation
of a renaissance
HR Beresford Nov 2012
I heard someone utter the words,
"Sober is just another word for thirsty."

And I did not believe her.

Until my throat started itching,
the moment I stopped the stitching
of molecules that altered me,
turned me around,
I had been treading backwards.
My body ached with vacancy,
my hands trembled with an appetite
that played the part of
of my hands on the wheel.

It is an agonizing contradiction,
to be weighed down by nothing,
every drop that plunged into my mouth,
every plume that escaped
the narrow path to my lungs
was a nail in my soles,
keeping me firm to the ground,
I became stagnant,
only dipping under the influence
to ask for what I thought
was needed assistance.

My temporarily
stainless bloodstream
bred venomous ideas
while the darkest parts of me quivered
with insatiable hunger,
and made a show of it
with my fluttering fingertips.

I had dreamt
on nearly every day of the week
with my eyes open,
of clawing my out of this
canyon of flesh
I had been trapped inside of,
the echoes of an empty heart
were enough
to keep me awake for days,
witnessing a continuum,
of sunset,
sunrise,
sunset,
sunrise,
yet the sky never brightened.

The darkness was addictive,
I became a ****** for the murky,
and I have been buried.

Underneath habits
that stifle me.

Smoke that leaves my lungs
no room
for new air.

There is an invisible layer
of soot
caked onto my skin
falling from my nights spent
drunk and unaware
of which direction
I was growing.

My odometer
slowly screams
for me to stop,
to reverse,
begin again.

My shower head works hard.
It tries to bathe me in rebirth.
The shampoo bottle whispers
with its shape,
asks me to sing again.
Why did I stop singing?

Because I no longer enjoyed the sound of my voice.
I stopped believing in it.
Drenched in half truths
and uncut delusions,
my tongue was poison.

I had denied the beautiful methods
of me.
And employed the ugly.
I gave a managerial promotions
to the mean
the spitting mad
and the angry
slices of my heart.

But I will dig through
these concrete slabs
of toxic routines.

And I will take back my beauty
and revive my love.
And become who I am,
climbing out of who I have been.
HR Beresford Apr 2011
the girl in the bath tub stares back at me
she’s got eyes like forests
but no blue jays in sight
she looks the right
when I look to the left
she stares me down with eyes unwavering
she knows what I deny
denies what I believe
who does she think she is?

I don’t know who I’m not.
is this girl all I’ve got?
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Aug 2011
It was nowhere in sight;
I thought I was safe,
I took off my armor.

And then here it was again:
seizing my heart
like an iron fist.

Cold, freezing, merciless.
I choked on the torrents
of my own weeping;

gasping for sympathy,
in a room crowded with contempt.
My lungs, exhausted.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Apr 2011
my eyes close
and I see a spectrum of forgotten things,
my subconscious unfocused,
so as to not remind me of things I told myself not to remember.
my eyes open
and my pupils shrink from the light
still allowing me plenty of sight
pulling with them everything I told myself I would not forget
HR Beresford Feb 2011
its time to look away from you
as eye clenching
gut wrenching
and entrenching on my bottom lip as that may be
and look at me
from a new angle
from a you angle
from a due angle
because when my arms wrap around you
and your arms wrap around me
and our arms are wrapped around each other
I want to make the world stop
but I don't need to
it already does
and I never ever want it to end
and I feel selfish
and I feel hungry
and I feel thirsty all at once
all at once I am
not me
but someone who loves you
seized by the affection that has paralyzed by body
I am a patient
with no patience
and I am poet
without words
© wordswithmypulse
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