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jee Feb 27
the brain and mind are not the same thing.

a brain floats, suspended,
down to the tips of my toes
and the blue rivers underneath my skin.

it is a box; simple tasks and quiet construction.

the mind has no such manuals.

it sees baboons in filtered skylights,
eyes as red as the blushing dawn,
gushing about over the hilltops of my shoulders.

it sees stop signs in the glass cracks
of my wooden closet door,
where the dark seeps around the green-light-go.

it sees fingertip to lip,
raccoons at rusty roadways,
Remus and Romulus locked in eternal combat;
preserved in the grains in the cherry tree trunk.

the brain is in the head,
but the mind is somewhere a little above;

hiding away in a doomsday bunker,
warning lights burning the air,
trembling in the corner of a cold dark night.

away from people who haven’t quite learned,

that the brain and mind are not the same thing.
they say mind over matter. but mind is the matter. it matters to the creaks at 4 am and the cries in the bathroom stalls.
jee Feb 1
I am paradoxical;
an oxymoronic anomaly.

all my nightmares are made
of daylight,
but I’ll still sleep to escape
the darkness.

I am paradoxical;
an absurd abnormality.

it’s a chaotic peace,
loud with it’s bated breath
and bittersweet ring.

I am paradoxical;
an irregular oddity.

my counterparts are contradictory,
and I change to chance
the possibility
that opposites attract.

and we’re all just paradoxed;
argumentative attractions.

there’s no stopping at the end,
when the sun is low
in the soft red sky.

where my nightmares are made
of daylight,
but I’ll still sleep to escape
the darkness.
this statement is a lie.
jee Jan 4
the ticking of the clock
like knives
through a grand piano,
whose keys are rotted
and whose wood is splintered,
leaving the strings to twang in the empty auditorium.

the aching in my throat
like dancers feet
bleeding through satin,
where only heavy breaths
and broken bones
decorate the time-worn mirrors.

the ocean in my eyes
like puddles
in a world-weary city,
where cigarettes
and car tires
beat down on the rippled glass in the street.

my hands,
grasping tightly,
to the star-sized hole in my broken piano chest,
my ballet slipper heart,
my oil-rainbowed tears.


please don't go.


please, God no.

I’m not ready.

come back.

I’m not ready for you to leave me.

I still need you.


don't leave me.

the clock ticks.

the ache burns.

the tears fall.

and the knife dulls on the glossy black wood.

and the blood washes away with cold water and care.

and the sun dries up rainwater pools.

and the hole is but not a crater on the moon, smiling down at the green-spotted earth.

I wasn’t ready for you to leave.

I don’t think I ever would be.

but you left your mark on me,

and all I can do is keep it living.

you keep me living.

and for that,
thank you.
you help keep me living,
because I see what death does to people
who don't deserve it.
jee Dec 2018
sing me your inspiration,
so that words may blossom
through the rings of the tree
in my paper.

gift me your passions,
so that pathways may carve
through inked rivers
and graphite daydreams.

paint me your love,
so that I may palette
your rainbow
and color my canvas

with my favorite colors of you.

the soft pink
of the inside of your lips,
and the offset grey
haloed through your eyelashes.

tiger lily freckles framed
by sweet peach
and wallflower blushes.

rainfall wrists
and dutch cocoa silk.

all my canvas needs
are the colors of you.
acrylic affirmations and watercolor whispers
jee Dec 2018
the air is cold.

an endless slate-grey—
chilling frost-ridged trees.

wind tunnels, whisking away
bird song,
running cars,
and leaves scraping down bare streets;

the kind of bare you only see in winter,
all picked away by the frozen weather.

old film rests on drained snow globes,
so still you forget to breathe.

all you can hear
is the static in your ears
and the workings of your own
if noises could be made in these mornings, not a soul would hear them.
jee Dec 2018

hot-rod red, boiling—veins snake, denim—skin throbs.

my eyelids are pounding.

dozens of sparrows, pushing at pale canvas.

thunder gasps at the
of my lungs.

at the fuse.


an Edgar warning;
thumping at wooden chest,

it just echos.

i am not your dictionary.

i am not your dictionary.


hollowly, it

muffled by fire-truck cloth
and sun-starved cotton.


blue trees dance to the
singing up at skylight eyes.





(n) the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.
jee Dec 2018
the way the water flew through our lungs
and bled through the cracks in our skin.

bubbling, brimming

the sea touched my eyes and you were white
with effervescent foam, curdling between lashes,
phosphorescent silvers pooling over stark blues
on fingertips.

sinuous, submissive.

the shaded cold mixed with the rainbowed salt
over baptized shells.

we breathed out our abtruse mist to cry over esoteric crashes of thunder.

enigmatic, flowing.

you are an acrobat, my prideful tide.  

your steel waters cleanse the melancholy mud
through my eyes
and glassy waves wash, twisting and curling,
releasing through our petrichor.
im sorry that i sought you.
your poisonous solace was my shield.
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