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i look at my wrists.
scarred.
my scars tell stories.
they are there for a reason.
reasons.
my family is in pain.
i know they would be better if i wasn't around.
i look back at the mirror.
i hit my reflection
unhappy with what i see.
my knuckles bleed.
i sit on the cold bathroom floor and everything around me becomes darkness.
pitch black darkness around me.
i look around lost.
your voice from somewhere in the darkness .
i follow it.
tripping over my own feet.
i call out your name.
no response.
why are you doing this?
i fall to my knees.
i cry.
"stop it!"
i scream out to you.
i feel a touch on my shoulder.
my mother.
she hugs me and tells me a story.
i look at her confused still crying.
i look around me.
a hospital scene.
my family surrounds me.
the family that i have left.
my sisters stand before me crying.
i ask what happened and what was going on.
they tell me i atemptemted suicide.
i cried.
asking why and how.
then i was surrounded by darkness again.
our paths have never crossed before
and our eyes have yet to meet
i know none of the words you speak
(though the ones you type are sweet)
In the night,
back when, (you remember)
the days were alright,
and we'd sat around,
in the dark, out of sight,
just the two of us silhouettes,
in the night,
awaiting the morning's cherry light.
He wandered amongst the midday twilight peak;
In his window glared a formative feline,
I was once lost in it,
But then recommended a fine smile to my deliberated agenda,
Oh how the world inquires beyond thee,
Like a nimble breeze amongst a flame,
Upon a strained vigil sanity keep,
Upon my own reflection revelation came.
 Sep 2011 jeffrey robin
CynQuavia
When he went blunderingback to God,
his songs half written, his work half done,
Who knows what paths his bruised feet trod,
What hills of peace or pain he won?

I hope God smiled nd took his hand,
And said, "Poor truant, passionate fool!
Life's book is hard to understand:
Why couldst thou not remain in school?"
A poem by charles Hanson Towne found inside a notebook amongst Chicks Benetto's belongings.
THIS IS NOT MY POEM.
I think God left the window open,
or Satan closed up hell for good.
That is why it is cold.
And white Jesus is reading a book in Starbucks,
located at the Northern end of Philadelphia.
That is why the Southern end sins.
Somewhere between the kites
and the airplanes,
hovers all of the good thoughts.
However,
the thoughts are there,
while we are here,
and we fish for them on sunny days.
That is why most days we think of how much our lives should change,
because it rains.
And If it rains it is because
someone forgot to pray to Mecca,
or some Muslim woman is uncovered in the street.
This is why things happen.
Like earthquakes forming from aborted children,
and tsunami’s from Buddhist converts.

I forget what happens when lovers meet,
or when cancer magically goes away,
but I will fight you until the end when I say
it is raining because people swear too much.

And it rains way too much here.
We met while she was leaning over the table,
retrieving her 3 dollar tip.
I had only bought coffee,
and if you aren’t good at math,
that was an enormous tip.
I knew we would be lovers,
even before we were rolling around
her apartment half drunk and rowdy.
Things just happen without purpose, and
with time on our side,
we are all young and stupid.

As I have said to many a young waitress,
life still owes me a heartbeat,
and death a few favors.
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