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There is no way to make evil appealing,
To make pain worth your while,
To make death not frightening.
Its beauty is fleeting, a magician's cloak
It's a weak moment that comes, suffocated in smoke.
So why is there war, guns that shred
Flesh from kindred, the soil deep red?
Bloodthirsty tyrranical madness abounds
And where in this world is peace to be found?
Darkness, I tell you,
slowly comes, it creeps
It can sit at the edge of your bed while you sleep.
It can come at a summoning,
Disguised as a guiding light,
But all that it wants is to drown life in night.
The only good anger is againt this fall
That tantalizes, dancing on graves,
Offering power to all.
It is a dread lie, so pick up your armor
Strike back at the always-striking adder.
And pick up your feet and hallowed soul,
Let love be your ever-straight shooting pistol.
And know that no darkness is ever what it seems,
For it dissolves in the light,
It was shredded at its seams.
Goodness and bravery are sometimes hard to muster,
But they rip evil's grasp asunder.
  Jun 2014 Jesse Alexis Blum
Anonymous
The thing about writers is that they’ll win you over with words
It’s enthralling when somebody writes about how your lips are the collision of soft pastels coming together
And how your hair is a waterfall cascading down a masterpiece
Or how your freckles are as beautiful as constellations in the sky
Or how your eyes demand truth in the slivers of honey
caught in a whirlwind of the ocean in your eyes
Isn’t it intriguing the way a writer captures you in words?
Everybody wishes to be scribbled into journals and etched into the back of somebodies mind
After all “If a writer falls in love with you, you’ll never die”
But nobody likes being in the forced silence a writer presses upon a room
Nobody likes waking up at 3am wondering why their lover is scribbling into a journal with furrowed brows
Most of all nobody wants to be loved by somebody whose pen can speak more clearly than their own lips
Being loved by a writer is endearing, yes…
But nobody actually wants to live forever in some tattered old notebook that just collects dust as years go by
Everyone wants a lover who shows as much passion through actions
As they show in their words-
Most writers can’t offer that,
and I’m afraid that’s why everyone and no one would like to be loved by a writer
bent edges, faded stripes
my mother holding me with all her might
my teeth wide, a Cheshire grin
flaming locks reminiscent of Jolene
my mother's eyes bright as oceans
scintillating laughter, it's a potion
of happiness but what do we see?
no one matches my eyes of green
it's just all these seas
but if there was a different version
gilded frame, in the latest fashion
of mother and child, still the same,
but with a man by a different name
his eyes are grassy, his hair shiny cognac
he could've been, but there was a balk
in his demeanor, he wasn't positive
of the life that was this massive-
so that film was never developed
the camera's shot was interrupted
instead his photos show three little ones
eyes like rivers, hair like golden suns
for only in my mind's photos of lackluster
are my parents still together.
Shaky nicotine fingers gather in small groups
Talks of old ghosts
And new designer boots.
My deeply religious uncle still savors acid
I guess we’re still tripping
Over the ways we once lauded.
Techno reminds me of lost ecstasy days
Read to me your Russians
As at your mouth I gaze.
I’ve fallen into sin once again
And I’m trying to clamber out-
Shrewd judgments from churchmen.
These conversations of dreams and desires
Climbing mountains, kleptomania
Of these things I eternally tire.
“I want you so badly.”
Let us begin our prayer to the Lord.
“Come closer to me.”
Lord have mercy.
“Oh my God you taste so good.”
Pray for the sick, the suffering.
“Bite me harder.”
We praise thee, we bless thee.
“I want you inside of me.”
That our whole day be sinless and perfect.
“Oh my God. Oh my God.”
*May the Lord bless and protect each
and every
one
of
you.
a poem- I know I don’t like to be alone, with the monsters in my head and under my bed. You helped me to realize others had similar dreams, thoughts stretching at their seams. Yes, you’re the only man who’s seen me through, right down to my roots. And I enjoy some silence, peaceful and restful. But I don’t like the loneliness because I’d rather be with you. But there’s a deeper wrong than anything either of us have done. You still believe love is just from friendship and not wanting distance.

a declaration- It’s not.

support- Love, to me, is: something you have to feel. It’s what you feel when you pet your dog, hold a child, or smell the hair of the person you’re sleeping next to. That swelling, crushing, warm feeling deep within the pit of your stomach. The thing you’ve dreamt of since you were tiny. Before you learned fear or hatred, you felt it. What soaring skies and and mountain ranges and baby animals and the idea of God makes people cry about. It’s that. It’s not learned, and if it’s not felt, then it can’t be.

the problem- I’m not sure you feel this feeling for me.
I can still feel your breath and hands around my neck, and your lips on my spine and legs, and my lips on your mouth and chest and eyelids, and your voice reverberating in my ears, and your hands encircling me. I love laying down next to you more than I ever thought I would. Nights in a too-small bed, mornings in the shower, looking out at the rain and stormy skies, and looking into your eyes, so similar and yet so different than mine. I love how you feel around and inside of me, and I swear you are more addictive than anything I have ever tasted before. Your smell and the touch of your skin and the way your hair feels against my temple. I hate and adore you for always pulling me back in.
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