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Why do my eyes waver in salt water?
It's just a concept I don't really understand when
The ocean in my mind is dry but
My eyes? So wet.
And yet, fire roars through an ***** named Passion - and the sand beneath my feet burns their soles and tries to
Penetrate my soul
But I have buckets,
Tucked under two lids,
That can spill with or without my will.
They can put out a flame, both good and bad. A blessing and a curse.
I'm told that fish can't climb trees but I have neither arms nor gills you see
I have been immobilised,
And it's down to a monochrome smear on a canvas with so much potential;
A plethora of 'dos' and 'don'ts';
The slaughter of a lamb.
I would like to stand in solidarity with each martyr of idiosyncrasy.
I wonder if anything we ever do will be enough.
My Mind - is not My own.

It is the sleepless nights,
the empty stares,
the half-hearted comments
the quickening breaths.

It is the clouded days,
the fizzling thoughts
the fear that is constant

My Mind - it is not.
 May 2018 Jo Pietersen
inthewater
she reads books and she plays music
the cute, innocent
clumsy girl
with freckles on her cheeks

you like to read and listen to music
the cool, handsome
sweet-talking man
who likes freckles on her cheeks

[ or at least you said you did ]

she rolls her eyes at your compliments
the cautious, bright
guarded girl
with curiosity in her eyes

you lay them on thick
the certain, sharp
imprudent man
with hidden agendas on your lips

she lingers a little longer
in hopes of crossing your path throughout the day

she laughs at your jokes
and you know they're not funny

she sings for you in the car because
you like her voice

[ or at least you said you did ]

she's become good at excuses
the hopeful, naive
kind-hearted girl
with sureness in her words

you soak them up
the stark, ill-intentioned
vacant boy
with uncertainty in your voice

she gave all she had to care for you,
the smooth, clever
self-serving boy

you convinced her that you loved her

[ or at least you said you did ]
sweet nothings are just sweet nothings
With a rush of burning desires,
I turn your world, as I touch you, into a ball of fire,

With our sweat that falls (in this room of degrees creeping higher and higher)
I slip off your bra, and proceed to strip you from the rest of your attire,

As with a look in your eyes that's electric as a live wire,
The grip of my hands around the curves of your frame become tighter and tighter,

And there, with thuds of the baseboard knocking at the wall, here, I treat this moment ever so dire,

Where I pull you in close--in this room full of yearning fire,

And make love to you--
With my body full of rushing--burning desires
What happens when the good girl goes bad
like the spoiled milk she left out?
Because I couldn't seem to get up.
I think it was something about acknowledging that I'm alive, I'm here.
Wouldn't it all be easier if I wasn't?

When the good girl goes bad
because she worked her *** off on that paper and only got a C.

When the good girl goes bad
because the world doesn't treat her right,
but I guess it must because that's
how come I'm the good girl.
Not my depressed sister sitting in her room;
not my other sister running around, destroying everything I had to work for;
most definitely
not my other sister who always seemed to be your favorite but is now smashing plates in our backyard,
'cause I guess that's what happens if you get too close to you.

When the good girl goes bad,
you get angry because
I'm supposed to be your perfect child
not supposed to be
your ***** up child
your lonely child
your lazy child
your anxious child
not supposed to be
your good for nothing child
your dysfunctional child
your doesn't give a **** about anything anymore child.
why don't I ******* give a **** about anything anymore?

When the good girl goes bad
your life falls apart,
because clearly
you had enough to deal with already,
because clearly
this is all my fault,
because clearly
you don't have the time to face your good girl
and
because clearly
that's all on me.

When the good girl goes bad
because you left her out on the counter all those years, sitting there to rot.
And though I know that you can't waste your time putting it away, 'cause you never cared for it anyway,
maybe you shouldn't have bought the milk if you didn't want to drink it.
And I know the milk should take care of itself
but I tried and that only works for a couple of years
before the good girl gone bad falls far off the counter, spills across the floor,
and the only thing left is to throw that nasty old milk away
because your bread, eggs, oil, etc. need your attention
and it's just too late for the good girl.

When the good girl goes bad
because she never asked to be the good girl
or maybe I did, I don't really remember,
but not like this.
I just wanted to be loved
but little did I know that
the good girl just sits there
keeping herself afloat,
but the boat can't guide itself if it wasn't given eyes.
The boat can't patch itself if you keep telling it its still brand new
when its really old, broken, and covered in holes.
You shouldn't put a boat in the water if you know its going to sink,
but I guess you only really need a couple good boats
so you can just toss the good girl.

When mama's little good girl goes bad,
she feels guilty
because she was told she'd always be
the good girl.
Though, its hard being the good girl when you don't have any windshield wipers for your tears at night.
But the tears at night aren't supposed to exist
because
I'm still mama's mother ******' good girl,
just...
please pretend I haven't gone bad.
I added to what was originally posted. I was having some technical issues and decided to just post what I had before, but this is the full poem (5/16/18)
It takes a sad soul to be able to write poetry.

Someone who has been through hell.

It takes a person with so much emotion,

To be able to understand poetry.

For it to really reach them.

Poets write to feel.

Poets write to find people who understand.

And more than anything,

Poets write,

In Hope's that their words,

Will reach someone just like themselves.

Poets write to feel less alone.

And to let others know they aren't alone either.

I see all of you.

Right down to your hearts.

I wish I had the chance to know all of you.

Your beautiful souls.

Please don't ever stop writing.

I need you.

All of you. ♡
I'll never be able to love again,
Well, at least not like the way I loved you,
As this night is a little before three, but well after two,
I lie wide awake in this bed unable to sleep beside a woman that I don't want to pursue,
With my mind wondering,
How do I leave her without leaving a bruise?
And wondering,
Will I ever be able to love another woman,
Like the way I loved you?
 Mar 2018 Jo Pietersen
Her
Immortal
 Mar 2018 Jo Pietersen
Her
the moment a poet
falls in love with you

is the moment
you live

f o r e v e r
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