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 May 2018 J Super Star
Ann Beaver
If I could love
the limping
part of me
That I drag through the mud
and thorns

If I could let
the transparent
silhouette speak
Instead of kicking it
into the basement

If I could put
my deepest human essence
onto paper
for everyone to see

Then, I could be free.
Here's my heart,
Locked away
So keep it for another day
And maybe in a century
My heart would want to return to me
I made this back in freshman year of high school, not the greatest I've made, but the one that's stuck in my head the longest. It's always been there and I've always felt the sting of it.
I still think of you. In my mind's eye and in my memory's grasp, you're closer than a scratch. You're simply there.
Impatiently pacing my memories and fantasies. My dreams are you and my thoughts are you. There is now nowhere I
haven't been touched by you. I've loved you and I've hated you. You enrage and you delight me.
My soul reaches out for you. Cries for you. It lives for you and dies for you. Everything.
Everything I have.
it's all you... You... yUo... YuO... YOU! It's all you! I'm left hopeless. But this only redundant rhythm gives me hope.
Where do you stand? (not with me) How do you feel? (not good) How would you feel if you knew this? (angry, disgusted)
Do you feel the same for me; always have me on my mind and never wavering from me? (impossible) But... you're not everything
to me. I can't allow that. You're simply... everything else. You're a thought. A memory. A good time.
You're a time I was elated. When I liked myself because you liked me. When I was something to someone.
You're what I could not see in myself. Confident and smart. Charming and cute. Loving and gentle. Someone important.
Someone who cares for me and about me. Some one who mattered. You're not everything, you see. But you're everything else.
In a way, this is personal. But it's just my thoughts and what I would like to spill into writing. Most of my poems are in this format, actually. I love spoken word poetry, and that's the rhythm and style I use my poetry as. It doesn't have to rhyme but it has meaning. it has rhythm, and it has life. That's what poetry is to me.
 Feb 2016 J Super Star
She opens a window
and hopes for the sky
to fall in from outside
and it's tailwind bring

her the moon and the clouds
lined with silver, a crowd
of the finest of stars
and a spare pair of wings..
When I found the door
I found the vine leaves
speaking among themselves in abundant
My presence made them
hush their green breath,
embarrassed, the way
humans stand up, buttoning their jackets,
acting as if they were leaving anyway, as if
the conversation had ended
just before you arrived.
I liked
the glimpse I had, though,
of their obscure
gestures. I liked the sound
of such private voices. Next time
I'll move like cautious sunlight, open
the door by fractions, eavesdrop
I walked past her again.
Annihilation glance-
one thousand exposed memories
of teenage years
and exaggerated fears;
how stupid they appear
now we've learned misery well-
how to keep silent in its tenure.

How to fall at its knees
in gratitude of its brief release.
Hopeless captor,
impatient platitude;
we catch eyes on purpose,
to relinquish the delusion-
I still want her,
and she is still unsure of me.

I have not changed my costume
since those dress-rehearsal years,
still pacing streets in black coats,
still conversing with my fears.
The core of walnut in the bannister,
the stair-lift in its cage;
I walked past her again
with ****** hair and awkward gait;
an ******* full of tricks
and a folk-song made of hate.

How she falls to her knees
in cigarettes and ashes,
hopeless captor
of old bad habits;
we catch eyes on purpose
to speak beyond tongue-
I'm still singing on the hill-side,

she's still tired of my song.
Finding a living is so hard,
so difficult to sustain
without a reason to sustain it.
Beyond personal dreams
and a need for greed.

An ocean of eyes follow me
through the working day
until I crave isolation.
Only to stumble into
my blank-walled retreat
and realise what isolation really means.

What happened to our potential love?
I cannot read your last letter,
too scared to hear
that you hold a happiness
that bears absolutely
no reliance on me.

You found our distance
lost its charm. You have him,
with his immediacy
and a history to draw upon,
to justify.
I am a teenage folly,
left in the scrap of old photographs
and even older emotion.

A disused, defunct muscle
left to atrophy
as you find your comfort
and your way in life.
But you are a stray, a stray
with the desire
to be led astray;
with the want for a longing.

You know I can fill your days with poetry,
your bed with flame,
your winters with heat.
Wrote this on a commute to work on my phone.

Blah. I've not had much time to sit and write recently.
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