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jul 9h
its been a bit since the snow has last fallen
but this friday night it should be shivering cold
and the thought of ur taste on my tounge is warm
and i would still like my strawberry smoothie   to go
jul Jun 12
the mad woman shot the
bare
black
sky
& said
“please
goddess of light
can death spring a thousand
red rose petals in my blue dreams?”
a word magnet poem i had created
jul Jan 30
i’ve felt my soul grown quieter with every passing day.
my lungs are tired
compressed in a vessel
that poisons it’s very own heart.
i’m not asking that you save me,
only that you read my confessions that depict every inch of my being
and accept the way i bathe in my sins.
jul Dec 2019
no, my love, there’s no one to come see us.
the streets smelled of ditched joints and spilt whiskey. the sun has set awhile ago and she can’t seem to figure out where she’s leading me but curiosity is tempting. this neighborhood smells of distant families we no longer talk to and the only time i can think is when my head feels lighter than usual and i feel free. now, she sleeps beside me on my bed as i’m surrounded by empty nantucket plastic bottles and ornaments hanging above my head and bags of trash and on my shoulders sits this ******* realization that i’m horrible, honestly. i just want to be truthful.
jul Dec 2019
ii
passionate lovers
loud in a fiery silence
they found upon them.
jul Dec 2019
i
unreligious soul
bound to the earth forever
named its sacred home
unreligious: 1 : irreligious. 2 : having no connection with or relation to religion : involving no religious import or idea : nonreligious unreligious education.
jul Dec 2019
the aesthetic of death is that the soul detaches
itself from the vessel that it once rested in.
a soul once gregarious, now a defunct recluse.
languished lungs-that suffered sleepless nights,
radiates a newfound awakening.
for death had opened the soul’s plaintive eyes
and revealed the mendacious accusations of heaven and hell.
the looming omnipotent theory that we are either
blessed or ******-
the two are tantamount.
the world is sculpted as we think,
either living in the nadir we fear
or the
creed we plead for.
salvation is a fetish importuning the lost.
we crave impeccableness from hapless humans
despite knowing the true face of a deranged society.
irreparable slaves to beliefs
with only a laconic grave to stand for what we once were.
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