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The lines don’t want out anymore.
They are comfortable in me.
When put to the page,
They squirm and thrash about.

These lines want nothing to do with art.
They fight against the stagnant realm
Of paper and pens.
Where lines aren’t free and rarely move.

Where marks are certain and permanent.
Where nothing changes except the faces.
Who can blame them?
I hate this place too.

I was comfortable for an eternity
Before fate brought me to be.
And now I fight and squirm-
writhing with ideas, only to be confined

By space and time,
The limitations of matter and mind.
Tortured by the longings of the body,
And the mortality of the soul.
 Dec 2012 Kahara Jones
Sue Haase
As though the sun has yet to rise
I seek the warmth of His love.
I carry not the worries of the world
pointless as powerless it would be.
I seek the healing of the heavens as
this day proceeds
for my heart aches for lost loves.
As though the sun has yet to rise
with eyes closed the light
covers my inner spirit,
and the warmth sun or no
runs deep within my soul.
 Dec 2012 Kahara Jones
Leah Ward
My house will be filled with the things that I love;
Goldfish, dandelions,
Green sofas, Greek mythology,
Books of psychology.
Books. Lots of books with lots of words.
Multiple copies of the really good books too.
All stacked to the ceiling
on bookshelves adequate to
The height of the house
All equivalent to
My love of the place I’ll call home.
A sock monkey here or there,
pillows and throw blankets.
Pictures of Lake Louise, and a souvenir
If I’m ever lucky enough to go there.
I will print poetry, frame it, put it on my walls.
My walls will be yellow gray and blue,
I will have a boombox with speakers that go BOOM
(but at night it will sing me to sleep
with many sweet lullabies).
And it’s music will fade to the sound of voices
Voices of people I love and admire
Who can walk through the door,
of the place I aspire
To make my own,
To share and not waste
With the precious presence of others
And their ideas
And hopes and dreams
So if you aren't a thing I love,
You have to leave.
I’ll probably have a lot of lamps too.
 Nov 2012 Kahara Jones
Sophia
Oh you.
Sitting in the front of the classroom.
Perfection.
Perfection.
Perfection.
School royalty.
I want you.
And there you were,
smiling back at me,
talking to me,
making me think i had a chance.
I know you don't know me well.
I know I want to know you better.
Perfection.
Perfection.
Perfection.
I let my heart fall for you.
But you like her.
And she likes you.
And I know that I would never have a chance with you.
I never did.
I felt as though I'd found you.
But you played with my heart.
without a care in the world.
Absentmindedly.
Unknowing.
Uncaring.
I hate you.
I love you.
Spare me the heartbreak and just tell me so.
Even though I already know.
Perfection.
Perfection.
Perfection.
you stood, elevated, as if you belonged there
dark hair, dark eyes
dark with infinite depth
mystery radiated off you
and hit me with desire
eyes closed
fingers strumming effortlessly
your lips moved in slow motion
I’ve been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks
I look down overwhelmed with emotion, and catch my breath
my eyes rise to see what I’d been both desiring and dreading
you
staring back

[hello]

the sky resembled an intangible black ocean
with small beams of hope falling upon us
together, we calmly sit on ground made of wood
your hands are small,
yet fit perfectly with my own
my pencil-like fingers trace the tattoo on your forearm
you lean forward
I can feel your words in my ear
the unheard music playing in my mind
I came here with a load, and it feels so much lighter now I met you
my permanent smile widens
I reply
look at the stars, look how they shine for you
you smile as well and we sit in a comfortable silence
you are my canvas
and I your instrument
I paint our world with color
and you are our background music
but time has never been on our side
always too silent and conniving in our presence
I have to go
a look of understanding and sadness washes over you
your lips touch my forehead in farewell

[see you soon]

yesterday you asked me to write you a pleasant song
I’ll do my best now but you’ve been gone for so long

there is a song for every mile that divides us
lyrics repeat themselves over and over in my head
my dear, we’re slow dancing in a burning room
my body aches from the lack of your touch
your voice is silent
my paintbrushes dry
my hand becomes heavier with each hit you take
my mind sobers as yours blurs
still can’t numb the pain
you fill everything in me that was left absent
now you’re absent
and your absence has left me drained
drained of emotion
drained of a voice
drained of pain
drained of love
drained of myself
all that’s left is
you

[goodbye]
Every morning she wakes up
to ringing,
to stinging
In each dream she’s stuck in a
Bell
Every morning she changes her band-aides,
and looks in upon her City
of Yells.

Here when one sounds the alarm,
the screeching does not turn off.
Here the bedrooms are boiling
and the sinks drip drop rocks.
Here no one speaks softly,
Here no one thinks through
their thoughts.

She wakes in her creaking bed,
Her hallow room’s walls cave in
with blood red
They scream so loud she doe not
know a word she has ever said.
She learned to accept it,
She cannot resent it,
But even the flowers here moan.

The City of Yells is in
passionate war
And the rebels are beyond
moving gently.
The City has soldiers who all look like rockets and
their dogs never ever stop barking.
The rebels are patient,
quick hands at the ready, eager to finish
the battle.
The Rockets have guns that do not stop blaring—
So much noise you’d forget you
were fighting.

But the rebels are ones with the truer advantage,
for arms they do not take up.
They are swift with the sword
and the “swish” that it makes
is simple,
yet hard to ignore.

And the girl looks on as the war
continues,
directly in her front yard.

She glares though the window,
a pair of deep eyes, bulging through
the blinds.

“Perhaps today it will all be over,
All that is wrong with be done?”

My dear, my dear, in your
City of Yells, the fighting
has only begun.
Copyright 2006 Frankie Solomon
Then dark with dripping blood it gave a howl
and cried again: 'Our damaged branches ache!
Your pillage maims me! Can't you feel at all?

We who were men are now this barren brake.
You'd grant us your respect and stay your hand
were we a thicket not of souls but snakes.'

As wood still green starts burning at one end
and from its unlit end the burning stick
drips sap, and hisses with escaping wind,

so from the broken stump there oozed a mix
of words and blood: a frothy babbling gore.
I dropped the branch. My fear had made me sick.

'Poor wounded soul, could he have grasped before,'
my sage replied, 'what now he sees is true,
and blindly trusted in poetic lore,

then he need not have so insulted you.
But as there was no other way to learn
I urged him to a test that grieved me too.

Tell us who you were, that he, in turn,
can set your honor freshly back in style
among those he will teach when he returns.'

The trunk: 'Your speech, by raising hope that I'll
regain repute, makes words arise in me.
I mean to talk, if you will stay a while:

I was the one entrusted with the keys
to Federigo's mind, and it was sweet
to share his thought and guard his strategy

for noble ventures secret in my keep —
so faithfully I filled this glorious post,
I gladly sacrificed my health and sleep...'
Darkest edge of brightest eyes
Here, in contrast,
Beauty lies.
eating disorders are so hard to

                  Kick

because your eating disorder becomes your

closest most

                     honest

most

             Vicious

friend.

your eating disorder will never abandon you.

it will never ignore you it will never

leave

        you

                                      ­    ALONE

at the End of the day, it’s just you and her.

and I say {HER} because mine is a real *****.

your eating disorder is always there to

                     whisper-scream

in your

         ear.

always

there to swim in your aching(empty)(toofull)

                    stomach

to claw at your skull to

break your heart.

she, my vicious friend, comforts me.

because even though I’m being

               destroyed

               ripped apart

at least I’m not alone.

hell, she even gives me an excuse as to WHY

I am

                         alone

itsnotmeitsmyweightnoonecouldeverwantafatgirl

itsnotmeits­myweightthatkeepspeoplefromgettingclosefromLOVINGme

She knows me better than anyone— knows how b

                                                              ­  r

                                                            ­       o

                                                              ­ k

                                                              ­        e

                                                      ­            n

i am.

as much as I ‘recover’

she is there— curled under my brain matter

like a troll in a fairy tale.

she is there

waiting

watching

counting

smiling

because i always come

back.
Written pre-recovery
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