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 Feb 2017 Kaila Sullivan
kaycog
Mia.
 Feb 2017 Kaila Sullivan
kaycog
She wears a halo like a crown
as something she can take off
her docile eyes are betrayed
by a sultry smile
soft like rain
she clings to your clothes
she drips off your face
her voice fills the air
her full lips part seas
with a pink tongue commanding armies
her freckles dance on cheek bones
her posture demands your attention
she wears desire like a tattoo
that never leaves her
flesh
(missing in action)
 Feb 2017 Kaila Sullivan
Rose
The stitching, that used to secretly seal my scars,

Has been severely severed, allowing drops of blood to emerge, and gracefully glow like smiling stars,

As my body viciously vomits up all of my feverish feelings and erratic emotions with joy,

Like fluffy, soft stuffing falling from a pretty plush toy,


I am empty and hollow,

With no one to follow,

Like a dead damaged tree trunk,

I have lost my liveliness and *****.


I re-stitch my seeping seams,

And start to think about my dramatic dreams,

When I place the sweet sugar trip,

I painfully purchased,

Underneath my top upper lip.


Instantly I feel high and alive,


As though a luminous light has been turned on inside of my mind,

Where the darkness is, I can no longer find,

Because the radiant rays are shining over the darkness, like the saffron sun,

Eliminating the sadness, so I can smile and have fun.


I feel like a carousel, frantically flying around and around.

Not wanting to ever hit the grisly ground.

Even though I know I will.


I don't give a ****.

I know I am,

Creating cavernous cavities and eroding my enamel inside my mouth,

It dissolves inside my bruised body, and tragically travels south,

Destroying my intestines, and adding inches to my waist,

As the numbers on the scale increase, so does my level of taste.


They tell me I could die,

But I think it's a lie.


I know I won't stop,

Because I would rather be filled to the top,

With crystallized candy, so I don't feel small,

Then be filled with nothing at all.
To the girl who thinks it will be awkward because she rejected me

I had an interest in you not only because I saw you as a suitable mating partner

But because there are some decent ******* human beings in this world who actually want to get to know each other

So just because you said no to a date with me doesn't mean you have to erase me from your life's history

But getting to know someone is like opening a random box, you don't know if it will be a diamond ring or a dying rose. something that once was, but not meant to be beautiful, just like my intent to get to know you

And I carry my intentions around in my pocket so I can drop them off at your door and walk away when you don't open it

I'll leave them behind in case you ever want to see what's on the other side, but just like the rose if you wait too long something that once was beautiful will wither away.
adrift at sea

Jude Kyrie

my poetry has become
a seagulls cry.
my soul is adrift
on a becalmed sea.
This sailors wife has
knitted his death
into his sweater.
the sea shall swallow me.
Unoticed with its infinite greed.
The cloudless sky
will take my poems
and recite them in sea winds
from a place on high.
the verses now melt
Into a single sound.
my poetry has become
a seagulls cry.
Read a Carl sagon quote
We sailors adrift on a becalmed sea
We sense the breeze.
It inspired this poem
Jude
The paper drips with red blood from my soul
There’s no ink left in my pen
The clock has used up all its hours
The music of the spheres has ended.

I set out to build a village in a place
Not hard to find without a map
Proudly I used local lumber
Made sure the walls were square and true.

Sadly no one wants to live there
No one stops to hear my song
(Just one clear voice and not an opera )
People look and listen briefly then move on
     ≈
Wandering through the others’ harvests
I see words stacked in random order
Piled like fancy autumn haystacks
Held in place with azure ribbons

Mumbled voices raised in solos
Whose words I cannot parse or learn
Where verses run from one to twenty
And the applause is deafening

What seems real is evanescent
Fleeting as the winking of an owl
Impossible to braid with just two strands
And painted over with graffiti.
   ≈
How am I to fly when it appears
That I can barely walk and yet
I thought that I knew how to dance.
I guess I never found the beat.

I can’t but keep on building sturdy
Little one theme dwellings
It’s the only thing I know
And I’ll live there all by myself

And hope a visitor or two
Will stop by now and then
To say hello and how are you
And share a cup of my brand’s tea.
ljm
Does poetry have to be filled with obscure or random images to be considered good and liked?
So its another snow day
Cold miserable and grey

Alone
Wondering

Wondering if its all slipped away
like the snow on a warm day

Frozen out and
Ghosted.....
Missing you.....
 Feb 2017 Kaila Sullivan
ryn
Witness
 Feb 2017 Kaila Sullivan
ryn
Will you stand with me at the water's edge?

As my beats quicken and intensify
Likened to the pounding of war drums
Fuelling the skirmishes within

As my lungs remain obstinate and insatiable
Voraciously consuming every breath till they overlap...
As if the abundant air wasn't enough

As my mind races out in a million different directions
Crestfallen thoughts layered upon angry ideals
Violated principles versus tattered resolutions

Will you stand with me at the water's edge?
And watch me as I choose between
extinguishing the raging fire
that burns in my heart and mind

Or drown.
 Feb 2017 Kaila Sullivan
L B
She let the tape go—
on record
one evening for an ordinary hour
Five years later, we play it back
for laughs after dinner—then as now

“Remember how the stove door screeched
at the house on Olive Street?”
And our voices!
Phoeb’s, lighter–tired
wrapping the nine’s tables in elastic yawns
like flash cards in a rubber band
“Phoeb, your pitch changed so—
while  I turned...”
to run water in the tub
lamenting the **** of Two
in frenetic escape of hands
Unruly!
Running rebel taunts in Time’s strict face
who would not dare disturb her dawns
only mine—
Roused by the first round of another day’s
ring of twelve
digits that insist
like uniform with apron waiting
on ironing board that’s never folded

Now the **** of Two cries out
Exultant!
of success in *****
Then, Oratorio for Soap!
The splashy version
with endless bubblings of “Rocky Baby!”
and obbligato of “Where’s Shampoo?”
in jubilant glissadal plunge
an octave through vocal whoops!

…I had not thought
she hardly talked
but sang and squealed or whined in tunes
Her voice lay open to her soul
a roost of piercing humming birds
small of words
but filled with sweet and want
incessant wings and things to say....

How could we have forgotten?

“Are these your boots?
Your clothes laid out?”
From sound and talk, we still can hear
frost phantoms
in winter window rattles—then as now
And Phoebe remarks how one voice
didn’t change though—
“Still talking to herself”

We laugh
and let the tape go....
This is one of those poems I'm so glad I wrote because no photo or recording could ever capture this memory as well.
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