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 Dec 2013 katie
Morgan Vivian
I am sick to death of love poems.
So bored of them my heart dries up
at the mention of sweet eyes and longing lips.
All of these old, dead men were crazy.
They must've made it all up,
finding just the right words to string together,
forming a beautiful chord for the heart and mind
to play battle ship over, engorged vessels
enveloped in the deep peaceful blue.
And the victor, oh the victor…
The victor is the champion of dreams and hopes.
But what will these get you, my sweet delirium?
I don't want the high praise and swoons the words
of these dead, beautiful dreamers achieved.
I just need enough money to share a cup
of coffee with you any day.
 Dec 2013 katie
Ernest Hemingway
All armies are the same
Publicity is fame
Artillery makes the same old noise
Valor is an attribute of boys
Old soldiers all have tired eyes
All soldiers hear the same old lies
Dead bodies always have drawn flies
 Dec 2013 katie
Daniel Kenneth
Rock bottom was my home
But I slipped through the cracks
Free falling into oblivion
With no end in sight, I wait
Dreaming of the night
You will be here next to me
Promising that everything will be okay

But optimism is a fools gold
And Eve cursed us
So I know there is no hope for lost souls
No peace for weary minds
Just a life full of pain, and fear
Empty bottles on the night stand
And unanswered prayers
Jireh Hong wrote an incredible response to this- go check it out! http://hellopoetry.com/poem/my-god-is-right-here/
 Dec 2013 katie
Lizzy
Drink one
My eyes grow heavy
I sit in a fold out chair
In the corner of the living room

Drink two
I zone out
To the sound of the rest of my family getting riled up about who knows what
I want to join in
But then again
I don't

Drink three
Things start to get fuzzy
My words slur
I decide to join in after all

Drink four
It's probably a bad idea
To say whatever comes to mind
Laying on the bathroom floor

Drink five
This was supposed to be fun
Not a nightmare
My sister cries into my cousin's arms
As I laugh to myself

*Blackout
 Dec 2013 katie
Jaz
Rainbows are just well-concealed illusions.
Always seen as happy, colourful... happy.
But don't you see, rainbows are really
All frowns. Made in rainwater and tears?
And soon, like all things they will fade,
Disappear like they never existed.
They've fooled the world with their little tricks.
 Dec 2013 katie
Lizzy
The Monster
 Dec 2013 katie
Lizzy
With a simple glance at the monster
Icy chills are sent down my spine
And my mind goes back to the eleven-year-old mind I once had
Hurt and confused
By the words that pour out of the monster's mouth
Each one causing a permanent scar on my body
That not even all of the therapists I've been through can fix

The only thing I can't figure out
Is why
Not why it said all of the awful things it did
But why I believed them

I allowed myself to believe anything that came from the monster's mouth
Like a child believes their parents
About Santa Claus
Or the tooth fairy

And just like that child
I grew out of the monster's lies

I have a purpose
I keep trying to tell myself
Now believing a whole new sort of lie
For the monster's lies
are now my truth
 Dec 2013 katie
R
six-word story:
 Dec 2013 katie
R
should have
tilted my head  
                             up
                            
                             ^^
when he kissed my head i shouldve just  gone for it. i had a chance and i blew it ****.
We are all born gemstones, but fatally fractured, our skin bleeding rubies, brokenness and beauty and tension.  And I have heard it said that it is our decision, whether we see these cracks as channels for rivers of light to run through, or wounds to be bound and healed.  Well, if I tear off these bandages and stretch these arms wide enough, will it prove to you that these gashes cut all the way through, and that I’m willing to bleed my life and all its secrets out for you?

Ever since I was thirteen, thirteen, when that gold rush of blood chose my attractions for me, I’ve been hiding, because I’ve been afraid.  I used to tell myself it was a phase, and then it never ended, and so I told myself to never tell.  And these days I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking a tightrope, breathless, over glittering hell.  I tried my best to keep a straight face, but I wanted nothing more than to kiss the lips that cursed me, have those strong hands around my waist, holding me close.

And I took upon myself the burden of convincing everybody else that there was nothing wrong.  The rest of the world was singing something, something bold, and I tried to sing along, but I didn’t know the words.  And every name I was called, every kick when I was down was another blooming stain on a white wedding gown.  I made a promise that I would be buried in the ground before anyone knew, that this closet would become a mausoleum, but grace. broke. through.

After I had been trying to find my own voice, God drew close to me, singing the most beautiful melody.  And I realized that my highest purpose was to harmonize, to run headfirst after truth, finally free from these chains, these lies.  He looked me in the eyes, he kissed my forehead, took my hand in his own and whispered, “You are mine.”

A fellow poet once told me, “Tell your own story, or someone else will tell it for you.”  I’m sick of having my story broken into, broken in two because half my audience thinks that it’s only half true.  It’s been so long since I’ve been honest with you!   And so now I’m coming out with everything, my sexuality and the spirit that is my seal, because both have inhabited this treasured chest of mine.  I have been washed and I am waiting hand in hand with the Divine, and I believe that these wounds will be healed in time.
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