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 Sep 2013 Katy Owens
Allison
Loving him was like finding a new book
Not knowing what it's about or even if your going to like it
But you open that first page and fall in love with the words
Needing to read more and more
Picturing what your reading
But then you come to those last pages
Ending of the book the book you fell hopelessly in love with
Finishing the book you don't know what to do after all the hope and all the feelings you had for those characters are gone.
Are just a memory in your mind
That you have to play over and over again
To fell like it was real again
Leaves you empty and broken
until you find that next book.
Leaving a new mystery for you to slove.
losing thoughts to the margins in
some great depression of creative
outlet. taking inked works from a
revered Shakespeare born of the
Moorish states, filling out cata-
combs of this one's entombed
thoughts. and pondering Paris
of some earlier century, how
those writers flocked together.
how this one loathes his current
centuries other writers.
and these, are we, birds of a feather?
flocking, so to be better caught
by twelve-gauge scatter shot?
perhaps we are of a generation
lost, with blinders grown thru years.
expats stranded in a sea of comp-
lacancy in isolation with warring
souls raising higher parapets for
safety? this one's soul may have
raised too high fortifications,
forcing attrition upon the inhab-
itants. this one's soul may have
slaughtered the others for fear
of a low-cat staring up to
the eyes of its King. and
lone heart-beat echoing off
solid stone walls built of mortar
mixed with sweat and tears from
desecrated - of the desolated - and
now forsaken culture only a
quarter-century out. this one's
dogma consisting of self-martying
psychopomps pre-proclaiming ..
     'I went out myself into
     an immortal body, and
     now I am not what I was
     before. Now born in mind.'
this one's canonized martyrs only
seeking migration and division.
seeking the Kepigori for hopes of
retrieving knowledge lost - placed
without qualm of forgetting - the
ancestors bore unto still setting
mounds of clay mixed blood. and
when finally set, when finally full-
formed, when finally upright and
springing forth the common know-
ledge which was taught once in
truth. and, now breaking in thought
while this one's hours rot, while this
one leaves an abrupt end.
 Aug 2013 Katy Owens
Eliza
Tears
 Aug 2013 Katy Owens
Eliza
Just let the tears
fall free from my eyes.

I'm starting to get tired
of silent cries.

I'm getting sick
of telling lies.

Let the tears fall free from my eyes.

*(n.d.)
You are more than numbers
You are so much more than numbers
Numbers are insignificant
And only pertain to algorithms that predict unfortunate things
Like death
And I’m sorry I forgot your birthday
But it’s just numbers and numbers aren't important to me
I remembered your favorite color
Blue
Because it is the color that describes that clichéd, shallow melancholy
Authors often glorify to make petty things seem magical
But blue is something you should never feel because you go so much deeper than that pettty feeling
And I know your favorite flower is the sweet pea
Because I remember that it symbolizes the shyness I’ve never felt around you
And the shyness I’ve never seen you exhibit
And I’m sorry I’m so quiet
It’s only because I want to tell you how beautiful you are
But I know I’ll never be able to find just the right words to tell you
That you’re imperfections perfected
And I love all the things you say you hate about yourself
And I love the way words sound on your lips
And how you throw your head forward when you laugh
And you’re all the poems I've ever written
Even the sad ones
Because you’re all the feelings I've ever felt
And I love the way your hand feels in mine
And I’m sorry I forgot your birthday
But I promise I always will
Because I have more important things to remember about you
Than numbers

— The End —