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 Jul 2011 Kiara McNeil
You always think your right
Your way or the highway
Your ears are open but it is just a tunnel to the other side
Meanwhile you are formulating your next point
It is like you are walking with your eyes closed in somewhere you never been
Taking no advice from outsiders
You know where you are going no matter if that tree is in front of you or not.
You walk into it never giving up
And eventually going to knock it out of your way
Instead you stand at the tree with a stand still
Never realizing you have hit an unmovable object.
Just open your eyes
Let the light inn
See your problem
Figure out the solution then
Step forward
Just open your eyes
Listen to the world around you
You will thank yourself for it
Trust me
I’m blind
 Jul 2011 Kiara McNeil
I will kick you.
I will look at you.
I will say that I hate you. (I won't really mean it.)
I will cuss you out.
I will let you fall.
I will ignore you.
I will not look you in the eyes.
I will stay silent for you.
I will catch you.
I will lie for you.
I will change for you.
I will lie in the middle of the road with you.
I will never leave you.
I will love you.
John Keats
John Keats
Please put your scarf on.
As you fanned me
and fed me grapes,
you let the sweat drip
down your lobe.
On a night as wet
as this, slip off
your robe, expose.

my fingertips scaled
your knuckles,
fumbling the thing
you held out to me,
burning so brightly.

All before you stopped
to talk to someone
more important
than me.
You moved so candidly.

You sat down at the bench
In a dress all black and
I've seen it in a dream.

With the moonlight flowing
down the river, your neck,
and spilling onto the banks,
your shoulder blades,
your hand crept across the keys
like the most beautiful spider
I had ever seen.
So we talked,
writing our feelings

Slowly bonding,

I became intrigued,
you were too good to be true

I grew to think of you,
more and more

Seeing you,
meeting you,
thinking of

You came close,

on me now

A frenzy,
of thoughts,

As your hair drowns me;
Ive never felt more glorious

Still we move closer,
my thoughts; a raging torrent of passion and worry

I act,
without thinking

After; is silent and still
my mind reeling from the ride
my body tingling with each breath

I feel like this moment
such a moment it was,
is fleeting;
flowing away

I sit here...
I think here...
I remain here...

Without you
There's a certain moment when you have to cry.
A certain word, a certain tone, a certain *******
who can't wait to say how everything has gone to hell
whispers in your fragile ears
and then it's over.

You could shrug, you could laugh
rubbing those tell-tale torrents away
claiming allergies or dry contacts
and you'll know, they'll know
and pretend together.

You could try cowardice and run
finding safe haven in fuzzy socks and tired pillows.
But what you won't do is two-fold:
There is no holding back a broken dam
nor is there drowning its heedless audience.

But today it's me
not you
and I need your half-hearted hugs
your awkward comforts.
Anything, really.

I don't care if you suffocate.

I won't tell you particulars
you won't give me advice
and that way
we'll never disappoint the other.

No waterfalls
just a pond
the perfect inaction
of soul and body.
Raised up in honey.
Now an angel in glue.
I never worked out.
What happened to you.

Bruised in this world.
A walking red eye.
I used to think about,
this, and I'd cry.

External, eternal.
And nothing to do.
Circles on circles.
Whiter than you.

Scored up in sanity.
Cut up in pain.
Metal and things.
A runaway train.

White lines and distance.
Your journeys end.
A crushed up nonsense.
No receive, just send.

This verse is so cheap.
It's all just the strands.
Of a much bigger thing.
I just sit on my hands.

Copyright © 2011, Phil Stewart. All rights reserved.
Just last night I caught gender
waltzing with *** in an entirely gestural affair.
I hailed them both to come join the rest of the party
but they were quite content dancing there
while the well dressed men and women ignored their spectacle.

Perhaps they did not remember their previous performances
that cast them into exclusion,
because their bodies were so entwined with such fluidity,
their parts swirled the whole of them into a state
of being only Picasso could understand.
Abraham Lincoln is my nam[e]
And with my pen I wrote the same
I wrote in both hast and speed
and left it here for fools to read
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