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Kristen Apr 2016
I may find the sacrifice
Blood drips down
O'er white, furred skin
A striking display.

At the end of the day
The lamb is dead
And the lamb,
--I guarantee--
Does not agree with me.
The world does not revolve around you.
Kristen Jul 2015
I held myself in soft closeness that night
Cocooned in the warmth owning a bed provides
And breathed alongside seven-billion other sighs
Desperate, terrified...
to Collide.
Kristen Jul 2015
Too big
Too many things to see
To pick up
To carry...

Too grand
Too many things to hear, to feel, to stand...

Too much: each of us.
Kristen Mar 2015
I'm surrounded by cotton-bullet people.
They do not want to fight.
They do not like to be hit.
I know--
I tried a million times to wrestle;
They wanted no part.

I'm surrounded by cotton-bullet people.
But I'd rather weild a greatsword--
Don't care if it knocks me down,
I lose my balance--
How else am I to learn to pick myself back up?

I'm surrounded by cotton-bullet people.
They shy away from me,
And expect me to shy from them--
From everything.

But how am I to live that way?
Will it scare them when I am bold,
And unafraid?

Am I right that I should prepare myself
To withstand
Whatever battles may come?
Or am I just a silly, sentimental *******?
Filled with ideas about fighting for honor,
And about feeling Alive.

I'm surrounded by cotton-bullet people.
But I long to hit and be hit.
Kristen Mar 2015
Like parasites
They climb inside us
Eat us up
Touch us everywhere
And beg us
To hold them as well-

Good ones heal
Bad ones sicken
Honest ones
Reveal us--

Everything we are,
They are;

Everything they are,
We are...

  Mar 2015 Kristen
A. E. Housman
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the color of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the color that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable color of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're taking him to justice for the color of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labor in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the color of his hair.
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