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lX0st Aug 24
A rose
Is a rose
Is a rose
Unless it looks like love,
Then it’s love
It is what it is, whatever it is
lX0st Jul 10
Of all the ways
I’ve watched the world
Fail to take flight

The worst is my own
lX0st Jul 8
I do not shield myself
Between the mortar
Of feeble walls.
Instead, I’ve built mountains
With summits surpassing
Thunderous clouds, erupting,
Brimming valleys and moats
Lava-laden, I control
Fiery dragons
The size of islands
Welding forest trees,
Armor adamantine. I have
Trained wind to whip
And freeze at the flick
Of a tongue.
And with each false step taken,
A crater awakens
Parting the earth
In sacred places. Revealing  
Razor-edged abyss —
A merciless ether,
Crusader’s monolith.
In the end, it is I
Who must venture
And slay, navigating the terrain
Of my tortured dismay
Reclaiming my power
And rightful throne.
Behold, vast kingdom:
The monarch is home.
lX0st Jun 13
The sun shines brighter
When you’re around
Its flare, skin’s sustenance
Coaxing your June freckles
To breach the surface
So that each one is met
With the warmth of love’s kiss
Unmatched by labyrinth ribbons
Of luminous passion
Wound sound around our souls
Life’s star, a neat bow
Wrapping us in an embrace
Of everlasting glow
lX0st Apr 30
We suffer in silence
Still, we speak
But rare are we heard
And of that moment, we dream
Of gratification,
Validation
Of anything that will make this all
Make sense,
Anything that will make this all
Worthwhile.
We dream of that place
That will never exist
Of the place that simply
Cannot be
Our nights despondent
Still, we dream
Utopia has two meanings — it is derived from the Greek ”eutopos” meaning a “good place”, and “outopos” meaning “nowhere”.
  Apr 15 lX0st
r
It’s a short walk from here
to Sneads Ferry Cemetery where
the bored to death are buried -
I go there every now and then
and read to them a poem by Lorca
the fortunate who died so young -
bled beneath an olive tree, a fascist
bullet to the head, no pain, I envy that
his fast demise, no boredom -
or surgeon’s knife to try to slice
away the little flowers of the grave
I would take his bullet any day -
before I’m bored, before the blade
before I claim a plot, or take up space
here in this ******* boring place.
lX0st Apr 3
I tripped down a lane of memories
Walked uneven sidewalks
Once lined with trees
Now barren,
Thanks to some "bug disease"
At least not every neighbor is dead

Knees hugged cement
Recalling pastel chalk sketches
Delicate fingers traced
Rugged dips and edges,
My name
Engraved in that one spot where
I failed to learn to rollerblade
At least part of me will live on here

At least until someday
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