I see your cadence
and your lilt.
I see you--
soft mannerisms,
broad gesticulations,
eye language
and swinging butterfly
legs that can't sit still.

I see your lips
with my eyes closed.
I see you--
gentle tempering,
encompassing motion,
speaking tongues
only I know
and wrapping serpent
arms that hiss our secrets.



-LP

When something purely sweet becomes bitter from want of bitterness itself, it is indeed a tragedy. Because of the absence of this bitter seed (the bit of yin surrounded by yang), the bitterness instead overruns the sweetness as a ****.

     Today, I plucked the first **** from the ground, and in its place grew two new bitter weeds.

     I know in time, they will spring forth from the Earth with exponentially-increasing frequency, and I will perpetuate my own doom, compounded by the Hands of Fate spinning the Wheel of Fortune. I see myself yanking weeds only to watch them multiply with helplessly guilty eyes.

     And though I know Our fate, I will not tell Him of the tragedy that is forming (swelling, swarming) within Us and between Us. I will not let Him see the weeds syphon away Our love and sap the energy of Our commitment, nor will I let Him see my futile but frenzied desperation to salvage it all. I would prefer to allow Him to think it all happened naturally, that We grew apart and it was really all okay, that it was all in order with our respective natures and we would simply be better off because hey, **** happens.

     And in the end, We will lose each other in the bitterness, tangled in and smothered by the ugliness we spawned.




-LP

I hide within a shroud, but that allows me to be loud.
Within the fog of a cloud, I wring the walls, cause you to drown.

The lightning springs forth from my shadow--
The sound vibrates; you think your window's gonna shatter.

The cause of much calamity, you wonder when I'll stop;
I swallow up the ground as I push every single drop.

A blanket but relentless: I leave you defenseless.
I surround you
I surround you
I surround you
I surround you
sound you
sound you
sound you
sound you
sound
sound
sound
sound--
It compounds.

The cause of many nightmares--
Suburban children run scared;
But in the landscapes of the tribal,
I harken the arrival of a season of survival--
Postdiluvian Bible.

Ultimate roar of dominance; celestial umbra continent--
I am the nothingness you hear; the darkenss in the sneer--
I am the archetypal boast; I am the quintessential ghost--
I am the presence innate; I am your questions of fate.

I resound here
I resound here
I resound here
I resound here
sound here
sound here
sound here
sound here
sound
sound
sound
sound--
All around.

I waste my own existence to exist as a motif--
Pathetic base of happenstance, model your power and your grief.

Tenderly I wane
as the armor of the gods is torn to shreds
and the sunlight shines through
the tattered bits.
Tenderly drops drain
into the ground. You stop the tossing in your bed
your dreams imbibe what I imbued
and my voice marries the whispers of the winds.




-LP

No more jokes. I am literally dying
as I breathe now
and all I Will have
left
is this poem.

It's pathetic
as in
it inspires pathos
but also pathetic
as in
I am ashamed to be my dying self.




-LP

My pieces slip out of the hole in my head

And they float away always just out of grasp

The silence is pulsing; my words are now dead.

The soul leaked outward though my blood was not shed

And seeped through the ground, a melted moaning rasp

My pieces slip out of the hole in my head

Since I had not mine, he was the life I led

Until the spears he spoke brokened the heart’s clasp

The silence is pulsing; my words are now dead.

Crumbling lexicon, babbling gibb’rish instead--

Dizzy fall. His glass eyes were widen and gasp

My pieces slip out of the hole in my head

I run, spilling remnants where, as I (were) tread

Haltingly, I faultingly sputter-stutt-spasp

The silence is pulsing; my words are now dead.

I fall and watch him watch, the glass without dread

Once was the soul-spears-scalp-glass-and-ev’ry-asp--

My pieces slip out of the hole in my head

The silence is pulsing; my words are now dead.



-LP

John Keats is my baby daddy.
He inserted his words
Into me
The rhythmic metre massaged
My insides
His diction wet me all over
And over
And over
And over--
And now
Gestation.



-LP

I loose my ponytail and my hair falls
in ripples and ringlets around my waist.
I hear her; from downstairs she howls and calls
me to obey as my will turns to waste.
I walk on light feet, heart pregnant, weighted
with the contents of my soul. In soaking
my sorrow it sapped my self, then waited
for release, my brittle remains croaking.
I reach my window and sit on the edge;
warm air puffs from full sky cheeks, illusive.
Stepping onto the roof, slowly I hedge
tow’rd the ledge, the Task somewhat elusive.
I turn my back on the open night air,
the leaden weight free- the blade sliced my hair.



-LP