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No words can bring me solace
Like the stillness of the night;
Save your breath
And just take mine away.
Us.
I wish I could take it all back.
Our memories, are times
Back when we were fine.
our laughs, and our walks
and our midnight talks.

Part of me is missing
now you're gone.

You promised not to leave,
*Silly me for believing you.
Im empty without you.
It was many and many a year ago,
  In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
  By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
  Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
  In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
  I and my ANNABEL LEE;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
  Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
  In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
  My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
  And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
  In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
  Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
  In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
  Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
  Of those who were older than we—
  Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in heaven above,
  Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
  Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
  Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
  Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
  In her sepulchre there by the sea—
  In her tomb by the side of the sea.
 Apr 2015 Lauren Cole
Lexi
10 months
43 and a half weeks
305 days
7,320 hours
439,200 minutes
26,352,000 seconds

I've been sleeping in your shirts for 10 months
I've spent 43 and a half weeks missing your touch
I've visited your grave 305 days straight
I've played your last voicemail 7,320 times
I've survived 439,200 minutes without you
And I can remember all 26,352,000 seconds since you left
Writing is, as most hobbies are, an art when taken seriously. Perfect practice makes perfect works. Don't just write a poem or a blurb...

Wrap the vines around the ankles, pull apart the pelvis until it cracks like a pistachio. Take the loosened intestines and wring them out quickly. Lob the liver high in the air and smack it away on its way back down. Creep up the exposed vertebrate as you fish through the guts and flesh. Watch as the skin looses color, and emotion fades with last breath. Itch your fingers through the fluids, crack apart the spine. Work to the nook of the back, where hands fit snugly in hugs before. Punch holes with your nails, and tickle the lungs from asunder with your teeth. Bite and claw through the chest like a bullet through a milk jug. Feel the blood run cold now, for you've been at this for a while. Push the shoulder bones out of place, since they need not be there anymore. Feel the bone grind and pop, smooth without resistance. Watch the arms flop lifelessly and inhumanly away from what was once a body. Creep up the esophagus like a bad acid, tearing and destroying. Reach the mouth, and cut the tongue. Lob it too with the liver. Break teeth, and crack cheekbones. Finally, wriggle into the skull, wrapping around the brain, and squeezing until it falls through your hands like raw beef from the fresh chopped cattle.

Don't just write. Be wretchedly beautiful.
A flower grows as it dies; bashed by age and time.
It is not a body that shows time’s grip; but the evidence left behind.
Time is but a faceless bird, dug deep into your back,
The claws aren’t real; the cuts aren’t deep, yet still a metaphorical attack.

And nothing is something, that something is nothing, confusing as it may be,
When nothing’s something which is still nothing, to you as it is to me.
Time is nothing, which makes it something, a thought to surely abhor,
And so it goes, in our little cosmic ewer, and so we begin to pour.


Hearts, souls, minds alike, made up by “you’s” and “me’s”,
humanity’s reasoning for all of this madness is “do with it as you please.”
We grow as we die, like the flower goes too, into eternal night,
a place without sorrow, happy or sad, a place beyond darkness or light.

You sit here reading this spun and wrought tale, absorbing each sharply placed word,
and my sincere solitary hope, to one and all, is that it makes you feel so spurred,
as it has done to me, shall it be done to you, this is one of my master plans,
to show you the nothing beyond light and dark, the place where the flower now stands.
A night of stars and galaxies too,
Wrapped up in black and multicolor,
Wringing out my idolatry; a ****** mental coup.
First, again, the third and forth as well,
A withdrawal of emotion, my payment’s in lieu.
To fret and to toil, for each and all,
Heart locked in place, while you stand in a queue.

To have you is sorrow, to forget you won’t do,
My disillusioned paradigm a macabre slaughter of squalor.
To tear within; your knife to pass through,
The tandem mechanization of a broken nous cast to Hell,
Confided in old friends when it wasn’t right to.

Alone do I sit, alone do I prove new,
A spark so fleeting; product of a scrawler.
A rebirth a second, a boy made anew,
The offensive given from inside, the brain is his cell,
Ever changing, ever warping, a wish to avoid methylene blue.
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