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She's the innocence in my heart,
The dreams I can never capture~

The beauty in my art,
And the words from my favorite chapter~

Though, I dream in the dark,
Aware through all that has shattered~

Where in my heart,
I know, to her, I'll never matter~

With no words, no art,
Nothing hereafter
You see everything and then it is gone: lightning
in a dark moonless night: you before everything
it all happened at once and then never.
w/ italics, and ye:
 Jun 2017 Lisa Lesetedi
She births poetry like a universe of constellations.
she parts her lips like the hips of the woman about to bring magic into this world, the labour of her poetry is never easy, never smooth, difficult to stomach, but the words she births from her belly carry life like breath, like the fruit of the earth.
There is a beautiful pain to them.


Other times,
Her poetry was like good ***,
She parted her lips like the legs of a woman about to begin the most primitive form of Love, giving as much as she could take. Sometimes she would ride the poetry, reverse cowgirling it to the ****** of her ecstasy and other times, it would ride her,
Leaving its essence inside her.


At one time,
She parted her lips like the mouth of a woman who is about to blow, your mind.
Never for her pleasure, it did nothing for her.
Her satisfaction lied solely in yours,
it was selfless, unselfish, an act of true altruism.
She broke for people, who loved people but did not love her.


But the first time,
She was the poetry, being birthed from the lips of the cradle of woman kind, the first time she was the magic, the life, taking her first breath, her first wisp of earth,
And it smelt like words that bleed, that change, that make love, that celebrate, that birth other words.
The first time she was the poetry, so the poetry became her.

There were words once.
Meant to be heard and said across
various distances, sometimes
an eternity, seemingly, continents
pushed together into one, sometimes
a whisper, momentary, finally, lips-
they say things that very often mean
nothing. Nothing she says. What's wrong he asked.
Many things. Nothing at all. You press play
and something sings in your ears and you
wait for another flight to somewhere.
Nowhere feels everywhere at once, always,
which is why we built these planes. Sometimes
out of paper. As a child I did those things.
Watched how they gleamed across the tops
of my eyes- never too far they went.
What a title! right?
 Feb 2017 Lisa Lesetedi
 Feb 2017 Lisa Lesetedi
There's a kind of surreality that comes with depression. I used to hate that word - depression. I used to be afraid of it, as if naming my nightmare would make it more real. I've become accustomed to its manipulation, now - the way its self-hatred coils inside you, the way its fear winds itself around each of your ribs, the way it twines against your collarbones and strangles you and steals your breath, the way it makes a home of your body by becoming your body, by becoming you.
Your parents always warn you about strangers, but what if the stranger is you?
Expose its flesh, eyes closed and
have at it, whole-mouthed.
Eagerly, without abandon,
I **** down to the pit of life.
Juices run down from chin to neck
in perfect rhythmic queues.
A sign, I think, that I’m doing it right.
When it’s all over, and
I’m breathless and sticky sweet,
I tongue at the strings between my teeth.
With nothing left to taste,
I finger this leftover seed
and lay it to dream
in a black bed of rich possibility.
© Bitsy Sanders, February 2017
 Jan 2017 Lisa Lesetedi
my mouth will never open
as these feelings overflow
the three little words
sit heavy in my throat
 Jan 2017 Lisa Lesetedi
m Love
i tried to write a poem about him
but the entire english language fell short
someone teach me the language love
 Nov 2016 Lisa Lesetedi
The pain I feel throbs
in small ebbs
through the well of my heart.
Reflecting only a small amount
Of the hurt that I've caused you
From the words I've used.
No I'm not perfect but I,
Oh I, wish I was because
There wouldn't ever be a moment
like this one that we're in.
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