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My sadness
Is a late summer storm.

A few days of sun,
But I knew it was brewing.
Anticipation, trepidation,
Gathering resolve.

It thunders over me
When I least expect it.
There's a sudden build up
Then release.

Afterwards
I feel renewed
for a while.

Only for a while.

I can still hear the thunder, in the distance
And I know it will return,
Heavier, and darker than before.
 Sep 2013 Lizabeth
Jamie Horridge
All our family photos are black and blue instead of white
They just came out that way and it always seemed right
Today I've got the perfect plan in my head
Snap a photo of us now and it’d print out blood red
I've got an idea that could puncture your brain
Hear me out, and I swear you’ll never think the same
The stitches in my head have come loose and now the monster’s out
He told me this plan
We’re gonna burn down the house
This is something I wrote probably over a year ago. I was at a very twisted state.
 Sep 2013 Lizabeth
Jamie Horridge
I read the words that I've wrote down
Again and again
Until they lose their original sound
In my ****** up head
And I've been talking to myself again

No you haven't... I'm not you, we're friends......

I'm not enough even for myself
And I suppress that thought
Until I'm someone else

I think you have a personality disorder...

You're so ******* me
Would you please lighten up?

I'm only telling the truth, you're just not tough.

I'm trying to write
You've said enough

It's 2 o'clock and you just woke up...

I can't count how many times I've told you to shut up

Priorities...routines?
You seem to forget this stuff.


SHUT UP
SHUT UP


I won't pity you anymore.

I don't want you to

I don't even know you anymore.

I don't want you to.
 Sep 2013 Lizabeth
壱原侑子
i hope you
have a safe
night of nice
dreams after
busting your
headlights
bringing down
all the streetlights
for mocking the stars

some of us stay
in the dark for the company
of our own kind please turn
out your porchlights

dim your gadget screen
backlights and unplug
all your nightlights
don't you dare
insult the moon
if you have no one to say goodnight to, goodnight.
 Sep 2013 Lizabeth
壱原侑子
this is where the fragments of the fragmented pretend to be whole.

let's say nothing and mean everything.
let's say anything like it means something.

please carry a torch for me until the day i am brave enough to burn.

we could buy our souls back from the devil if we got paid for never making any sense.

our poems are **** but fertilizer helps flowers blossom.
or so we'd like to think.
or so we'd rather not.
keep writing, while the words still have no choice.
when did we sign up for the wars within ourselves?
when did we learn to be weapons?
there is nothing to let go.

October's got those orange eyes
But somehow I still lost sight
When you lifted the lid off of my pumpkin head
And kissed me goodnight

She could be a thorn in my side
We never quite broke that horse
She slept in the cul-de-sac rye
Seven miles from my front porch

Bundle up and come with me now
Down the road where to the burned down barn
We could make a blanket of coats
And breathe our souls into the neighbor's front lawn

But, oh god, that look in your eye
Trouble that does not search words
It sprung from the biblical vine and
Awaiting to return to the dirt

The stitches in your winter clothes
Your cello bows
We stole your hair to make them
We're sorry for the iron shoes
We nailed to you
And stuck you in the rain
And then you sprinted away
Sprinted away to where I don't know
God's moving in your bloodstream
Where the cross beats aren't so slow

You swept all the red from my cheeks
I didn't hear you come back inside
I light up the gas in the den
And stand there in the thin winter light
But, oh god, that curve in your spine
A question mark, a doctor's sigh
Was framed by the windowsill
And you saw something I did not in that night
You saw something I did not in that night
 Sep 2013 Lizabeth
壱原侑子
0142
 Sep 2013 Lizabeth
壱原侑子
We are dried up
leaves wrapped
paper thin
through filters we let
others breathe
our poison in
as we burn down
to ash and dust
and dirt
we are addictions
rarely mutual
we are statistics
in the making
we are cigarettes
in every sense
the word
 Sep 2013 Lizabeth
壱原侑子
0251
 Sep 2013 Lizabeth
壱原侑子
I'll always wait for the glasses to spill before I take them out.
I'll always empty my closets and let everything sleep on the bed.
I'll sit on the edge and have a staring contest with the mirror.
I'll always surrender.
The fan is buzzing.
There's a web in every corner.
Furniture is the devil's work.
I will always fall in love with walls and floors.
I hear the highways and I don't want to be here.
I'll always be homesick but only houses exist.
Homes are a myth.
 Sep 2013 Lizabeth
Walt Whitman
1

Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation;
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride;
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or gathering his grain;
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums—so shrill you bugles blow.

2

Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets:
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers must sleep in those beds;
No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—Would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.

3

Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley—stop for no expostulation;
Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer;
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.
We are the Misfits, the underdogs
We are the uncomfortable silence being sprinkled like salt around the dinner table
for we’d rather drink the tap water
We are the influx of doctor’s bills drowning mother’s in shame confusion and debt-
our father’s were confused too but then they learned to forget.
We are the daddy’s little girls who used easy bake ovens and had barbies by the dozens
Those childrens toy’s turned into drugs and boys
so now we undress like Barbie and get baked
like the sweet potato my momma left for me in her human sized oven
All of a sudden
We are the little boys playing with power rangers
pretending that curfew was our only danger
But don’t you love it when they call you big Poppa?
From poppin a slam dunk to poppin a cap in your homeboy’s head
Because you’d rather be a gangster than listen to what momma said

We are the young men getting less than, five hours of rest in
a week because there’s a mermaid who stole his heart and hid it so deep
the **** boy’s trying to grow gills
We are the mermaids falling for sea monsters
who knew of the danger but didn’t give a ****.

( She’d do anything for you you know that? If you went to jail I swear to God she’s rob a bank just so you could both be incarcerated.)

We are the youngest girl and boy in the emergency room at 1 in the morning
I can hear my mom’s boyfriend in the corner there snoring
We are the youth with confidence like sinking ships
We live off of prayers for the oncoming apocalypse

Welcome to Misfit Island
the fog on the lake at 2 in the morning looks like a sheet of glass
separating a goblet of moonlight and a mug of dark fright
We jump on the beach like astronauts and forget everything our grandparents taught us
We are the lovers loving with the strength of every particle beam or lazer
because if it wasn’t love it’d sure as hell be a razor

We choose moonlight and philosophy over structured life hypocracy
because we are the misfits.
We are the listeners, the observers
We are the panic attacks written between your math quiz and midnight purge
We are the bipolar, manic, ridden with panic, schizophrenic, depressed, never not stressed
Eating disordered, Addicted, and every other diagnosis written 2013’s edition of DSM
We are the soldiers going to war with our own country day in and day out
there’s no voter’s booth in the universe that can make us put our weapons down.

But we are the misfits, plural
we come to this beach to laugh and to cry, giving every answer a capital WHY  
because our insides differ
we are not the same
Welcome to Misfit Island, we are young and insane
Do not be fooled by our high school transcripts or unshaven faces and hairy armpits
We hold more gold within each and every one of our souls
than you could ever dream to sell or bend to fit the mold
our screams will dance in song and with every breath we take
we learn to forgive our past and how to learn from our mistakes
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