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luna Nov 2018
sometimes i wonder if
i could live two lives
in parallel
but eventually
one of them is going to have to
split off onto a far away road

so i must no longer wave at my reflection
or reflections should i say

as i am living many lives, as many people
walking on with their many days
in black jeans, tweed pants, sport shorts,
until

one of them bumps into another
and they all shatter.

so i have to complete the arduous task  
of holding the rusty knife
and killing off the characters of my past
o what a beautiful sorrow
luna Oct 2018
i watch you walk
it sounds creepy but i just like
to observe you
your comings and goings.

i notice you're very punctual.
so the next day i buy a cheap watch to keep up with you

the watch is a small casio
that i bought at a pawn shop
it barely keeps to time
your time

for now time is only a measure of you

i try to keep up
with your comings and goings
but my watch doesn't keep to time
your time

for time is but only a measure of you

the watch is rusting
slowly slowly
but you don't notice the rust stains on my arms
nor my pleading eyes for a piece of your time

scars of time
which by my new definition
are scars of you
luna Oct 2018
marvel at the natural beauty of;

gum stars on bitumen skies,

battered broken and bruised,


Weary eyed in lucky times.

city dreamers on the outskirts

grey skin from smog grey skies


twenty-something and passionately passive


hotshot kids run to us

then after a few years they become us

it’s a cruel cycle, a corporate curse if you will,

churning

out


dreary office drones and

diplomatic diversity.
luna Apr 5
a father and a daughter play snap on a whittled table
bandages around her spine
hot milk can't soothe the grey pain
but they play until she is tired
at 2am
they venture upstairs,
she is carried, weightlessly, in his arms
he is careful not to shatter the breaking bones.

when she is seven they ask her where the grey came from
she says she got into a knife fight
for she has never been one for the truth
she was taught to lie explicitly
her father telling lies so vast
that they passed into truth

sometimes her mind would create things
crystal structures sitting in her hand
a one am run
a girl
so real she pocketed them
into her mind
and she forgot that with a hammer
they would shatter

she forgot so much, that they passed into truth
a crystal lodged in the heart of the fifth girl she has ever liked.
luna Oct 2018
i must feel completely detached for my life no longer
is living.

cutting off the tensile strings
to float.

drifting out of.

a world so dark
this sweet nothing is unparalleled,

for i am falling apart.
luna Oct 2018
blood red half moon
inch by inch you creep to me
and i creep back

trench warfare of hitting knees
breath hitched
as i attack

we take turns to look away
so we can admire each others beauty in peace

for if we see each other
the world stops

in a lightning fast glance though
i can see the world in her eyes
and the beauty of world becomes clearer.

i long to sit with you
deserted
in a beach on the morning
marvelling at how you change the tides

but
i know,
that when you begin to show me your wonder
the sun will come out
and i will be left
deserted
luna Nov 2018
i know you dont think im looking
i see everything though
i see the sparrows feed and the iron bars holding on

i see the murky water bowl and the sprints up the stairs
i see moonlight situps
because you are "training for the new season"

loose shirt, yet to you it is skin tight
bulging
like a balloon

and we all know what happens to balloons
when they keep growing and growing swelling up
they pop.

and you realise in fact, that the balloon that you thought was there was in fact.
a lifeless hunk of rubber, desperate for a little air

now im not saying that the balloon is a figure of your mind
but im saying that this is.
good ol' pop is a series of poems about my struggles of seeing others suffer, inspired by a loved one's struggle with anorexia, good ol' pop is a collection for the bystander, and for the observant.
luna Nov 2018
fact: the beluga whale can live for around 50 years.

i see everything
i feel as if i have eyes
we all have eyes
but my eyes see it all

i wish they didnt see it all
i really really do

fact: the patients of nervosa probably can't live for around 50 years.
good ol' pop is a series of poems about my struggles of seeing others suffer, inspired by a loved one's struggle with anorexia, good ol' pop is a collection for the bystander, and for the observant.
luna Oct 2018
i mean it when i say
i would give every part of my mortal soul
to her. 

is it normal, because to be
honest
it doesn’t feel that way. 

she tells me to turn to her, when we could easily face away
she cups my face in her life giving hands

and i mean it when i say
i would give every part of my ****** dead old heart
to her. 

she looks in my eyes with a effortless glance
of hazel specked eyes.

dying stars live and live on for only to see her.

and i mean it when i say
i would give my last dying breath
to her.

she runs her hands into my hair
weaving a maze made for me
to find my way out,
to see her one last time.

and i mean it all because
she makes me,
die and become more alive than i have ever been.
and all i want,
is to give that back

to her.
j
luna Jun 17
j
you make me a better person
and it ain't no lie
i'm smiling through my teeth
its pretty ******* clear
i like me better when i'm with you

you read me like a book
and see through the walls i put up
and the **** i do

theres a side door
rusty blue handle
you can come through it
and in my mind we lie in some neverending dream of
cloudy grass and lemonade

where we can just be
cause i'm pretty scared
people like us aren't like us in front of
anyone
but i wish i didn't have to bite my lips
as fellows find me a suitor
to take me to a ball

where your eyes will be ingrained in mine
and after, i'll take you home
and we can just be
just you and me
luna Feb 6
you sit triumphant on the throne
red velvet, up there, on concrete stairs
i am a piece of glass to you
see through, ready to crack
to break, grovel at your knees
do anything that you please

and you see it.
i feel like a spy. everything is shrouded in secrecy now.
everyone says hi to me but you
you give me a glance telling me
"you will need to do more to earn my time"

i give you high 5's
your hand is bigger than mine
the prints studding my back are purple night skies.

you see right through it.
you know i would jump over hot coals to get a day with you.

****, a day with you.
if that were a drug i'd be a ******.
the idea of you, seeping into my veins
giving me a high.

withdrawal from you has become my pain.
i try to find you.
the you that came with me on the bridges of brighton,
the you that bellowed the lyrics of fuzzy 9:40 pm songs
sung an octave lower.

but you see that i'm searching
so you hide the key.

on top of your red velvet throne
you autocratic beauty.
i wonder if you know what you are doing to me
bug under your thumb, i squirm and you laugh.

give me my high, my ruler, my lover, my queen.
don't worry about the withdrawal my muse.
compared to your shots through my glass,
a little fire would be welcome.
luna Nov 2018
i think about my time
walking around a vast expanse of nothing
it will be endless.

my body will go to the land.
land i damaged
hurt and killed
with my every waking breath

the land will take my body
unwilling yet grateful
and as i rot
the land will look at my

rotting liver
broken heart
black tar in my lungs
unbroken, unchanging, unmoved
destroyed

and sigh as she goes on with her day.

subconsciously happy that another
killing machine
is of her planet.

you know sometimes i think of mother earth as one of those grandparents
you know the whole "get off my lawn"
cliché
except the teenagers don't leave

the hormonal beasts rip off her lawn to expose
her jewels of life
marvels of wonder
and then what do they do

they take it.

so when mother earth sees another mortal soul
who's every waking breath
hurt and killed,
un broken un changing un moved

she sighs and goes on with her day.
luna Oct 2018
we sit in the gym
kettle bells ring a soundless cacophony
blue blooded monsters sweating silently

when a trance starts to play
they look up their heads to the sound
it comforts them
it gives them a pulse
which these lifeless hunks aren’t used to.

but i
listen to the trance

and i feel my blue blood boil to red
i am not feeling a pulse.
but i am alive
and i
hate it all.
luna Apr 5
will i find the courage
or will my knees merely meet yours
in some navy blue darkness
will your hand be holding mine
will i be fine

i wish i could tell you
how it is so hard to see your grey face and dark eyes
and know i can't do anything without telling the one true secret
hiding inside
luna Jul 20
i guess i just liked the idea of you
holding your hand
holding my breath
holding you

i kinda still want to go to the movies though
maybe we can get bubble tea and bicker about toppings
maybe i can edge my hand over to yours, maybe.

i haven't told my friends.
you're a year 10.
i'm scared to meet your eyes.
you light up when you see me, and i'm scared.
i'm a teetering *** of water.
extinguishing a fire.

i'm scared of loving you
but i do admit
i like the idea of holding your hand
having lunch with your friends.

you know, i gave you advice
on another girl you liked





maybe i could wipe my memory and we could try again.
we could be friends.
luna Jul 20
its sick of me right
to be up into the depths of night
wanting a diagnosis, a pill to pop,
morning and night
fixing this rot

the rot is me, for that is what i am
i am broken, bruised yet on the outside
i am well.

         well - in a good or satisfactory manner

except for tarnishing scars, carved into my back
faded into a splitting grey
'not my colour really darling' you say
in some grasp, clawing your paws skyward

imposter syndrome plagues daily
clinical trials never proved nor questioned
prognosis given minutely
updates routine
yet it all feels
deafening

like shouting into the abyss

calling meaningless names
and waiting for an imaginary crystalline rope to haul you up
a trojan horse, is what you are

hauling conditions at your enemies, in some screaming fight
when inside, it is just a ruse, a cry for help.
oh how could i not help, they think

yet when the rope snaps, they never put their ear to the abyss
instead chastise the creator.

— The End —