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One last time let me see you smile
One last time let me hear your voice and feel the warmth of your hug
One last time just one last time let me believe you'll never leave
That you actually love me
That you never meant to ever hurt me
One last time just look at me and don't say a thing
*Just one last time say goodbye and mean it
Just one last time
His eyes,
Not a soul could look away and ever again feel the same.
In them, I see galaxies tumble and collide in a colossal manner, untamed.
Why look up for the stars at night, when his eyes,
Seem like they were made just for me to seek.

*His smile,

Brightens even the most darkest of days,
Worth a million tears cried, just for him to spark a flame and let it burn in me
Golden, can't even put together words
To tell you the magic it works through me.

His cheekbones,
What a wonder, such perfect ensemble
Of bones, flesh and muscle, like a dream embodied.
Sculpted by the hands of God, it must be
His personal favorite, no doubt, but this one's mine to keep

His hair,
The darkest black you can conjure up
From the darkest nights you've seen.
Lost in it, almost, while playfully toying
Such fascination with even the simplest parts of his being..


His voice,
I can't explain what it feels like
Without getting my heart to skip a beat.
Deep, and soulful, all in perfect tones,
Here I am drowning in his, almost, surreal entity.
being a mother
is not about
making bread
and dinner every night

being a mother is about trying to understand
and not gossiping to your friends about my bad choices when i broke up with the boy who
i decided
was not right for me

and believing me
when i told you
that i had an eating disorder
that my brothers constant jokes about my weight had not helped
(i could hear you say to my father, 'but bulimics lose their teeth')

being a mother
is about
being there
when im in the kitchen crying and i know that you can hear me
but you do not come out
being a mother is about hearing the tinge in my voice
when i say that i honestly don't know when i will be ready for school
and the day
and not accusing me of attitude
but hearing that i am struggling
being a mother is about
supporting me
and not telling me that you're waiting for my next mental breakdown
and that im foolish for taking on so much
and trying to do well
because you think i can't do it
well
then maybe i can't do it

but you have failed
a mother's essential job is to help their children conquer the world
and you are not helping
it's mother's day tomorrow
but i do not want to celebrate
i'd say that i'm sorry
but i'm not

happy mother's day
 May 2014 Poetry by MAN
RA
Don't belittle your pain.
Don't bottle it up
Unseen
Unless small parts shove
           themselves out
Like a collection of knives
Inside a (breathing, living)
           carcass.
When the knife
Breaks through
With its harsh, sharp gleam,
Don't push it back in
Deeper
Or say it's nothing
(with a pain(t)ed smile).
I see the stains
of denied blood
Against the shine
of cold steel.
And if you say
it's nothing
How can I fix you?
Another old one.
September 20, 2013
Zen monks sit quietly on
stern pillows of effervescent soul.
I do not,
My patchwork pillow is filled with
styrofoam-- artificial.

Hasidic Rabbis rub their tired pious books
adding more wear marks from years worrying
which appear like a foreign tongue on the cover.
My book is full of yellowed, empty pages
sitting, dust-ridden on a abandoned shelf.

The head of the Shiite rests against solid stone
The penitent countenance like a mirror of Mecca.
My forehead bears only the reddened mark of my forearm
from the vibrant narcolepsy of life.  

The Atheist sits in the coffee house
lecturing the disinterested Baristas
about the tomfoolery of religion.  
I sit alone,
nodding sagely,
sipping wine that tastes
flat against my tongue.

What does a depth of spiritual belief offer?
There is an unwritten, unquantifiable,
essence that belief gives the human.
A depth of meaning, like
a shot of penicillin to a case of chlamydia.
again a bit drafty (but I never seem to get past that stage so who cares).
In the seat with the split window,
black cold metal blocked the road ahead,
the sliver of window from the seat infront of me
clouded and beaded with cold rain.
I'm only aware of what's passing me now --
what I've already passed.
None of it feels real, though.
The trees and roadside ditches seem to jump
like an old film
like thousands of pictures flashing in sequence.
The rain streaks making the scene flow not quite right.
A few seats behind me painted nails trace an empty smile
on the condensation.
Thousamds of raindrops rolled behind
two blank eyes and one hollow smile.
Yet,
the image never beaded and melted away,
even as she started to cry.
I watched the wind pet small waves
onto window puddles,
and flinched as pothole vibrations cut it apart.
As we lerch forward --
perhaps for a red light --
the puddle would run to an unseen place,
a place I could not see yet.
 Apr 2014 Poetry by MAN
Caitie
don't touch me
for I am not pure.
the plague in my veins
rests a lump in my gullet
I cannot breathe
choke on your words, child.
you will not be the only one to burn.
the soul survivor brings
no mercy to those
with a past.
**** it off
don't face
the unknown darkness.
you cannot be afraid
of the worrisome elder
that reeks of experience.
you will become*
they speak.
you are not safe.
 Apr 2014 Poetry by MAN
Gypsy
Crawl
 Apr 2014 Poetry by MAN
Gypsy
With the weight on the world on your shoulders
Will you be the one to crawl?
The serpent writhing on the earth
The angel before the fall

Will the whisper of your greatest sins
Send shivers down your neck?
Will the kiss of death bite through your lips?
Will remembrance take your breath?

Do you crave the iron blades of truth
The wisp serenity
Did the sirens tempt your wicked heart
Will your penance be the fee?

With the weight of the world on your shoulders?
Your knees dragging the earth
Can you find yourself sinking in
When you're choking on your worth
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