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You feel the thunder in my life
in the body of my world
you look at my forehead at my mind
you sigh at all the overwhelming pressure
information, words
you shake your brain, oh those Americans
you look at it like shelves, each person a library
you shut the door and say it's dramatic you know.
And the things you tell yourselves to push; the quotes
all the mouths that quoted the first time said what good words
but they're not just for your ears you know
you're a whole being, 80% of your 'body' is below your head
like holistic health providers say, it's not the North where we should go,
East West and South are the everywhere here
Remember your hands
like your grandparents' cooking souls
Remember your feet like your grandparents dancing souls in the 20s, even Catholics (it's true)
Remember the beat, the peaceful instrumental song without a black sea of letters on white, but a sea of movement, feet on a white kitchen floor
Instead of washing your soul in more words
the scribbles were by a full hand, dropping it across an entire shoreline, more water for the ocean
if you could only write in 96-point font, like in an ant's eyes, what could the poor swallow
we write with one of our hands, the tip of a pen a rocketing thing, and I just want an angel to cry on me
Remember Remember like your grandparents whose parents' words or Bible were seperate from a flat flat piece of paper
Hold it, a round thing, that goes in your mind, tangible and sweet
forget that your stomach fills like a penny jar, a mistake
sell the wisdom and buy everything
a pair of blue jeans with 2 pockets
so that you do not fill with pennies, so many words that lose meaning
and then when you sell everything to buy wisdom, your eyes will not be so eager and wide
and you will not be lost in the fortune of quantity
Copyright Chelsea Palmer July 20
 Jul 2013 Matthew Walker
Elise
You came to see me
on a unplanned visit
so I took you to the only
interesting place I could
think of.

I dragged you through subways,
and crowds of interesting people,
to get to our destination,
our final stop in the Brooklyn station.

You doubted my directions,
as I had only gone once before,
but you trusted me enough
to get you to the right store.

You looked at me as we walked in,
doubting me once more,
it was a place full of junk,
you must've thought that I was drunk.

You stepped in through the door,
and right on the floor,
you found an old typewriter
that you wanted forevermore.

Your eyes, they lit up
like none I had ever seen,
as you began to press each key,
and your smile, it gleamed.

At that moment in time,
I knew I had done well,
as you took right off
like you were under a spell.

You ran though the aisles,
taking in each thing,
seeing the beauty behind
the dust and water rings.

You picked up the glassware,
each little piece,
you told me you loved them,
your excitement didn't cease.

We looked through the art,
and the old records too,
you pulled out a few,
and I had out some Motown for you.

It was the perfect day,
that one random trip,
the day that changed it,
the day I made the slip.

I let myself fall
so hard and so fast,
I forgot that china dolls,
are made of such fragile glass.
i sit alone
alone, but with a voice in my head

the voice that reminds me you exist
and are getting along fine without me

the voice that reminds me my calorie intake
and that i am not a size 4

the voice that reminds me someone has glanced at my wrist
and will never look at me the same way again

the voice that exaggerates any imperfection
except the ones on you

the voice that keeps me company at night
but not the way i want it to
Trapped in a disorder,
Surrounded,
Encased by a series of heated lies,
An arrangement of glass dolls by my side.
Here it comes,
An energetic melody that makes my heart beat fast
And brain overreact
So I cannot write proper poetry.
So hyper, so happy, so nothing.
Misery is in the past
But still clinging tight
So I wonder what it is,
That prevents the many powerful words I once held
From emerging in splotchy ink down on parcel.
I’m not happy,
That’s for sure,
But I’m not miserable,
I’m at some horrid place in between
At a place where I am not happy enough
And not sad enough
To fill page after page with
Rhyming thoughts that flow.
This place kills me.
No matter the dark rooms I once cried in,
I’d suffer a dark earth for an eternity
To see my bony hand swishing swiftly across the page,
Producing miserable rhyming thoughts once again.
What am I without poetry?
I don’t know,
And I don’t ever want to find out.
Love poisoned me
It made my hands shake
and my head ache
and my hands twitch for a lover who wasn't there
and my stomach feel like the ocean
and my head was filled with love letters and stolen kisses
and it made me stay up late waiting for a tap on my window that would never come
it made me weak
because when i looked in your eyes
my breath would become fast
and i'd lose my concept of time
and when you left
i would lose weight
and i would lose sleep
and i would lose sanity
and love would tear me apart from the inside out
as soon as i tasted your lips
and so as you ran your fingertips along my spine
and soon as i heard you breathe my name in the dead of night
because your lips were poisonous along with your finger tips
and your voice was a drug
and what we had slowly killed me,
like poison in my tea every morning.
How to prepare a broken heart:

For this recipe you will need to acquire,
one human heart, and pound it out flat,
blood, eight pints to ten, and boil over fire,
four months of tears should provide for the salt,
add the better part of a soul, a few good intentions,
and pinch of "it's all your fault"

now add your hopes, and add your dreams,
ground up a little warmth and some smiles,
and sprinkle it all with a dash of defeat.
disrespect, shake and repeat.

mangle, beat, and crush with your feet.
tear open your chest,
**** it all inside, right under your breast.
heat at "Hell" for as long as it takes.
baste with fear and loneliness for the time that it bakes.

you won't know when its done; it doesn't come with a timer.
Just be patient; let the torture unfold.
when all of your faith in the world has receded,
and your bright eyes go dead and defeated,
when your childish view of the world grows old,
your dish will be ready - best if served cold.
ain't love a *****!
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