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 Aug 2013 Meka Boyle
I have looked up through telephone wires
Still feeling very much a visceral part
Of my preconceived notions of safety
Even with the realization that I cannot look for it up there
Strength does not lie in numbers
In metal
In words
In religion
Or flesh
Those roots run soul deep
Reflecting midnight pools of
In eyes as big as a full summer moon
You can smell it's heady perfume in my hair
Catch the dazzle of it's fortitude in my smile
I watch their hands tangle together
Knowing that there is not a knot I've met that I cannot unravel
Find comfort in your soft sheets and current pleasant dreams
Expecting other's to always carry your weight
Instead of using your own two hands
Leaves you nothingbut a **Nightmare
This is in response to the pathetic ramblings of the eternally naive and self-made disasters I have been forced to expose myself to more often lately than I would have cared.
Few are the days allotted us
On youth's resplendent heights
For soon we fall, and fall we must
From innocence, to hellish plights

From morn to noon I fell,
Alas! From noon to dewy eve
  And still do I perceive
Descent towards stygian abyss;
                             I grieve
For days bygone and edifice which,
   with Daedalic splendor
I wrought in primal hours
   To this past, I now surrender

With childhood's cherub wings thus shorn
From Avernus cold, my prayers are Bourne
With broken lips, towards skies azure
The myriad gods I do implore

Uplift this loathsome imitation!
Coal-eyed creature of negation
Wont to build a heaven in hell
This torpid fate I must repel!
Childhood: a paradise lost, who's heights we strive, in vain, to attain once more, or a hell which, throughout out lives, we feebly attempt to correct.
The anger rushes through my blood like *******,
After all this pain,
Hearing your voice will never be the same.
It courses through me, calm and collected
I try to be, I try to be.
Breathing air like I will never be given oxygen again
And you smile, but I reciprocate with one of pain.
My heart hardens into a stone,
Putting the final brick on this wall that I have built
This wall that blocks emotion; the soul you killed.
The anguish that has tormented me for so long has surfaced,
All neatly packaged into this situation I cannot escape.
And try as I might I can't erase the image of your face.
That smirk that shapes your lips, painted by Deceit
As I stare back my eyes reflect the fury lying beneath
The rage, that has been held back for far too long,
Eager to burst through my veins,
Like a dove waiting to break out into song.
Thoughts of retaliation burn holes in my mind,
Leaving all thoughts of understanding behind
Lies, they dribble through your lips like fine wine.
Blood red and ever so bitter with your insecurities.
The insecurities that are being heaved onto my back
You ****** them against me, trying to make up for what you lack.
But I’m fading; I’m a passing fog that once carried the Sun
And when you finally notice its beauty, I will be long gone.
Written sometime in 2012 in the middle of my philosophy class out of pure anger. I still remember the moment quite well.

© Leelan Farhan 2012
This is a ghost town,
filled with ex-lovers
and former friends.

Drowning in denial
Never to see one another

This is a lost town,
where young hearts wander,
desperately clinging to their past.

We push and we pull
Pull and we push
But moments never last.

A forbidden town --
the town of my heart.
The town that closed its gates on you
As soon as we fell apart.

© Leelan Farhan
    June 8 2013
I thought it would get easier as time passes
but every time your name leaves my mouth
I feel all the oxygen in my body leave with it
depleting my energy
ripping my throat to shreds as it makes its way

Your name --
It used to sound delicious on my lips
leaving me breathless
Now it's a different kind of breathless.
The kind that suffocates me
and laughs as I begin to choke.

I used to think it brilliant that you saw colours
when you heard my voice.
Now I wonder if the only colour you'd see is
that of darkness and hatred

© Leelan Farhan
    June 7 2013

Angry stupors succumb her sternum
                                          --battered cavities
                             and shoulder sockets.
   Mates with shotguns and pitchforks
           snapped femur bones holding to hope,
  cat nap toes struggling
                                            to climb the miserable

  The greatest beasts reverberate
                        --Fathom and Torrential/Alice & Skippy,
                                       & Orwell and Bukowski
   with pit mentality swarming
                            her literature
                            his neck.                   Never be the Republics.

     The wall is wood and bare. Ammonia wet seal--
            Alice, with her sweet, clawing voices sees
                          this escape is a prison.
        The dove sent to fetch Peace's growth
                  got stuck                                     in the chimney
                             that Skippy built with his stubbornness.

     Alice touches her tacked on remnants
                       --feeling the double home.
                                  Skippy stands still unless Alice calls
     for him
                  and he runs so fast with heart halves beating
                                                                ­       slow.


           Skippy looks down the abyss and sees Julius Caesar,
                    Cthulhu, and a black flag
     calling back for ceremony
                                 in honor of facilitating fear
                        holding tears
                                   and hugs with arms of falsehood.

    Providing bread for mothers and fathers,
            captors of our tables of silence.
       Fear--making dead witnesses into no soft music,

                                                         ­  no music.
                                                          ­       No,
                                                             ­  facilitators near the top.
                                              What the minds of men
                                                             ­                have done to him...


                            Wet paper skin,
                       flat screen canvases--cute satisfactions
                                  asked mean all the world
      but yet                                nothing              but petty questions
                                                       ­                              that break the camel's back.

   "Do I deserve to do this to you?" Skippy asks,
                  helping Alice remove her other lung.
   "Pages will tell babblers later
                           in history", Alice replies.                   Shrieking

    Skippy quarters Alice, the body, the organism's pillow
        ­     and    
               as Skippy does the deed.
           perception,                        climatic disintergration
                                                 ­                   makes flint hit steel--making another heir
                                                            ­                                       in her litter. Her name is Pain.


       Loving Alice
                           watches         as she falls,
                                                and rises.
She smiles softly.


  softly with lips of jasmine, the butterfly conundrum is strapping
            fingers made of chalk and other media to
red bricks,
red bells,
it is but a ghost of a casket. She breathes in this casket--in the belly of a bell, she survives.

                                     It doesn't take her long
            to finish
                          what she has done
         --nails faded back to purple polish.

  Falling through her father's philosophy                         a ladder,
                                                         ­                                    a rope
                                         to strangle the blade of Lady Macbeth's sanity.
          Alice takes one last look
  under jasper eyelids--pulls the rope & becomes lactic.
                                                         ­              A motion film.
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