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In your metamorphosis I've found that you've been sifted straight to grounds
but to replace our A-B hits and fits and
midnight tricks followed by
cop car lights lit
is much like watering down
coffee
but I'll choose to take those sips so I take
one for the taste
one for the high
one for guilt free trips during 2nd period to the girls bathroom
and in three sips
I've fulfilled everything with innocence
but innocence doesn't leave a mark
and innocent
wasn't what you were
and being innocent can't tear down christmas lights on 53rd street at 3am for no other reason but to say we did and to say we did it together
but
who am I to disturb external forces
with my rhythmic manifestations to a personal God who only puts me in favor
when it's deserved
but is it my fault
for having tasted something that I swear only exists on some
uncharted astronomical coordinates and
is it my fault
for having tasted 1/4th cup rain water and 3/4ths cup regret
so is it my fault
for only asking for what makes the lady at the cafe counter cringe and
in your metamorphosis, I've found my own
and found it
slightly sweeter
slightly less drug induced
yet slightly less symmetrical to yours than I had hoped
and although I'll live without the hits and **** we did
just for kicks
it's hard to shed the addiction, of Americas favorite morning
fix.
 May 2013 Moriah Harrod
ERR
How do you make your writing unique
I asked, how do you create images that no one has seen?
The poet answered
The trick, he said, is not to create the unseen
It is to describe things everyone sees
In a novel fashion
Have you ever seen water?
Sure, I said, everywhere, what does that have to do
With anything?
Well, he replied, snowflakes are made entirely
Of water, which is everywhere, and yet
They are each unique
One does not need to invent a substance
He needs simply to use it in a special way
Make snowflakes from the water around you

Interesting, I thought, but where do
The ideas themselves come from? How do you capture them and write them?
The poet smiled at this; I most certainly do not capture them
Imagine catching butterflies with your bare hands
If you ****** them in flight, you will damage their wings
And you will not have the beautiful creature you wished to obtain
If you allow them to approach you, however, or approach them gently
You will maintain their level of excellence
And when they are finished they will
Float away, weightless

Wow I said, what a wonderful scene
But how do you know to believe in these things, in what you write?
The poet chuckled
Well, he said, they were apparently able to move you
And I just
Made them up
Its funny how the past reminds us of what’s to come.
And its strange how one look into her eyes and the feelings that plagued my bones come rushing back.
The same feelings I drained bottle after bottle to escape, pleading with fate to look the other way as I refused to enter the door it moved heaven and earth to open.
All the time spent in silent pursuit comes flooding back.
The hours when sleep abandoned me for fear I’d go on dreaming.
For a moment, just a moment, I close my eyes, and I remembered what it felt like to make you laugh.
Followed closely by that sinking feeling, the one that fooled me into believing we were meant to be.
In that moment I realised time hadn’t healed anything; it only led me to believe I’d left well enough alone.
Beneath the defence of “I’ve moved on” lay a boy still frightened at the thought of trusting his heart.
Just know it’s not that I never love you my dear; it was I was too scared, Too scared to tell you how I felt and just how much I cared.
I was in the jungle, laying down,
My brothers looking down at me.
When you took your first steps.
I was far away.

I was smoking in the desert,
My brothers, sleeping near me.
When you first went to school.
I was far away.

I was pulling my friend out of a fire,
Only to be caught there myself.
When you graduated with all your friends.
I was far away.

I am lying in a ditch,
In the desert once again.
As you start a family I will never see.
I am far away.
"It comes about that the drifiting of these curtains
Is full of long motions: as the poderous
Deflations of distance: or as clouds
Inseperable from their afternoons;
Or the changing of light, the dropping
Of the silence, wide sleep and solitude
Of night, in which all motion
Is beyond us, as the firmament,
Up-rising and down-falling, bares
The last largeness, bold to see.
To me she is a name and an image,
the moral to my good intentions,
A face to a feeling of my own invention.
She's a lingering lie in the back of my mind.

Fingers and lips stand highlighted
as ghost-like etchings in my abbreviated memory.
Romanticised moments of your hip-bones tremoring
on Winter nights, alone and together in the dark.

Our long lasting days in-doors
played out like "the way things ought to be",
with the most perfect view of the movie
through faded strands of hair

These days, your girls make you up unfamiliar,
Indian ink applied over the original sketch,
the shivering girl brought down to match,
a floating feather dipped in black and
made part of a Hot Topic handbag.

And even now I wonder if the dripping wet girl
with the stiff shutter smile
ever even existed, at least,
the drunken emo kid staggering on the cobbles whispers rumours
she was mown down by telltale scripted kisses and silent exchanges.

So she remains a name and an image,
a memorial for better or worse,
an epitaph that eases the hurt,
the difficult first album of my heart
I love the way I feel right after I finish a book.
It's like I'm empty and full at the same time,
and for a moment or two, time seems to stand still.
I notice the dust hanging in the air when the sunlight comes through the window.
I feel the breath enter and exit my lungs.
My pupils widen and my senses are heightened, if only for a moment.

Why does it make me feel is way?
Not really a poem, per se, but more an introspection.
Every time I kiss you
After a long separation
I feel
I am putting a hurried love letter
In a red mailbox.
Tell me, have you looked down at project stair wells
Notice that our people don't fair well?
Farewell to the broke days
We got dreams and hope to get paid
Laid, condo living while we're sipping on chardonnay
Make a sin out the life we were given
Reminiscing when average joe's roamed with smith & wessons
I learned my lessons, create a presence
So when they say I'm broke, I tell 'em my past is not my present
Open presents on Christmas morning, in place of our people mourning
Bullets tend to **** and death is always calling
Frequently calling me at night sometimes
And at night is when we live out our lives of crime
Purchase jewels to claim we're cool, the evils found within me
Spend our income on guns till our funds is almost empty
****, and we're just praying for a way out
Lay on a beach, instead of a street, laid out
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