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mûre Jul 2012
Q: Dear Murmur,
Why do you write so many
silly love poems about
pain and regret?

A: Because I need to make room
for more than just sorry
in my heart.
mûre Jul 2012
Chapter 1:
Today I read our electronic history
a dusty living-room tome
wistful for reminiscence
and a late afternoon happy-end.
In Chapter Two I meet the villain
in wanted posters on every page
and read a folkloric anguish
revealed between every line
in heartache and metaphor.
(I was illiterate to your language)

Chapter 2:
And now she is accountable for
the permanent etchings of
betrayal and cruelty.
History be not fickle as I.
History be not proud.

Chapter 3:
Atonement? Stay tuned.
The co author may have just broken the contract.
Writer dynamics are begging forgiveness.

To be continued.
The classic story of "My Best Friend Was In Love With Me" followed by "How To Break a Heart". Every time I think I've become a 'good person' I am humbled by past mistakes.
mûre Jul 2012
I write my identity in gluestick and markers
I am a lamb raised by wolves
swaddled pulsing cosmos girl-child
My limbs are rebuilt like a 7 year old birdhouse
with garish colours and bubbling pride
I am pouring glitter onto my future
the kaleidoscope cannot exist inside

In the end I think there would be
no nobler cause than to
have a life worthy of taping on
the refrigerator that I can
swell with ever-young joy to know I
have created with
trial and forgiveness.
mûre Jul 2012
sheetsnangled
heavy comfort paralysis
colours pixelating
rush breath in
seismicmmmm out
vibrating blurryheart noise
eyes shut tightest
conversations end
eyes open
white
eyes shut
stream of consciousness
eyes open
warmth diffusing
blink
blink
awake.
mûre Jul 2012
one diamond winter evening
for want of a human heart
i scaled an ancient mountain
only to find there was no air
and died quiet beneath aurora
and the glacier's doleful stare.
mûre Jul 2012
you're playing piano
notice naught but your psalm
as i drink my soy milk
trace your name in my palm.

you're stumbling through chords
i'm stumbling through feelings
it's my quiet reward
the delight of revealing

scripting my secrets
growing more bold
things i've far yet to tell you
things i've already told.
mûre Jul 2012
I want to be the crayon you choose.

You're staring at me- is it flecks of her irises?
Pixel fragments of your- your broken girl
singing in a car fatuous teenaged maddening
your beautiful agony one?

Her colours ran so deep, ocean, lightning,
I'm snared in pastel drapes, twisting, biting.

Does the bruised heart still beat
in your chest? Or in hers?
Is it that I have her poise when I walk?
Your ears- strain for her timbre when I talk?

When you hold me the tightest are you grasping at shards
of another doomed crossing of stars?
Is your future wrapped away
sterilized in gauze?

I've got a leaky rowboat to carry you
from a hurricane of nowhere.

I never want you to live up to her.

Don't you see? Don't you see?
How could I
-how could I possibly-
be brave enough
To let you love her and love her
with my little wolf heart?
Until your soul is spent
until she's torn you apart.

I -burn- to know your reckless, your passion,
in a home it can at last belong.

I howl to keep you, little fox
your heart starting fires safe in my den,
to let old love out.
To let new love in.

*what am I doing wrong?
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