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i cry during Bambi
you cried in your car after your high school girlfriend tried to come on to you

you and i--
we wouldn't, but--
tonight
or tomorrow
or the next day
we could give ourselves away

we could shoot white deer together in the mountains without a license
the blood from their heads would make cherry snow cones in the powder
and we would have fun savoring the flavor
watching something innocent die

but how would we feel the moment it was over?
tell the ones who put you here how you've had enough
scream it to the skies, 'til your lungs burn and tears sting your eyes
in case the one they call goodness and love is real enough to listen
hold your heart up in both hands like it's your mission
you don't have to be mormon to spread your word like it's gospel
you've just gotta have faith in your method of communication
when you open up your mouth and a storm comes out
i hope the clouds churn and the rain falls and they feel the pain you've been dealt

we can put all hope to bed but hope has a funny habit of waking up again
and i can honestly say my life would lose so much quality
if you were to go to sleep and never open your eyes again
and quality of life is a measurement of longevity, a question:
is it worth it? can i survive this? can i live when the sun burns away the darkness?
you are the sun, my sun, you just don't see it yet
because who can get close enough to the sun without being blinded?
who could hold a mirror to the sun and let it see itself before the mirror melted?
you are the sun, my sun, even if you never see it, try to believe it
written for a dear friend of mine whom i love with all my heart
I wear my thoughts on my skin, till the blood spills out and the ink sets in. I rise from the open grave which nobody tried to cover because they were too afraid Of the monstrosity that hid deep beneath the surface. I’m not made of delicate flowers and intricate leaves I’m made of blood and flesh and all sorts of gory deeds. I need no saving for I’m not damsel, I’m just a woman who is about to build her own castle.
i look at all of these perilously perfect poems and i want to SCREAM
life, your life, mine is not a dream this is not a picturesque reality
please---can we try for a bit of authenticity? c'mon i mean
we all love roses and the sunset gleam but your life isn't
an oil painting (or a tv screen) so can somebody sit down
and write a few lines about the dull gray sky or how her eyes
looked less like a forest and more like a swamp (with flies)?
might add more to this one
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