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 Jul 6 preston
Anastasia
So cut me into pieces then
Grab my hair, my head and hands
And bury them deep
6 feet under where
I will not rest nor will I sleep

Tortured within this system
A living doll played by sick men
Men waiting to die like me
Standing in line to die next
Like I have

I have died a million times
Each in the wounded hearts of every little girl
Been sliced in ruin with no words
To speak, to sing or carry this song

No not for me—they move along
The dead can't speak
Only eyes from a mother's son
Oh, how they will keep

Keep and keep and keep
Greedy little calloused hands
Attached to those who
Deserve such bitter ends

You have taken everything
Played with this corpse too long
Decay and decompose what
Little life may I bring

You have swallowed them whole
No sweet, soft sounds
Only hellish cries that grow
From bloodthirsty hounds

And Gods, you have taken
Every little ******* thing
From us—the dead
who can no longer sing.
 Jun 19 preston
jolly
i saw god
 Jun 19 preston
jolly
i saw god today

i walked into his space, cold and sterile infirmary
he said organize these lifeless bodies, but do look away
do not dare look at their faces
i did just as he pleased, as my resolution waned with every passing minute, every corpse that i carried
heavier than the last, as the will in me kept fading
and as it faded, i caught a glance of one that did
look a lot like me
a dread then burned my nervous system,
i struggled to breathe

i asked him why
still he insisted
i was mistaken

and so i resumed,
the dread had nested in my gut,
my limbs had become weak
while i dragged the bodies through this cold infirmary

then i went home
the warmth of early sunlight shone upon blankets in its gaze
the quiet that had permeated gentle sleep on so many other days
granted no solace, no support
just violently reframed the nightmare i could see now i inhabited
i sat and cried, there was no warmth that could take away this pain

i saw god today
and now
i can't sleep
why me...
 Jun 19 preston
Anastasia
Dead.
 Jun 19 preston
Anastasia
Dad, where did you go?
I hate that you're dead,
I'm angry you're dead,
I wish I could go and rest

In that coffin buried deep,
I wish to travel to your grave,
To dig into the Earth,
Open your coffin and

Crawl inside to sleep,
Beside you again, so cozy,
I wish to pretend we're,
Together on the sofa

Giggling and laughing,
A feeling fleeting so fast,
I wish to grasp,
Onto the only image

Of your corpse once alive again,
That would talk and hold,
The burden of your Death with me,
To  hold me, my daddy,

I wish to open your coffin,
Lay inside and pretend again,
And again and again,
You and I forever best friends.
Please, pick up even if the line is dead.
 May 3 preston
A W Bullen
Ost
Early bird
and barely held
emerging blur

stir coffee lines in irises
of ibis billed regret
divide me


Unexpected
great white egrets
underlit and unicorn
on secret morning movements

A prudency of ivy hides
the singer - not the song

a backing track of blackcap
warming, calling down
the early sun, as if
to walk beside me
Like a bird with broken wings,
I look on with eyes full of envy
as all those around me take flight.
Held down by my own chains,
Left alone, aside from the emptiness;
The hollow realization
That something is missing,
But never knowing the slightest sense
Of what that something is.
being an addict
You’re just a poem now.
Not a person.
Not a promise.
Not the boy who made my heart sit up straight
whenever you walked into the room.
Just a string of syllables I rearrange
when the silence gets too loud.

You’re just a poem now.
Not the ache in my ribs when you smirked
like we shared a secret,
not the heat in my cheeks
when your eyes said stay,
when mine said I already did.
You don’t get to be that anymore.

You’re just a poem now.
Lined up like lies in stanzas,
pinned to pages you’ll never read.
I turned your name into metaphor
so I could burn it without guilt.
I made you rhyme with mistake,
with heartbreak,
with "never again."

You’re just a poem now.
Tamed by ink,
softened by rhythm,
safe in the distance between
what we were
and what we’ll never be again.

You’re just a poem now.
And I?
I’m the poet.

I write.
I erase.
I move on.
You do not attract what you want, you attract what you are / so if you want your epic love, you must be an epic lover / if you want abundance, you must be abundant / in other words, Universe does not respond to your want / it responds to your I am it responds to your energy / and the times I’d thought I found love, what I’d really found was whatever feeling I was operating from / and anger, desperation, fear, lack——none make very satisfying bedmates let me tell you / and none equal love

So be love / be love, and let the world love you back / do not think your empty prayers your daily affirmations will fool God / God’s language is not words
a little something I jotted down yesterday.
Isn't it a funny feeling; guilt
And the things we feel it for

I'm not sure which is harder; being unloved
Or being taught love is what it isn't

But both leave you robbed

And angry.

"
It took me two decades to understand,
You never knew how;
Yours came with strings of compliance attached

And obligatory love is a **** poor excuse for it.

"
I left, I left
And still the guilt came;

That unwanted visitor who refuses to leave.
pg. 40 from my poetry book, Biting Thorns Off Roses
"If there is only one thing to do well in this life,

It is to love well;

For if there is anything you are to be judged by

It is the plainness, of your loving."

||
📖 the opening page from my book;  "Biting Thorns Off Roses"
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