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Felt through the turquoise left in bloom.

Specialty repeat of your notebook.
Like sad lips.
Sad chairs.
Maybe... just maybe sad.
Not only blankets covering my head.
Your head.
Perhaps.
Maybe once like on the lawn in Kauai.



Garrett Johnson.
Hmmm, yeah I think so.
Ladybugs
outline the memory of my childhood,
marking the pathway of my approach

Orange and black
like Halloween candy corn,
tempting diversion—they lure to encroach

(The New Room: November, 2020)
 Nov 2020 rachel martin
iamgone
my mind may have layers
stairs and levels
twisting
and turning
halls and rooms
but don't be fooled
my mind is not
a building
my mind is not
a home
in fact
my mind
is where i get
lost the most
I can't find refuge
not even in my own head
what day is it?
The winds of disaster
blow solemn and cold,
sweeping away my heart

From out of the North,  
reclaiming my soul
—in torment to depart

(West Campus: November, 2020)
 Nov 2020 rachel martin
Rebecca
Revolution is calling.
The guillotine responds
to his list of names,
it called upon.

Spewing propaganda,
he doesn’t hold back.
Pen in hand
with a medicated bath.

Drawing out anger
through a written word.
A Radicalization
that was never heard.

Death is the answer,
it sets us free.
A decapitated head
for liberty.

The uprising continued
just as he planned,
for revolution ends
where it began.
"Five or six hundred heads cut off would have assured your repose, freedom and happiness." - Jean-Paul Marat
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