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crowds and
paintings on the wall
each of it comes
as a background
to her prodigious story
even Vermeer can't stand out
because only her
slightest movement
catches his eye
in every
frame of existence.

she is
the best form
in a room full of art.
I never believed poems had
to be memorized.
The whole  joy of a poem
is in the art
of the words,
the visual
on the page,
the way each letter
clicks into place like
an ****** of feathers
cincturing a beautiful bird!
*A good argument from a typesetter's perspective.
Taste your future
on a sample platter
of thought
delicate whispers
of a soul's bride
murmur gently
into canyons
of deep  red
Intentional space
Suit and tie
or gold stacked high
dreams cast out
take root
for a few

agreed upon reality
of desired traits
inhibit the minds
of never divine
mental states

stay true to yourself,
rebel
I'll stand with you

challenge your planet
with constructs of mind
shape it, form it
and for you,
the earth shall rise
In a world where poetry has a voice.
Oh,

to fall in love with a poet.

How strange it would be

writers of darkness who share their nonsense

in passionate form.

I'd fall in love with a poet

to dream with her

of what could be.

Oh to dream,

of one who understands me.

Is it you miss poet,

is it you

who understands me?
Darling, if only for once,
Let me breathe into your fog,
Clear it with my forearm,
Make a poem out of your wrongs.

For once, let me meet your am's, 
The earthquakes of your dreams,
I'll lean my head on your shoulder,
And let our demons come clean.

Invite me into the forest of your thoughts,
We'll find on oak tree to hide behind,
Confess how you want to run,
Before the sun of sanity sets in your mind.

If only for once, exclude me of your rules,
Let me read all your unspoken's,
I promise to be the granules of sand,
That mend your glass house when it's broken.

And when you open your gates,
I'll remember to fetch a pencil with me,
To sketch yourself in my eyes,
And hang on every wall the image I see.

Time with you has made me learn,
Never to ask for much,
So with no hope nor expectations,
I ask you to let me in for once.*

● ● ●
4/3/2016
He told her

It is the beauty on the inside that counts

Her response

Then why do my insides continue to find themselves in the wrong place
Lifted into white porcelain gods
Asking anyone to compliment my withered self
Please make love to me
Tell me I am better than the acid on my tongue
The regret powering my mind as I struggle down my dinner
Inside is where I find these thoughts
Thoughts powering my actions
Into a spiraling pit of self loathing
Tell me I am pretty one more time
And I will show you my insides to prove it
Bulimia is gnarly and all too often hidden under the facade of everyday life.
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