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Apr 2018 · 215
run, run, run
Samantha Apr 2018
When the crowd is turned on you,
and your last line of defense walks away,
and there's no place to call home
and the streets become too cold to stay.
I see you walking, never run.

When did you lose yourself, when did you go?
Always a question, but you never know.
So out of touch here! Mind miles away...
But you're dissonant dear, still not much to say.
So you hide behind your faery tales,
sing life is but a dream,
Then row your boat, first set your sails,
Into the blue you flee
Apr 2018 · 256
Who are you?
Samantha Apr 2018
You tuck away bits + pieces, disregard layers of skin.
Threading together a new thesis - What a story you spin!
Hide yourself, disintegrate, until you're born anew;
then bloom again + contemplate all the differing hues.
All the faces you have worn, the places where you hid,
the songs of praise, the scolds in scorn, saccharine and then acrid.
Truly now, who are you?
The body or the name?
Or the cells that live inside you and the energy the exchange?
Mar 2018 · 265
winged things
Samantha Mar 2018
The wind cuts to the bone
and hollows out the marrow.
My body light as air,
I fly just as a sparrow.
But I must be a phoenix,
setting fires in the trees,
and watching as my ashes are blown about the breeze
The sky is grey and thundering,
smothering like a shroud,
until Gods golden hand comes down
and reaches through the clouds.
The light is gentle and placid,
not enough to hurt the eyes,
Michael sings, David strums,
overhead the angels fly
Mar 2018 · 184
Samantha Mar 2018
I lay dreaming, stretching, sleeping .
You beside, fall into me

Now I'm rousing,
Sore and drowsy,
I pull you close as you sigh loudly:

"How long will you love me,
Before it's all too much?
Because I fear I may lose myself
In the rhythm of your touch.
And I know you don't like promises,
Expectations and their weight...
And I don't really either,
But what if this is fate?"

Toes tangled in cotton,
Egyptian clean white,
Your tears falling silent
As stars in the night.
I know you fear you'll lose it if you soften your grip, but you will suffocate it if you hold any harder
Apr 2015 · 614
The lake
Samantha Apr 2015
Spider web lace, a crown
snow stuck to it and tinkled
All the quiet little sounds.
Crouching in the forests cover
I froze my little heart.
He drowned me in the lake
The scene a work of art.

Angels carry swords
And seldom smile or sing
They aren't much for words
They don't wear crowns or rings.
He broke all of my bones
And took all he could take
I froze my little heart
He drowned me in the lake
I screamed and kicked
I tried to flee
He left his dirt
I scrubbed my skin to bleed
Apr 2015 · 806
Samantha Apr 2015
The fruitless poet
Pleads for inspiration
Is met by nothing, nothing...
nothing, and her desperation.

Sitting watching clockwork
And falling right in tune
To the sound of nothing, nothing...
Save the dogs barking at the moon
Samantha Jan 2014
A little cluster of
Wandering, walking with

Until suddenly found, then
Seen as such since
Some set of eyes *said so
Samantha Jan 2014
your daughter is infected;
writhing as she sleeps in too-thin-skin,
afraid the already permeable peach might catch,
impaled by some night terror
inching out under her eardrums and eyelids.
any other orifice blackened with rot,
and skin crawling with creeping creatures, cutting comfortable
dugouts and sleeping quarters in her heels,
beginning to pull and tear as
one-by-one pests patrolled her leg bones.
cauldron of guts, blood, oil, trouble and toil,
stirred to churn, to gurgle;
Out from up her hip bones the maggots marched,
All her demons expurgated,
Slithering out and flicking forked tails,
Winking kisses with blind eyes
Dec 2013 · 700
Samantha Dec 2013
No thanks
,I'm actually not
In the mood to slug on
;To slip on someone elses shift
,Perpetuate a cyclical consumerist paradigm
.The product is stale and sickening ,I'll stick to my own
Dec 2013 · 2.4k
Samantha Dec 2013
I follow him in the kitchen
We prepare saucepans;
onion, garlic, tomato, pesto, cheeses,
some flavour of the day...
(We're a fickle two)
Boil water, cream
Bubble, salt to taste
Cayenne for luck

He grabs and mixes and I trail,
Closing cupboards and sliding shut drawers the only sounds,
Otherwise silent in our routine.
No good will come of this
silence in our routine
Dec 2013 · 547
Insectual Love
Samantha Dec 2013
The ones that hurt aren't so much the ones  you think will ***** you quick and fly away.
With bold bodies and buzzing intent,
Their stingers are naught but hollow.

Even the sweet ones, stained glass window wings and beguiling antennae,
Pretty they may be, and with pollen'd feet that may for a while stick,
They fade surely with the setting sun.

The Spiders though, who weave, entrap, eat
Eight eyes painted with ardour and appendages caressing as
Your effigy is constructed;
'Tis they who stay for good
To habit the cupboards
A song misunderstood.
Dec 2013 · 981
You Are What You Inhale
Samantha Dec 2013
Staring at my cigarette,
Scolding it for not burning
And, as if in synchronicity,
She speeds, spiraling, licking the fainted lines
Of the off-white cylinder
With a fiery tongue.

See me run and
Squeeze a little more.
Set on asphyxiation
And then hold me tighter;
your Humerus bending as my Little Ribs expand
Nov 2013 · 658
An old poem about a stone.
Samantha Nov 2013
(really it is from several years past)

I swallowed a stone today.
It was no larger than a penny,
no lighter than a brick;
It went down smooth as honey

Usually when one swallows stones
It is the careful chosen sort;
Much attention paid to the details of it-
Any bumps, smoothed and sanded...
Gold and Ivory, Jaded streaks smoldered in...
A polished treasure sat snug in
A Deep Blue Velvet box.

I did not chose my stone,
Nor had I chance to smooth out its cracks, crevices.
I was the chosen rather, all too carefully.
'Twas not a stone to be tinkered with...
just did not seem correct.

Blundering my voice box,
tangling singing strings with Heart string,
making a mess of it all.
Speechless and always with a slight throbbing pang
When I tried to shout that stone jumped,
Clattering and clogging up the pipes.

Smoothed by riverbeds, kisses from fishes
With translucent flesh to put
Peridot veins on display,
I always knew the worth.
My stone only settle in the back of my throat
Away from the acids of below,
Poison rising above.
No larger than a penny, and heavy as a brick,
But it went down smooth as honey.
Nov 2013 · 1.6k
Canada North
Samantha Nov 2013
Seven days spent lost in the rogue North
Octagonal windows framed a snowed in view.
In the kitchen, sun soaking in like honey,
The kids sat eating oranges.
Two cats humming and a sheepdog dozed
Under a thick maple table, flavoured as last nights fresh game
Lullabies deep as eyes were heavy
Fire stoked and a Mickey Mouse Christmas shining brightly,
playing cards, I  laughed that it was just November.
Two sets of ice blue eyes, no blood in between.
And six sets, shades of green-blue-brown,
Each the nicest pair you'd ever seen.
I fell in love with the eight,
Always their eyes first I'll admit.
And now my heart lay in
A long house, teepee on the dock.
The purest cold blue I'd ever know
To crash upon iced rock.
All the trees you would ever need,
A conglomerate of green;
Until the day I die, the holiest place I've been
Nov 2013 · 967
The secret to life
Samantha Nov 2013
Speaking with only seventeen years seen so far,
I say assuredly, the secret to longevity is Insanity.
Once a day -Twice to be Safe, Thrice to be sure- take two spoonfuls of Crazy.
Dance, Sing, Cry, Scream in Wonder!
Yell at the Universe, I am here! I see, I feel, I love, Oh
I am here! See me, Smell me, Shake me with passion
And a Sweet Scatterbrain
I watched a program by David Suzuki
About the potency of placebos,
You know, the mind body connection
The energy that diffuses and transcends, see it dance!
Let it flow through your skin, exude
Knit into the air and
Sing, Dance, Scream;
I am here
Nov 2013 · 608
My fruit has rotted
Samantha Nov 2013
Wildberries bleed in between two fists
I clench, bury fingers deep in fleshy fruit
Oozing out and spinning with seeds to the floor below
Licking my forearms, wrists, fingertips
Trying to taste at that sweet ambrosia
To find but bittersweet
Too-ripe-raspberry instead
Everything is an analogy, again, again!
The same old used up ****, no innovation
And I grab, I rip the seams,
(rather sutures; sewn, resewn)
And pick my brain looking for
Any small bits of copper or computer chip parts
That mayhap I might fashion a real beast
To roar and scream, squish up berries and words
And find something honey'd dripping down
Instead of that sickening *******
Sour of spoiled milk and thought
Nov 2013 · 3.6k
Samantha Nov 2013
Sundays are my favourite days,
Beirut mornings to coax a smile
Get drunk and dressed with
Mr. Vernon; light a cigarette
And laugh at the irony

This Sunday though,
I am in a sundaze;
with no full moon to look upon
And only a mournful quarter
rotted with black cloud
Nov 2013 · 1.2k
Concerning greetings
Samantha Nov 2013
Empress, Goddess;
indulge in the excess.
Address me as no less
Than Your Highness
If you would please.
And Brethren, Sistren!
To me you will be
Chief! Sire!
Oh, I swear it,
Whatever you desire.
And Namaste as you
Walk away
And two souls kiss;
All at one
Not one amiss!
Please remember!
Please do not dismiss,
So much power
In the ether
reverberating up-throat
Out of mouth,
Into ears,
Over-the-brain coat.
Pick, and be picky;
Honey'd words
Or the tang of
Sarcasm; dryness of
Dull wit
Just don't be a twit with it,
Or spare the detail
Or talk too quick or
Mumble with snails
Indulge in the excess!
Be no less
than Empress,
oh my sun, my excellence!
All sat in
The hello,
Laid down in the goodbye
It's woven in
With the expanse of a sky
Possibility! A chance!
A face to smile
And coo with,
Hold close for a while
But there, a shut door
fallen with
An ugly salutations,
I say again,
Indulge, indulge!
Samantha Oct 2013
In the hysteria of absolute clarity
- Otherwise known as the aftermath
Of an epiphanic experience or
47 revelations of elemental semblance
One sees one in all, and in
All men, Angels.

I live in the suburbs;
New subdivisions sitting on
Sliced up ground, where elvish houses sat
Comfortably twelve years prior.
The flowerbeds tell stories
In a Tolkeinesque script.

But the air's clear here, I can't complain.
We've sunshine and enough rain to sustain
The whole football team... we're in A division this year,
My last in high school...
but I still pigged out on candy today,
don't tell mom

I've been listening more to the silence
And counted seventeen days,
Sequentially (and to my disgruntlement;
thus I dare not jest),
Wherein alarum bells did  roar
From iron red chest

Took Casper to the hospital downtown
On a day like today, hey
It was raining then too...
He had candy in his veins,
And purpley-white too tight skin.
I still pray for his life every Sunday night.

All Hallows' Eve, now two years past,
Beneath a blood moon
Did the two dance, and sat inside
A crippled tree
To laugh and kiss;
Make merry of a mutual sense of entropy

In slow motion with
devils dust and funguses and herbs
They brewed and spewed as
We watched and sang to each other
And I learned that demons are in
All men
Read chronologically from xii-i
Oct 2013 · 1.2k
Everything is a metaphor
Samantha Oct 2013
Ever since
A is to B as
C is to D
My life was a metaphor
Subtly so, so I
Wouldn't quite see it
In it's full
Until today;
now, this moment
no, this moment...
All the moments!

See our senses for one
Four and one, five
Flimsy and full at once
But definitive of our world
And to a blind man with
five take one, Four
Really take him
And behold his
And later meet
The man with Six
who, on his face,
two and one
Three eyes sit
And then you will see
None of us do really see!

Life is a metaphor
what has been
Will show 'gain soon
And did you know the suns a star?
and earth did make the moon?
Little things
In skin and soil
iron core and soul
They swim and make
Create. And did you know
That there's more
diversity, equality, population, growth
A million miles down?

The whole of the sky
Infinite, marvelous
Forged in a blink
Hot and quick and microscopic
But her name, recall!
*only one
Oct 2013 · 5.0k
Samantha Oct 2013
A dancing child; a ballerina
A pirouetting adolescent; *an anorexic
A thought inspired by a ghost girl
Her bones are weak and malleable and
She spends far too long in the bathroom
And her heart is stretched thin
Feeding her bones and fueling a
Love for a toddler in her tiara and
Tutu; twirling for a world of maybe
A hundred souls
A little body moving
In time to the rhythm
Of a woman far off in her dreams
Still years away from the
Emaciated young lady
More spirit than body
Still stretched thin and torn at the seams
Oct 2013 · 906
The Fog - To Be Continued
Samantha Oct 2013
The two oxides must have
Grown tired of the love triangle and
Left carbon hanging
And in his solitary bitterness
To freeze.
And his vibrations dulled
Like the conglomerate of
Hydrogens and oxygens
Closely knit and kissing
Creating crystalline
Crosses and flakes, only

In his
Mournful wake,
Diamonds coalesced,
And he showed me
A sky of grey
And today that is all
That there is
Oct 2013 · 583
Three of me
Samantha Oct 2013
Eye, I and I

                   The first telling me
                       Never to think
                            *But to be

                                                            ­                                          And the latter
                                                                ­                                      Screaming, taunting
                                                        ­                                             Appropriation!
                                              ­                                                        Opprobrio­us little thing!

                                     The middle cowering
                                                      ­     Shaking as she
                                      Soars through
                                                         ­  Calmest winds
                                      And brushing
                                                        ­Turbulent ocean

     She hurts and
      Radiates the suns spit
                                                     Permeable gooseflesh
                                                     Absorbing any confusion
                                                                                              Processing and mulling it over
                                                                                                                                      With plastic hands
                                                           ­           Caressing her feathers
                                                        ­                      Pulling her into
                                                            ­             The stormy cold of Id

              While she meditates on
              The notion that she is

            To be absent of thought
           Translucent and hollow

                                    A reflection of skies and seas

Beating her wings
     Desperately to catch the

            Sinking sun or
            Hook the rising moon
                                                            ­                                                                 ­             
                                                   ­                                 Alas she is lost
                                     Manufactured materials
                                                       ­       Clogging her pores
                                                                ­                     Infecting her eyes
                                                            ­                                                Trying to trick her
                                                                ­                                                                 ­              Into being but one

                                                           ­                  But three she will be,
                                                           ­                        Three I's with
                                                            ­                         Three Eyes

To see the maidens yesterday                            The mothers today                            The crones tomorrow
       ­                                                                 ­               Wholly

                                                     ­                                   Never to
                                                                ­               Cease or halt or falter

                                                         ­                     Or question the reality
                                                                ­                     Of the intrinsic

                                         And never
                                                      To trust, to touch
                                                                           The grand illusion
                                                                                                    Of material worth
Sep 2013 · 1.3k
little festering thing
Samantha Sep 2013
The esoteric emotion,
hidden in the back
of the cupboard,
pressed neatly
'gainst the wall,
peeling back the
paper, musty beige with
pale pea pockmarks.
The raunchiness
was a given;
anything will rot,
become rancid,
when locked away
with the light
vacuumed tight from
dusk to day,
with none but
a forlorn face
to think on.
Sep 2013 · 228
Samantha Sep 2013
I love myself most
Even if that means
Loving myself
I lie to myself
I try to make
The wrongs right
And I write to create
A little world of my belonging
Wherein I am King
Boundless and all powerful yet
So weak and so
At the whim of my word and with a
tint of the tone
I could tumble down to
Rumble with Alice because
In reality, I'm mad as a hatter
And I'm still sad as ****
but smothering it in the
Chloroform clarity of faith
A new familiar vantage
So blinding it makes me question
The similarities regarding the mental status
Of myself and the Hatter
I guess we're one
In the same cause you know
All of us are really
Swing dancing and jitterbugging
Just hopefully not twerking
out and in the bounds of sanity
So I guess whats best
Is to mind my own and
Live life as if I were my most
Idolized history book heroine
Take some names and never
No for an answer
Because if all is one
and one is all
Then I only need
myself to be there when
I fall
Sep 2013 · 4.7k
Samantha Sep 2013
Today I have adopted
a new Dream Occupation:

No longer a Buddhist Monk
On a Mountain Peak in Nepal
but Henry Miller, I will Be
And shall dance the
Worlds Circumference
With no brain in skull but a pen in
between crooked-only-on-the-right teeth
Mark my words today in
pencil please
So tomorrow I will have a
reminder and in a fortnight I will have
an eraser;
Henry Miller never
Wrote drafts in ink
Sep 2013 · 2.9k
Purge iii
Samantha Sep 2013
Outcasted kid with purple hair

Albeit not the kind of violet
That made your nostrils drip
With a watery ambrosia
Sugary enough to belong to a bee

And not the kind of
heavy, royal, omnipresent
contentment plum presents as a
molten lava
perfecting the pockmarks in the pie

My tendrils were not reminiscent of
home or
anything savoury so

I tangled them in tiaras
belonging to some Duchess' daughter or
one of Henry's wives or

Maybe twined them round
Frita's pallet and
Dyed my scalp a more pleasing hue or
Anything other than purple

Because purple was what I was not
Purple was Lilacs and
Pansies and Heliotropes and Tulips and
Lavender and

That little wild flower aforementioned

whose name I can't bare say
for the sake of
a humble beauty
such as hers

'twould be a shame to make comparable
To the wet-dog-fur look
Of my purple hair

And so I learned to get lost

In a past I always felt my own
Traveling continents and
Floating through eons

While my classmates  coloured in
British Columbia and
Where is Nunavut again?

Growing, I gained companions

A faery,
Aslan and
Frodo, Einstein, Plato,
Theodore Geisel, Mahatma Ghandi
and Louis Leakey, Jamal Dewar,
Joan of Arc and John Lennon and
it all became
more complicated

Because my world was in flux
Oh it ebbed and it flowed and it expanded
Like the molten plum but this time
It really was more like lava

Assuredly you'll understand;
See the seams in our stitching!
Our Worlds are sewn together!

And as much as we would like
to cling to our

at some point we all must
accept that there is
but one

Intrinsic as our innards
Are our atoms and
Electrons and
mine are yours and
yours are hers and
ours together are all of the stars and
it really is

At some point the twisting shroud
The squeezing and contracting -
of the world inside my head and
the world inside my eyes and
the world I was walking around in
and the world that I saw above me -
it tensed then halted
and became very dense
then melted

What a glorious
Ubiquitous, secure and everlasting amalgamation!
I opened my eyes
To find Van Goghs Scissors
All bloodied still and so
I cleaved my purple hair

But to find Hieronymus' oils and
watercolours so
I made my skin a hellish canvas
Painted all in yellows and blues
Without a hint of purple

Now from shoulders to forearm to wrist
from breast to navel to hip
from thigh to calf to foot
legible as anything are
lines that lilt and gleam
sighing songs of
devils and cherubs alike
and of sparrows and snakes

So after heaven is hell
and after hell is Nirvana
And Manna is as good as dirt
if Ambrosia is but
the spit of a bee

It all always works out
Because at the end comes
Death and after that
We don't know
But I do know that
I don't know
Much at all to begin with

Except for four things, almost assuredly:
1. Energy is all
2. I will never cease to find shouting at people from my bedroom or a car window amusing
3. My mother loves me more than anyone
4. Nothing is certain, except for uncertainty
I feel relieved of some burden wowza! Time to clean my room. Have a good day dearest readers and content skimmers.
Sep 2013 · 890
purge ii
Samantha Sep 2013
I have never wrote about nothing
I've told my self to a million
two million times to date
to sit and write about nothing but
my mind proves magnetic
Sticking to the simple things
Romanticizing specs and sweeping monuments
because I write to find some solace
and normally
my greatest comfort is intellectual
spiritual stimulation
I like getting high and
watching TedTalks and Michio Kaku videos
about string theory and is there an eleventh dimension?
And I like to lay down still
And torture myself by letting my skin crawl
with untouched bug bites
with my eyes closed until my arms feel
detached and my chest is heavy and all of my flesh is static
For a while it is black and I hear the looping of
the rain and wind chimes of CenterPointe
And I like the meditation tapes but silence has its virtues
Ascension is always lighter and more arid
Languid in a way water can only ever mock
I think it might have something to do with
oxygen being ubiquitous in our atmosphere
or more so than h2o that is
but then again I really am no Bio major
Sep 2013 · 610
Samantha Sep 2013
I am a master of Half-Truths
An artisan of rhetoric
So skilled in the craft that
I have lost the ability to
Differentiate between fact and fable
My thoughts are a flume of paint
Colouring ***** water
But the fish do know
What is swimmable and substantial and timeless
And they kiss at the river beds
Tickle the hollows of my ear drum
Eliciting a perpetual popping sound, bubbles I presume
Reality fuzing as O2 with a shield impermeable to the waves
But it draws on my heart
wholehearted admirer of beauty that I am
To be constantly checked
With a map set to fluoresce
An blinders on
I paint my trails
Once upon a time I was in the habit of sitting and writing, without pause to edit or think of a more appropriate substitute for a word, for as long as I felt necessary. I wrote until I felt I had cleared my mind; until I had vacuumed all the poisons from the pit of my belly so they would no longer rot and sting me. I feel it's time to revive the purging series.
Samantha Sep 2013
My birthday is today
Seventeen years since another Sunday at 9 AM
On top of a mountain called Ozark
In a land that reminded me of Harry Potter
Called Pettigrew like Peter
It's forests elicited sprites and daddy long legs
Made of me a changeling then spit me back out

I learned what real ice tea was at the age of three
It was my birthday
Doing Pirouettes on my aunts Patio
Again, under Arkansas stars
With faery lights leading my way
I ascended to the brush behind the house
Got lost in the greens and browns of paradise's supply
Returned with flesh painted the colour of love

In an apartment overlooking crab apple trees
Fresh Canadian foliage fostering a well concealed creek
On a 90 degree angle over a dark chocolate cake
My ninth birthday
I drank pickle juice because Vinny said it was limonade
I wore dresses that year
And coveted baskets filled to brim with blossoms
Baked the crab apples into a pie
But preferred mama's banana cream
I wore bandages on my arms
and grass stains on my knees
My tears washed away like Crayola markers
And my biggest inner questions had to do
With what was for breakfast
And the lifespan of a temporary tattoos

14 came with a ******* bow
Done up gaudily in greys with a sad little smile
Three years marked with pink splotches and lines
A subject to hormones and arsenic tones
My birthday
A celebration of decay
And mama still sang, and baked, and kissed my face
And didn't wake when I placed cotton ***** in her ears
Because I was a happy girl

Today is my birthday
And mama exclaims
"No more babies! All four of you are so grown!"
But the mirror still illustrates an odd little show
With a baby face
A girls chest
And a womans hips
An ordinary freak all stitched up
Awkward and too much of everything
But not enough all the same
And inside I know
Is a sea of paradoxical Samanthas
Some stubborn and loud
Some shy and reserved
All with changes to make
Books to read
And places to go
And  only few that are quite wanting yet
To be 17
Sep 2013 · 786
Only halfway
Samantha Sep 2013
I stop halfway
In most endeavors
because halfway
leaves space for me to wonder
halfway is my view
of the moon
of the stars
of venus sometimes
and it is always perfect
never tainted with the stench closeness can bring
the cemented knowledge
of a yes or a no
the lines come from my mind
halfway done
a frayed string
that I may pull and mutilate
as I see fit
halfway so
they don't see
I don't see
the inconsistency
that marks my brain
and in my fashion
(it's really become a trademark)
I will leave abruptly
and cold
and half heartedly
because my halfway head
is somewhere else
Sep 2013 · 823
My Sky
Samantha Sep 2013
It is the jovial, gentle gradient of your first love
Transcending from the kind of blue that swims under a blanket of flesh on the topmost part of her wrist
Into an orange so pale it could just be pink;
Reminiscent of the peach of her cheeks
Dampered by the dreariness of a stormy Sunday noon
Light shrouded in the mysticism of "what if's" and "why"
It is the turbulence of heartbreak
Escaping with the breath you held in too long
Sighing a song of failed attempts and discarded hope
Dressed in the melancholy of grey-blue, exasperatingly clouding over in surrender;
The kind of dark that makes you wonder if it is pathetic fallacy
Or maybe just a coincidence that the sky can seem so sad.
All at once placid
Milky and cold and fresh as the first glass of Bessie's byproducts
It is the clarity accompanying self assurance
The comfort in the knowledge that blue is just a shade away from blue-grey
Cotton ***** on a sheet of glassy water
Just enough to get you through midday
Until scorching it sets, and your cat nap is marked with a rigid back and stood-up hairs
It is a blaze of passionate glory
The first crimson drop from the blood orange
Only to dilute before you into a tangerine so vivid you have to question if maybe your eyes are just over-dramatizing its hue.
This is incomplete, although I'm not sure if I want to add to it.
Samantha Sep 2013
Tangible toys to trifle with
Telescopes and televisions and telephones
Teaching us to tick and tock
Telling us time
Trading touches for tricks
Though doesn't it seem just so?

The collective ties then tears
Tucking individualism into sleep
Terrors of the twilight to wake and hint
Tweaked in turbulence to set the sails smooth
Trying at contentment to dig up but contempt
Though doesn't it seem just so?

Telepaths and tellers on muted megaphones
Teething a societal infant proves troublesome
Tight jawed and spoonfed
Track the time travellers, the ****** heretics
Tennessee in '33 preached inequality
Though doesn't it seem just so?
Sep 2013 · 598
Samantha Sep 2013
effervescence seeps through stitches in that sweatshirt
he is alive and he is here
(but more so than the rest)

sustenance slips 'tween sutures in that stark snowy skin
he is drained and he is leaving
(I taste the lethargy on his tongue between my lips)

Syrup sinks towards an already scarred stomach
he is trying to fix it, I can tell
(since the butterflies riot, the purple tastes like honey)
Jul 2013 · 680
Maybe an Analogy
Samantha Jul 2013
Dragons scales for eyes
(although verging on blue-gray)

That too-bright-white cloud
(it was overcast that day)

Two to their conjugation
Body cast in glass
On a red hot fiery day

Cosmos bound elevation
Clear blue night landscape
Drinking in the milky way
Jul 2013 · 595
Morning Mind
Samantha Jul 2013
6:09 AM I am falling in love with red gold sheets, pillows caress my ears
7:27 AM with a jolt in my backbone I am straight, serenaded by blue jays and sparrows
7:51 AM nicotine, caffeine, shaking
9:50 AM reverted, shrinking amidst torrential broken noice, I am unsafe  
11:01 AM tiptoeing to test the ground, I lay silently perturbed
Jul 2013 · 807
Sunday night day dream
Samantha Jul 2013
In a dream I am standing small between ceiling high cherry wood shelves;
books of blue, red, black, white and taupe glow as gemstones set on a neat and comfortable display.
I scan my minds library, my nose tensing with the tickle of soft, thick air.
A dust has settled over the milky calfskin with the plated gold zipper,
cross nestled securely in the fold of the top left corner.
Inside gilded pages stand ***** and entombed, making a catacomb of unread stories, of forgotten lives.
Once opened, unfamiliar text peels from the page,
soon figurines of ink dance for me before hardening into rows of letter like statuettes.
After indulging my curiosity
my cheeks are left wet with the saltine byproduct of sorrow, bloodshot eyes glazed over.
Like the televised open-heart surgery we find ourselves perpetually glancing up at
I read on.
Brown faces contorted and pallid feature wide eyes
whites more yellow than white with spherical black centers.
A thousand babies cry to me as if in mourning
and with their despair buzzing in my skull and crawling on my skin
I shut the book and pull the zipper.
Jun 2013 · 617
Samantha Jun 2013
Do you understand what it is to be statuesque?
Entombed in a scar tissue crypt
The fingertips of your mind bloodied with every scrape at the inside of your skull
Smothered in skin, craving with every atom to be released
To disperse yourself, make water of skin and feel the tingling of osmosis
As you are released into the air
Do you understand?
Jun 2013 · 556
Samantha Jun 2013
Tornado warning
Windows open

                                                                                                                             Between black and gold sheets
                                                                                  I cry

Curtains blowing
Misted knees

                                                                                                                             **** my crippling obsession
                                                                                     I cry

Emerald sky
Televised hysteria

                                                                                                                   Blue screen red face
May 2013 · 439
Very small thoughts
Samantha May 2013
I am
you are

I am
you are
one in
seven billion and climbing

I am
we are
the inhabitants of
one amongst several
little rotating rocks;

one string
in the twisting shroud of
one galaxy;
one layer amongst the infinite

I am
you are
tiny minds
smaller thoughts

decaying with each
propaganda breath
rotting in a bone enclosure

I am
you are
we are
the same
tiny and entitled;
May 2013 · 361
Samantha May 2013
Our lives have become leftovers and overdue books
Precariously piled porcelain plates
Novels not half read with turned over corners
Both marking the inconsistencies we otherwise chose to ignore
Because dishes only tower when the space outside my bedroom collapses
And stories seem half good with my eyes half shut
And lately that is all they ever are
For what fable is comparable to the shapes I see unconsciously
When cups and bowls are forgotten
When the inconsistencies do not matter because I am close enough to dead
But eyes seem always to open when I least like
And my teetering towers will crash soon enough
With the change I turn over like my pages to pay the fines
Because leftovers become stale
And the books are not mine to keep
May 2013 · 553
Little Lovers
Samantha May 2013
Bodies aligned
Hips elliptical
His up, hers down


Cotton between
Impermeable to innocence
His or hers

But maybe it's time...

Telepathic two
His mouth agape
Sighing the words she holds in


Hands slipping, sliding
Touching, warming
Caressing him, and he her

Are you certain?

In solitude, embroidered gold atop
To take the place he left
Her belly warm with him

May 2013 · 540
Bird boy
Samantha May 2013
Bones of a bird;
Hollow as the teenage mind
Every time he jumped, he would be set soaring
And if he were with you for a very long time
You would find his life was in the sky

Eyes of glass;
Kaleidoscope iris' ever-changing
Every time he blinked he saw you in a different shade
And if he was looking for a very long time
He would know all your faces off hand

Words akin to water;
Surrounding you, keeping you afloat
And every time he spoke sirens sang lullabies
And if you were to listen for a very long time
You would find him to be ubiquitous

Bones of a bird;
He wanted so desperate to fill their hollow bellies
But every time he stumbled, he flew
And he would not be with you a very long time
For he craved the solidity of man and air

Eyes of glass;
Too much smog from flight had clouded his sight
And if he was with you any time at all
You would feel him looking only past you; mind blank

Words akin to water;
They swelled in your ears and made your head pound
And if by chance, you were with him a very long time
You would have to wonder if they were his, or the thoughts of a bird
May 2013 · 1.1k
Samantha May 2013
11: 41 My step father yells at my mother, she yells back
11:46 They do not catch me on the bottom step listening like a child, ear to the wall
11: 52 The floor creaks and my hands find themselves in the top drawer, third to the right, mamas dresser
11: 55 The game begins and two fierce blades are extracted
11: 58 Peach, silver, crimson. Peach, silver, crimson. Peach, silver, crimson.
12: 06 I am still not asleep and I will not sleep not now or ever again.
Samantha May 2013
The time it takes the clouds to get from here*   Gestures westward
To here    Gestures westward
I've had a million and two thoughts already. Most don't notice it. It takes a special kind of person to see it
The same can be said of many things Walter, don't you think?
My inquisition is met with narrowed eyes
Would you tell me about the hospital deaths?
What? Oh yes. It's in the meds. The doctors killed her
Was she a friend? An acquaintance?
Oh no, no no...
But believe it or not, the culprit is in this very room
Ask Joseph
I scan the coffee shop for the object of Walters ramblings
From behind the counter, Joseph forms a reassuring "OK" symbol and nods
You know I was raised with wolves, back when the clouds were far from where they are now
What where the wolves like?
They told me lots of things, the big bad wolf, he told me..
Walter looks around, but not behind himself
He told me you should leave now. I get so nervous. You're a pretty, pretty girl. It makes me nervous
I smile and shake a firm and calloused hand
My newest friend
May 2013 · 524
Samantha May 2013
In the night I am beautiful
Ubiquitous, ambiguous; I am without flaw
Words dissipate, quiet fills my lungs
My song, but a curl of smoke
May 2013 · 707
Your garden
Samantha May 2013
There are flowers growing from my tongue
Hatchlings of the seeds in my tastebuds
Writhing roots crawling down my esophagus
Corseting my throat beautifully tight
In me you found an ironic beauty
Solely a repercussion of your gardening hands
Wilting nightly as you leave
Samantha May 2013
Tearing seams, I pull at sutures
Red-brown fingertips throbbing
Hot skin and hands clammy
Unsteady body, unmoving thought
Vision tunneled to the task at hand
Glorious fragility of the human condition
May 2013 · 449
Samantha May 2013
The physicality of beauty has failed me, and so in desperation I pled; Oh Lord, Oh God, at least give me this!
My folly, not his. I proved to be mute (my prayers unheard). For though I prayed wholeheartedly, the union of pen and paper proclaimed loudly it's unholiness.
Condemned to be an observer unable to make sensible the raging winds of words in my brain. Incapable of sculpting the clay of my thoughts into a form of any recognizable sort.
Albeit He is merciful, and with wide eyes and wide ears I soak up spectrums of magnificence,
Daring not to wish my flesh might be coloured the vibrant hues I absorb.
May 2013 · 685
Who moves my bones?
Samantha May 2013
Birds bones
Bent, broken, contorted
Berated into lines
Marrow mulled; mine displaced
For a moment malleable
Too tight a tangible layer
Ticking in time to reciprocate rapid breaths
Offsetting mind and muscle of the chest
Formless fighter
******* frail joints
New skeleton unhinged; presently a puppet
Strung to sing, to smile
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