She drinks from an ancient wellspring
-older than the rocks which cup it.

Deeper her thirst goes
-quenched for a fleeting moment.

A small poem from her heart
-flown from her wetted lips.

She drinks the skies
-the place her poetry finds freedom.

She sleeps now
With her wilted roses
And crooked
Cracked sidewalk
Such a broken walkway
Gentle gardener hands
And piano fingers
Plant and play no more

Stand silent stand still
Don’t think and don’t feel
Don’t fidget at all
And you will get paid
Security shift ****
At this bank

The world does not want
one more poet activist
crying out against
all injustice.

The world does not want
a moral philosopher
plunging the depths
of the lies we tell ourselves,
discarding illusions, and
barely overcoming confusion
to become a better human being.

The world does not want
another hopeless romantic
faithful lover,
god under the covers,
explorer, and discoverer
of all untraveled depths
that women possess.

This world does not want me
and I am almost okay with that.

-lights out-
fall, hands a-clasped, into instantaneous
ecstasy like a shot of ****** or morphine,
the gland inside of my brain discharging
the good glad fluid (Holy Fluid) as
i hap-down and hold all my body parts
down to a deadstop trance-Healing
all my sicknesses-erasing all-not
even the shred of a 'I-hope-you' or a
Loony Balloon left in it, but the mind
blank, serene, thoughtless. When a thought
comes a-springing from afar with its held-
forth figure of image, you spoof it out,
you spuff it off, you fake it, and
it fades, and thought never comes-and
with joy you realize for the first time
'thinking's just like not thinking-
So I don't have to think
any
more'

Birds singing
in the dark
—Rainy dawn.

I walked hallways and corridors that led me to
nowhere but haunting blood scenes
and ***** nooses hanging with emptiness
where the bodies used to be
whispers screaming to be heard from the ceilings
and the corners
like bone edges on her body, ribcage swallowing
the birds up whole,
feathers between the lips
and blood on the fingertips where her hands
once held the carcasses of lost souls

The earth is getting warmer,
the ice are melting,
the polar bears are endangered,
mermaids are not real,
my dad's never getting clean,
you'll never drive two hours to bring me Butterfingers,
you'll never listen to the songs I send you,
you don't know my middle name,
I feel like I have to beg to be with you,
you'll never read this poem because it's so tiny and insignificant,
and my heart's going to break any day now
but I'd still ask you to pick up the pieces for me.

I’m French. And since yesterday, I guess it’s enough to understand how I feel.

I learned about the attacks on Paris as soon as it happened. And I can’t get them out of my head since.

It’s not just a fact, it’s an emotion. A feeling. That everything you ever fought for mean nothing. That peace is just a concept, and will never be reality.

I know, that horrible things happen every day, every moment, everywhere. But I never had to face it, ever. I’m a young adult, and I never felt insecure in my country. I never saw war. And I always thought that I never will.

But is it real? Is it possible, is it really happening right now?

I’m afraid.

And I will never give up.

Just give me a little time to only think about my country, my freedom. Give me a little time to cry, and think.