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Sarah Meow May 2012
The world in failure  is  success.
Attend the international footstep's fire.
Words are abused for idol envy.
Every action sums the  Earth's  final.

So --
Swallow    scream      strike!

Realism is never ashamed of precipitation.
Sarah Meow May 2012
The dusty light filtering through the thin
orange and red scarves covering the window

draws a hazy, tinted mirage on the tiled floor
that the cat can't help but curl under,

his fur heated and shimmering, although
I overlook all of this as my hopeless mind is

drawn to the shadowed spot in my perip-
hery where you kissed me yesterday.
Sarah Meow May 2012
Publicly, in a place where language and liberty are
held by egotists, teach the limits of minutes.
Remind the esteemed that speed
is a fool for popular belief.

Twelve months, twelve jurors, twelve perhaps.
Trees have grown in sadder conditions.

If you want the confidence of indifference,
then amaze nature with offensive styles and time with substance.
Paranoia is perfect in a nit-pick of cages.
Birds and children depend on the weather -- the size of
your plate is positive protection from detection.

Man is born trumpeted by eliminations,
so provoke the simple and the neccesary.
Wisely, allow falls to perfect your aim
and let submission be it's own masterpiece.

Devote yourself to purpose and exacting hope.
Increase living with    boyhood wonder,
and always love -- transform.
Sarah Meow May 2012
Unprovided -- the pleasure of pleasing
is, after all, a painting that resolves
the irritating swings of a taxed evolution.

It seems that energetic trainees
of the future keep firm invitations
on the list of approved measures.

Yet living is not a guesstimate, reality
is attached by humor to the document
that simply reads "I'm not sure."

Imagine civilization as eight-years-old.
By want, business drains, not one laugh,
but the replacement of being one's own.

Shaped, the body is wary of the
counselor and satisfied by the character
of a farmer and time away from scorn.

Hang a map of sensibility in the kitchen,
where bare eyes can respond -- tokens of
action are the door prize for motivation.

The lessons not yet learned are musical.
Sarah Meow Apr 2012
The normally glorious feeling of
The wind blowing your hair
Isn't as pleasant of a sensation
At 2 AM in the back seat of a jeep
on a highway mid-January.

But we're on the road again, so you're forgiven.
Sarah Meow Apr 2012
The stereo lights are neon and remind me of a book
I read in middle school. I can't remember the title,
Only that nostalgic comfort of a book that relates,
dictates your own inner workings and schemes. It's
Difficult to find this emotion in modern-day fiction;
Do you ever miss the moss behind your ears when
You're watching an actress snort her way to gold?
Amelia Earhart has always inspired me. I like to
Associate with the theory that she chose to lose
herself in that triangle, immerse herself in a lost
Island life style. Even Brooke Shields made a life
stranded, and though it's just a movie, aqua water
And sandy hips appear, reappear in my dreams. I
can build a fire with a palm tree and the palms of
Your hands. I can build a home with leaves and the
beauty of your blink. A coconut kiss is precious.
Amelia's an explorer, a woman who understands
her destination. Surely she couldn't resist the dusty
Beaches once she flew miles above them. Friday's
are perfect for losing past transgressions, so I can
Comfortably pretend this ***** stream is the Mississ
-ippi and I'm floating on a raft made from the peach
Core. Is there anything better than a high?
Sarah Meow Apr 2012
(Children chasing, people screaming)
Good American fun

At a baseball game (***-wee)
I sat on the top row of a twelve-seater
Bleacher, clustered between strangers
Declaring war on second graders.

To the right, a blank score board
Screamed the depression of a
Poor town's last winter, while
In contrast
The smell of concession stand
Popcorn enticed the eager middle
Schoolers with loose quarters.
All people were eager to lose their

Own frustrations in a children's game;
They would traumatize the left-hand hitters.
I looked left, to the other end of the field,
Opposite the obvious winners.

Beside the cluster of flowers where
I got stung by the yellow jacket,
Behind the fence where my brother
Kissed his first crush,

You stood there.

Your ***** blonde hair was ruffled
Wild. Your eyes, hungry.
All stared, frozen.

You stumbled forward.

(Children chasing, people screaming)
No more fun.

Nothing ruins a mid-Atlantic spring day like a zombie infestation.
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