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  Apr 2016 seasonalskins
pluie d'été
What I am about to say
Will save you
From a great sadness

1. Don't ever caress your broken heart in your hands
The blood will stain your finger tips scarlet
And be imprinted on the next person you hold.

2. Don't succumb
To the comforting grey side
Of Sadness
I know its warm. I know its safe.
But its only all those things
Because darling,
It will never leave.

3. Don't keep things hidden.
Who are you?
How can you even think of not being the main character of your story?

4. Don't read books about girls being left behind, and about boys dying
Or about people who are too afraid
Or too courageous
Or whose main characters are liars
Who come alive when you look into
Their eyes.

5. Don't let your heart pull away from him
Because you feel like
"You love him too much"
He won't understand why
You are holding his heart
And your own.

6. Don't start writing when you are sad.
The ink won't be able to run from your fingers when you are happy
And you will be left without the words you have
Become addicted to-

You will hold your heart in your hands
And you will pick at its stitches to feel
And your heart will bleed
And it will stain your fingertips red.

You will reach out to him,
And your will leave scarlet smears across his cheek
And his chest
And his wrist
And no matter how many times
You kiss
The stain will stay

And you will
Wrap yourself in the soft grey
And the Sadness will swear
To always stay
And you will feel loved
Because it will never leave.

And you will start to hide it-
The warm grey
The phone call
An opinion
The fight you had
The tears and words
That want to come out

And you will turn to books
Not to escape
But to learn
About other
I's and hers and hims
And their words will come out
Black and white
The next time
He whispers
'I love you' in your ear.

And then you will start to pull away
You love him too much
And that means he is going to leave
And he will look at you and see
That you have his heart
And your heart
But it will be too late for him to
Have kept yours
And it will be too late for you to keep his.

And suddenly
It will be Saturday night
And he will still be yours
But it will feel like he's
And you will pull the thread

Of soft grey.
  Apr 2016 seasonalskins
in love,
in work,
in friendship,
and purpose.

That is the illusion.

Our calling
is one of
endless reinvention,
course corrections
and start-overs.
That is our reality.
That is our Art.

Accept it.
  Apr 2016 seasonalskins
Lani Foronda
you still exist
in the crinkled pages of my notebook.
last autumn i dog-eared the top corners so i would find my way back.
your veins dance with the curves and loops of my
the contours of your dreams lay in the indents of my ballpoint pens.
your fears bleed black and blue.
your voice--the raspy scratching of graphite before bed.
my sentences often sit incomplete because that's how you left--
in the middle
without warning
because you lacked a single transition.
your breath echos at the turn of every page
inhale--look back
exhale--look forward
(i can almost feel your lungs working alongside my own).
your blood runs red as i scribble across the pages--
at times i am in a frenzy, lacking control as my hands skirt along the paper.
other days, i am silent, waiting for my hand to pick up the pen
and bring you to life.

i keep telling myself that
you still exist
in the crinkled pages of my notebook
every time i close its covers shut,
i can't seem to find you.
june 11, 2015
1:05 am
seasonalskins Apr 2016
often i look down at myself,
my body,
and ask myself what have i done to it?

these feet,
used to nakedly wander through grass,
roll wobbly on blades,
kick carelessly in water.
they sink into quicksand.

these legs,
used to run for infinity,
swing into clean air,
lounge across chair arms.
they are streaked pale.

this stomach,
used to tremble with light,
dance in the sun,
lie flat.
it dips in hills and valleys.

these arms,
used to lace through trees,
hang heavily on bars,
hold my body.
they recoil.

these hands,
used to form art with fire,
write to remember,
caress plant buds.
they pick at petals.

this body.
stained with regret.
a poem i will go back to and revise, i haven't written a poem for so long but i finally felt like it
seasonalskins Jan 2015
a misguided symphony
forging its way
to the rest-
less form which writhes
and shifts
in cotton sheets
of yester-
it's been a long time.
seasonalskins Sep 2014
i remember how you were
                                         reaching out,

trying to grasp rays of the sun

desperate for a searching light
to glisten in your darkness

too late,

for the sun had set in
hills and valleys
waiting for morning
to be born

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