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I want to show you.
My works may not be holy,
but I don't want them to be,
I want them to fit easy in your hand.
There is honor in finding your own truth.
I want to speak it.
I want to write it down
and hide it in a library,
so that you might borrow
my truth in the usual way.
What do you think?
Maybe this word here.
Let me tell you something?
If you build up what you bet
when you first saw it
you would be great by
anyone's standards,
but you would be worried tired.
Be that as it may,
if you must break, and most do,
drink deep from the source,
and it might prove to you
that if you aren't afraid to die,
you shouldn't be afraid to live.
An affecting caress of a hanging branch
thinks of you.
Dancing lights in the blue of sky
know your heart.
More than touch.
More than light.
Worlds apart.
For my recently passed partner.
You say that
"finding yourself" is
a stupid phrase and idea,
that you are yourself,
and if you don't make
yourself as you go,
what are you doing?

I guess that makes sense.

But have you ever lost yourself?
Maybe not, just lost sight
of your reflection,
and when you see you in a shop window
you're startled with the reminder that
you are a vessel.

But what about that vessel?
Is that you or is the inside you?
Are they the same?

What about the outside?
How much of what you experience
is you? Does it blur together?

And can you separate your experiences
from your judgements, expectations?

What if you don't know?

I know that I'm-
I know that I believe-
I don't.

No one to answer them.
No one but me.

And what am I doing?
Searching, searching for answers
in me.
Staring into a candle flame
that flails and lashes out,
swiping at answers,
my answers.

I blow it out
and go to bed
in a dream I haven't had yet.
Nothing worth it.
Nothing, worth it.

Square, plastic, bitter,
how is the void overwhelming?

I could be gone
too, you know.
No you would never know,
but you would wonder.
We all wonder.
I wonder

I can't scream here, that's the problem.
Actually, it's the crying,
I'm not right now.
I deserve to be inconsolable,
I don't feel honest otherwise,
and I'm not.
I'm not.

I want to see you,
and you're dead,
and all that implies.
I want to bleed,
for it's own sake.

I can't stop thinking
the thought
that it wasn't mean to
be like this.
We were meant to be,
but not like this.

That's it.
No revival,
no redemption,
no last line of hope,
so sad I'm angry.
I know this is possessive,
I'm sorry I lied.
I know you're your heart that carries on,
I'm sorry I'm mine.
I know you're the good in me still,
I carry our time.
I'm sorry we lost you.
You know well that I'm
just a story we'll tell
at the end of the stars,
where we meet again.
The time that we spend
when I see you go on, because you must-
trust that!-
I'm sorry I'm selfish-
I'm sorry I'm selfish,
but with what remains
to salvage
there are so many ways
that say
Trying lyrical format for a change.
Sunshine Odhner Dec 2018
Some cold comfort
Wants it cold
Keeps it handy
For- shadows lengthen
For- dry hearts
For some keep sake
Remembers still water
Still water dies in the cold
Makes it honest
Wants it like bitter fruit
Because it's true
As a dying soul
In a mirror
Or still water
Rehearsing the truth
It comes more regular
And more honest
And less
Sunshine Odhner Nov 2018
This fever won't break
its self.
I need--
I need
to break
You are all ghosts,
slights of my psychosis,
it's not you.
I have to escape what I've become:
very little of my self.
I always cared what you thought of me
more than I cared what I thought--
very little of my self,
other than my hunger,
and it is that hunger,
dispassionate and weightless,
that has wounded me so.
So I must crawl into a cave,
somewhere across the continent,
to find myself to be -
tepid and sober, covered in scabs, cold-sweating -
awake, when I thought I never would be again,
if I had not left when I did.
(This is to say)
No goodbyes, you'll never see me again.
I hate this.
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