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I'll craft you an arrow with a poem-poison tip,
Forge you a grammar-sword to hold at your hip,
Ride into battle proud to be by your side,
Wordsmith a cave where I’ll take you to hide.

Give me a word, and I’ll light it ablaze,
I have a million wonderful ways,
Wrath bullets launching from literature-guns,
Shiny and sassy and loaded with puns.

Seed me with words, and I’ll birth them for you,
Transformed and ready, and scathing, and true,
I am your friend, your protector, your muse,
I will comeback, and attack, and confuse.
Liv
A faraway look in your rapid-blinking eyes
As you search the ceiling for memories of him
The way you dart them back and forth
As you reminisce with mouth agape

A faint remembering grin that longs for his
And you fiddle with your fingers
Like a little girl with a darling crush
And every detail of his heart and mind
Pours past your smiling lips
With a longing for the past and a wishing for the future.
Wrote this in a couple minutes as I watched my friend describe to me a boy she once loved. Thought it was a beautiful moment, so I attempted to capture it.
 Feb 2014 Surrationality
SM
The ink spills on the page
and I know
these words are hard to come by
Pooling to the rim
my unwritten words lay
unable to keep on the page
unable to say to you
what must be heard
The wind picks up
calling out my fears
I will never know where you are
or If my name
holds any purpose
in your world
or mine
The ink falls over the page
and so do I

I guess this is goodbye.
 Feb 2014 Surrationality
RILEY
I’m crucified on the cross roads of doubt;
My heart is in the middle of all this,
My head
Is tilted downwards,
My eyes are shut;
Inverted,
So as to look upon my past
Because some time
Some where
There is a missing link,
That if I find
All this would be clear.
I’m in a Jerusalem of my own
In it,
There is no, wide spaces of sand
And camel-descending romans
Trying to stab me with nails;
Instead,
There’s real people,
With real nails;
There is hope,
Now lighter than sand granules,
And sand castles
Crumbling down,
Leaving enough space
For a flower to emerge
In an Arab spring
Fertilized with corps
And watered with blood;
For Lebanon is running out of water
Like the Lebanese are running out of faith-
Running into walls.
Jumping over obstacles,
Over explosion debris,
Jumping way in over our heads.
I’m in a Jerusalem of my own,
One I call home,
With windows that open
To reshuffle the air particles
In a room that has enclosed upon itself,
With doors that creek
For the scars of the past
Still haunt them,
With walls
Painted with portraits
Protecting the memory
Of the ones I loved,
With walls painted with portraits
Picturing poetic illusions-
Ones that never left my brains,
Ones that tell me,
Every night I lose myself
In her pictures,
That we are getting back together,
One day,
Somehow,
Somewhere,
There is a missing link
That if I find
All this would be clear.
I’m strumming out of tune questions
On guitars that carry my stories,
With strings that need to be changed
And necks that grow long
As the path
I still have in front of me;
And though this is not a problem
For a Hendrix and a joint,
I’m just an ordinary man
With a pen-
I wear ordinary clothes,
I feed up on
Ordinary capitalism,
I ***** up my notes
Of which I never took any;
Jerusalem fell apart,
But my Jerusalem did not fall yet.
On my crucifix,
There’s a writing that says
“There’s always a piece of you in people,
As much as there’s a piece of them in you.”
I’m just a man on a crucifix
But writers can never be tamed,
For they live through the people that learn from them;
And those people,
Maintain they live forever.
Its good to be back.
Lying lonely in a hotel room in Charlotte
I'm listening to James Taylor like you said you'd never do
And if I could I'd curse you, calling you a heartbreak or a harlot
But as we both know, simply not a word of it is true. 

I start to wonder what you're doing at this very instant
Back in California, Golden State of emergency. 
Are you smiling at an endless sunset
As you dream of happy endings that I'll never even see?

You press your lips against another's and still I never cross your mind. 
I drag my disembodied heart along rock bottom's floor
As you experience your highest highs, sitting blissfully at his side
And wistfully I'm singing, "Hard times, come again no more..."
"And signs that might be omens
Say I'm going, going, gone to Carolina..."
Don't interpret this as arrogance
But somehow I believe that every word I've penned of you has given you eternal life. 
I don’t intend my mindless musings to last beyond the end of days.
But once the pen impacts the paper,
Once the key is struck, 
My words obtain a permanence that cannot be undone. 
The ways you built me up and broke me down
How you fulfilled my every dream, then showed me where they go to die
How you whispered to me where to find my heart, and then you ripped it out before my eyes.
Every action, every word, love and spite, here and now, immortalized. 

If you love a poet 
(And worse, if you choose to let him love you, too)
Then you, my dear, will never cease to be.
I'm so fantastic at not moving on. I'd make a great paperweight.
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