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Elsie Plum Sep 14
I check more than twice so some stupid ******* won’t run me over and end it
21:37
#13
Shrika Jun 16
Gone were those days
when we laughed with the butterflies,
coloured the cotton candy clouds,
danced with the ocean tides,
built castles of sand,
whistled the wind's sound,
and held the sun in our hands.
Together.


I still paint your name across the sky,
Do you still catch the stars for me?
#13
Nat Lipstadt Jun 12
(lost 13% of my baby)


the littlest one turned three in May,
haven’t seen her in the flesh since March,
parents inform, all gone,
they’ll be disappearing
to another state,
all of July, gonzo.

I say
go forth safely, that’s great.

redefining social distancing.

measured not in feet,
or even by Sara B.’s
borrowed ‘many the miles,’
but in longer specificities:

maturities,
weeks and months,
parts of years,
parts of lives,
March, April,
May, June,
now July.

five months.

counted them on one hand,
many times,
at 3:00am
cause I could not believe
the summing of my subtraction

somehow disappeared,
from our calendars
these monthly ** markings,
months wiped clean permanently.

did a quick calculation.
we’ve lost 13% of her
entire life,
can’t be regained.

her first:
big girl bed,
playing first video game,  
another birthday party,
candles extinguished by
a single big girl blowing,
dancing, dancing, and more,
driving her scooter in the apartment,
like only a mad woman can,
(stuffed animal riding the handlebars,)
blowing pretend Zooming belly kisses
on her button,
hiding neath the dining room table,
her laughing uproariously,
with never a “stop poppy.”

13%.
a specific amount,
a poem irretrievable,
a blood loss, that
can’t be transfused,
plasma irreplaceable,
containing antibodies
to a specific virus
Sorrow Unique-19

nah,
nothing  
it got nothing
to do with that new forehead
furrow, that slow-suddenly appeared.

nah.

“just, these are the days...”^
^Van Morrison “These Are the Days

These are the days of the endless summer
These are the days, the time is now
There is no past, there's only future
There's only here, there's only now...

These are the days now that we must savor
And we must enjoy as we can
These are the days that will last forever
You've got to hold them in your heart.
Lara May 14
13
Friday, the 13th.
-
Something bad is going to happen.

13 is an unlucky number.

But is it?

Can a number be unlucky?

Can something that is getting used in the world be unlucky?

13 is just a number.

A number that can mark a day, be something special for some persons.

But for me it is a lucky number.

No one can define what makes something lucky or unlucky.

Everybody decided for themselves what is supposed to be good for them.

Luck can not be predicted.

It just happens.

Luck is unlucky.
Jade Mar 30
Archaic superstitions
have convinced the masses
that the girl who lives on the
13th floor is bad luck.

Her tears seep
from the hardwood
to the floors below,
electrocuting the dining room chandeliers
and burning out the sconces.

There just aren't
enough pots and pans
to contain her storm.

Furious,
the people downstairs
seem to forget
how there was once a time
when she would let them drink from
the fractured chalices of her palms,
sewing her fingers together
with cobwebs so that not a drop
evaded their thirsty lips.

Their hands do not reciprocate,
while hers do nothing but
give
give
give.

She yearns for the sight
of the number 13,
encircled like a new moon
amongst the rows
of elevator buttons.

Instead, they've
erased
her.

Burned
the letters & books & poems
she'd given them
over the years,
using the ashes
to rouge their egos.

Excavated the pixie dust
from her fingertips

(Do you recall
the death of Tinker Bell--
how her light went dark
after they stopped
believing in fairies--
after they stopped
beliving in her?)


Broke through the
stained glass of her irises,
plundering every
brilliantly-coloured fragment.

Bridging the longitude
of her spine, a laceration
from where the shards
were  punctured and

d
r
a
g
g
e
d.

Basically,
they destroyed
every beautiful part of her
before hiding her in the attic
like a secret


(she has many secrets,
but so do they).


You should see her now:

The way she wears her loneliness so
elegantly.

(Then again,
did she ever really
have any other choice?)

Now,
she'll do anything
she can to keep
the cold from
permeating her lungs.

So she fills the tub
to a scald,
it's gnarled feet
caving beneath the gravity
of her sadness.

Matches smoulder
until the candelabras
are starved of their wax,
wicks frayed like
unravelling
spool of her heartstrings.

Memories both
kind & cruel play tug-o-war
with her capillaries,
some gliding
across her heartstrings
like a violin bow,
birthing symphonic renditions of
inside jokes;
chlorine braided
like ribbons
in the hair of best friends;
walks along sun-strewn culdesacs;
the scent of used bookstores--
something like vanilla and earth.

If only the girl
on the 13th floor
could deteriorate as gracefully
as the pages of worn books.

Each recollection of
betrayal
plucks at heartstrings
with calloused fingers
until they snap.

Ears are severed Julienne style
across the cutting board of her skull,
cuz maybe then she won't hear
the defamations that sit atop
their salivating tongues like pop rocks.

Don't they know their attempts at secrecy are futile?

That she can still
feel the explosive slanders
as they tremble against
the roofs of their unloyal mouths?

The roof of her own
fortress collapses,
shingles thundering down
in percussive eruptions.

Devastated,
she tries to create her own luck,
gathering charms to ward off the
skeletons quaking in the closet.

No rabbit's feet,
just her own paws
cleaved from her ankles,
by way of bread knife,
serrated and adorned in rust
from where her eyes
have  hurricaned over steel.

No clovers,
only dead rose petals,
withered and cliche,
glued in fours
using whatever is salvageable:
stale candle wax
old chewing gum
brine.

No acorns to kiss
because tokens of love
have no place
on the 13th floor

(neither do fairy tales).


No ink.

Instead,
she writes
with her blood,
morbidly inspired
by the carnage.

(because carnage is all she has ever known.)

And despite their
archaic superstitions,
they still read her poetry,
stanzas stacked
like tarantula legs

(and perhaps just as lethal).


Keys are pried from the keyboard.

[ 1 ]   [ 3 ]
              
                 [ E ]  [ R ] [T]
                                                             ­ [ I ]
                                           [ H ]

                                                       [ N ]

Her words attempt to crawl
past blue monitor screens,
caught in a vortex of robotic actions.

                                           [ Delete ]

[ Alt ]      [Ctrl]


                                           [ Delete


                                            

          ­                                 [ Delet




                                          [ Dele




                                          [ Del




                                          [ De




                                          [ D




                                          [





          ­                               |
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c Aug 2019
You are Friday the 13th
And I am the glass mirror
Shattering before you
Have we always been so unlucky?

I have this superstition
That once I love you
You’ll leave

And you’re walking away now

I’d be lying if I said I could do the same
I stand behind
The dark glass wall
And watch all day
The life like doll

Who dances
His dance
For those who pass by

And while every
One claps
I try not to cry

For the doll
Looks nothing like
Me at all

As I stand
All day
By the dark

Glass
Wall
.......
1st Stanza
My first poem
Written at
keneth May 2019
your love was enough
to devastate my youth

your love is enough
for me to try again

your love is enough
13 grams of love is enough for me to come back falling / fool
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