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R Nov 2017
I'm here for you. What do you need? I'll let you take it.

Pluck my eyes from my sockets so you can see.
Slice my skin so delicately
to patch the wounds you need to heal.
Rip the nails from my fingers and toes to fill
the cracks in your spirit to feed your will.

Slice my hands to help you come back in touch
with an intimate nature you didn't do much
to channel and experience.
Extract my legs to help you walk,
and steal my lips to help you talk.

Use the meat to feed your soul,
my muscle fibers to pay the toll
of your daily wear and tear
as you use my arms to reach the heights
of stars that glimmer in those endless nights.

Take my bones and make thoroughly sharp,
and re-use my nerves to make a harp
so you can play sweet music
as you defend yourself from misery and pain
and bring beauty to that of which you've slain.

Use me all, and leave me as dirt
but there is one rule you cannot skirt.
My heart, forged in steel and coated in iron
please do not take that away from me.
My heart isn't for free.
jdotingham Aug 2017
I once heard the term tower block: described as great blundering gateways to the skys. People crammed in rooms filled with smoke from dope and great drama from these square living quarters. Each the same as the last, numbers and letters ascending upwards like the building itself. Living, breathing concrete. A murmur of excitement from its occupants, groaning about their rat race over a beer. Or two. Or three. The numbers don't matter. The letters of their names don't. To everyone else, they are this homonymous crowd of no-be-s. A reality show no one watches. Gaunt faces. Shaved heads. ****. Ripped and muddy trackies. Stunted heights. Loud voices. Everything to say, yet nothing at all. Nowhere to fall except when they implode and throw themselves off the tower block. The tags of colour at the tattoos found on the people themselves. Tagged with names. A source of identity in these rooms of complex similarities. Right now the streets are empty. I look up and imagine the stories of their lives. The ones never told. The ones ignored by the higher class, the sophisticated writers, the people who'd look the other way. They exist. In numbers and letters. Ages and names and places. This defines them. I should maybe write this down. Maybe not. Maybe I should set the bottom on fire like a *** and watch it become a towering inferno, maybe then people would take notice of these stories. As the fire climbs and traps people who have nowhere to fall apart from by jumping off the side. Then again, identification would be a mess. Everyone is the same in this building. With different stories, so they tell me. Tower block, just a concrete furnace of numbers and letters and numbers and letters and stories told before and that will come2b. It's not the only one, but only when we burn do |people take notice|
note: character perspective of Lucien Abbot.
aj Jan 2015
my conniving, cunning cat
so quick to pivot on paws,
but caring enough to walk the alleyways that are my
head and heart.

your claws cascade on my soul,
and i know you love me,
but you are a collective culling..

i can't bring myself to return to sender,
love my ender.

my alley cat,
i can't help but surrender,

to your every rake and take of my being.

you are the poison i crave,
the liquor on the top shelf.

the cat that possesses the power,
to bleed me raw and,
steal the love i can't help.
10 part series about my friends

— The End —