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Brett 6h
We are all immortal in our own time. Today I feel the warm caressing touch of life across my beleaguered face. Death does not escape me, but in this moment I am alive. One is immortal, if one has yet to understand what it means to die.
My heart professes perpetuity, and was so faithful to, yet my mortality minds no frame nor memory of you.

This epidermis sheds and skins from disuse; need my heart evidence, might my chill-cracked palms be your proof?

The contours of your constitution, all known by their names, are perhaps now amended by the passage of passing age and days.

The sirens of your voice's sound, awaken me from my dreams; the symphonies of my soul's supplications, now so strange and foreign seem.

My heart professed perpetuity, and is so faithful to, so should this skeleton and its dependents devoice - mon Amour; my heart remains with you.
you hold me under the water
until my lungs scream out for air
you know i cannot hold my breath forever,
don't you?

you hold me under the water
in a perverse baptism
the one i worship delivers me to death

you hold me under the water
one hand buried in my hair
the other firmly on my neck
i have no choice but to choke

you hold me under the water
and i do not struggle to break from your grip
you were always stronger than me
and a part of me has always wanted this

you hold me under the water
and fill my mouth with the sea
i swallow, even as i know
to drink is to die

you hold me under the water
gently, as a lover would
it won't be long now
before i become one with the ocean

i am aware that you are speaking to me
but i cannot hear you over the crashing of the waves
when your work is finished and you wade away
there will be no blood on your hands
Mel 17h
I hate tests
Maybe it's because the circles
remind me of rings of
fire
Or maybe it's because the tests
are like life or death to a grade
that won't
matter

I just know I hate tests
I hate taking tests
05 - 05 - 2021
Dirt
         You've turned into dirt.

Twisted away in fragile positions,
You've turned into dirt.
          How does it feel to be this vulnerable?

To be plucked from your home, and bought with dirt to be sold off to the husband who forgot his wife's birthday?

To be called 'beautiful', only to be left rotting away?
To sit beside a bed of 'beautiful' red roses, who think they'll be safe forever. To know they'll turn into you, you who has moulded into dirt.

These eyes fall on you now,
   they feel guilt,
      they feel remorse,
(they feel happy?)
          they feel like a murderer.

They run to drench you with water.

                           The poor white tulips,
                                              and the poor pink roses
                     will you be fixed from this phase of dirt?
Here is to those bouquets of flowers the lucky ones received.
Perhaps, you were lucky,
perhaps the flowers were not.

PS. I've written a poem after a year so it's definitely not my best work, not even close. Perhaps as I continue, it may get better?
Mesmerized by your dark eyes
Under gas station florescent lights
Rummaging through deep pockets
Demanding money be put in the bag
Emphasis on the curse words with
Ripe and rosey dried cracked lips

Malevolent spirit doing a danger dance
Enticing me into your territory

Decadence in your worldly hatred
A bitter sweet flavor on my teeth
Demanding and forever ******
Dismal with a soft sweet center
Yes. I'll see you on the other side.
POV: being attracted to the man robbing the gas station you work at.
I’m thinking of the faded checkered pattern that has been
smoothed away by time on the dark cloth seats of a Nissan Pathfinder
                                          driving down Ryan Road on a hot day in June.
My mother, in the front seat, singing along to a Spice Girls cassette.  

I’m thinking: red, plastic, crab-shaped sandbox and
                                      McDonald’s Happy Meal toys.  
I’m thinking: light princess pink, seafoam green, and robin’s egg blue.  
I’m thinking of a framed cheetah cross stitch, hanging on the wall of what
                                      used to be our bedroom at my grandparent’s house.
I’m thinking: Barbie doll houses and Hot Wheels and a cul-de-sac at
                                                                ­                     the end of the street.  

The sweet smell of cigar smoke.  The ice cold splash of the garden hose.  The pop of a bubble.  The sting of soap in the eye.  Dreams by The Cranberries.  As Long as You Love Me by The Backstreet Boys.  A HelloKitty boombox slowly spitting out vapor when the deck builders hit a power line while digging.  The deer in the backyard looking for corn.  The faded wood of a playset that was never really played on.

My father: sitting alone on a splintered bench by the firepit at the edge of the woods, empty beer cans at his feet, chain smoking cigarettes, and humming along to a song that is stuck—forever stuck—on the tip of my tongue.
I do not know if this happened.  I cannot ask him.  
(I’m not sure if I would want to ask him.)  
But I can make an educated inference that that line of
fiction is really nonfiction.  
A memory that feels like a phantom limb.  
                            Sounds like the sharp crinkle of static.  
                                                     Co­vered in a gossamer, dreamlike haze.  

There is a distinct otherness to this memory, to who
                                     I think I was before the trauma.  
We are two different people.  A yin and a yang.  A day and a night.  
The hermit crab is soft beneath its hard shell.
The asbestos is not apparent within the insulation.  
You cannot see the lead in the paint.
The mold inside the fruit.
prompt one for write your grief: who was the person you used to be?
Bugaboo accompanies me
Eversince I lost her
A volley of questions
I have lost the 'key'
Bugaboo accompanies me
To the street I lost the key
There is darkness everywhere
Except only a lamp post
I could see
Near to where Bugaboo is with me
I approach the lamp post
Search for the 'key'
Bugaboo laughs
What are you doing
Street extends from east to west
You search for the 'key'
In small vicinity of lamp post
Listen Bugaboo
Hope is here for light is here
Groping in the dark
I shall be no where
You have given me fears and fears
In the light they disappear
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