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She lives in my daydreams,
stealing me from reality,
from the one that looks like her,
that is her.
All I think about is being with  her
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?
I awake crisp morning tiny sunbeams float in
shining intensely through the curtains all signs lead to beauty in the day ahead
and yet I'm crushed an emotional wreck

Because I dreamt...dreamt you got swept off your feet...
By someone who wasn't me

Lump in my throat
hole in my chest... at the thought of losing you... someone I did not know I need
I didn't even know I felt this way towards you.
Who knew
all it would take to crush my soul is a thought...the thought of losing you

And yet this pain has no end in sight
what is delight without you?
i wish i were normal
do normal things when i go out
being attracted to normal people
i wish the way I dress sometimes were normal
i wish for my expressions to be common,
to see the world as it truly is
to have normal dreams,
and a normal state of mind
making me a confortable person to keep around
and a perfectly normal person for being loved.
not belonging in the world ain’t fun ngl
Seeming as though they want to crawl inside
I invite every word you sowed into my home

Restless they skitter into every corner of my room
Make themselves comfortable in my bed
Unslept in, untidy

I click my pen absentmindedly at the desk as I write
But each sentence is a copy of your kisses

You came, paved the road through icy snow
And I don’t want to reject your passion
Perhaps because, akin to my features
I am unloved

The only one there for me
The only fickle heart that
Didn’t always seem so worthless

This world revolves around an atmosphere of
Shaky hands and nervous glances
Long walks and apologies

No matter how many times I laugh
It isn’t enough to silence the poor restive dog
But the door to the backyard is locked
Don’t make me find the key
The smell of cherries,
Rich, tangy, sweet,
Like syrup dripping down through my water,
Leaving my lungs filled with nauseatingly, gorgeous pink,
Outside the window’s damp metallic screen.
It pulls my eyes out,
Leaving across the city,
Dark and screaming as it is.
Screaming to be worth something,
To be known,
And all we are is above, in the clouds.
Pink, suffocatingly high,
All around us the air sings,
And I am choking,
Colliding with the atmosphere,
The heart envelops the mind,
I am here again,
All metal.
Waking nightmare,
The smell of cherries.
Honeysuckle lips far away somewhere
I can no longer reach even in my sleep
But for one night you sweetly did reside
In the neurons vibrating behind my eyes
In a pastel scene gleaming golden pristine
A sunset on grass unimaginably green

Honey brown eyes sweet and bright
You were the only star I recall that night
A kiss so gentle it brought me to tears
Taming my pain and hushing my fears
Skin alabaster under the moonshine
That wonderful night that you were mine

Honey bees could never leave such a sting
As waking in bright sunlight without you
And when I rise from tonight's dreaming
The fate's will have had their fun scheming
For more details will have dissipated
My hopes of returning surely eliminated
kayzamo 6d
You're looking for a girl
To give you character development;
Someone who can sweep you off your feet,
And change your life.
Well I can tell you one thing, bucko -
She's not gonna be me.

You're looking for a girl
Who can make the stars move to the rhythm of her voice.
The type of girl who, with a glint in her eye,
Sets the world on fire with will alone.
You expect me to be that way?
Please, most mornings I can hardly get out of bed.

I used to feel like it was wrong to be normal.
I used to feel guilty for being average.
It took me a while to realize that
It's okay to be proud of who I am,
Even if I'm as simple and bog-standard as they come.

Do I look like my name is Mary Sue?
Bug off,
I've got better things to do.
I welcome critiques! Thanks
Summer 6d
can you see through the haze of
future parading shadows of commuters in the
                            crevice of time
past the kaleidoscopic glass castle and
                            sepia windows
reflected in your eyes
students baying within bubbles of blue
blaring muted, ancient, utopian cries
                             from now
Today I had the last day of lecture, feels like an unofficial graduation.
How time flies
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