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Charming Blather Feb 2018
Love and power.
Bodies materialized.
Bodies that matter.

Pariah, on the subway train.
Pariah, speaks in her **** name.
She is power: Pariah.

She is love.
She is power.
She is this:
ollie Aug 2017
I am not all that good at the things I like
I'm just a ****, 5'0, and I'll never be a hero
And one of my favorite quotes is
"I'm just being dramatic, in fact, I'm only at it again/as an addict with a pen"
I may not be an addict
But I do have a pen
It's a weapon I'll never be worthy of
Nobody will
You can do things with them
You change fates
Open gates and delay dates of death
They're so powerful
And More Often Than Sometimes
I listen to poetry
I don't read it, I hear things, I know things, I feel them
I feel the words, I hear the words on a page
I hear a man who is trying
I hear a child sometimes
Sometimes the child is me
For everyone I have a pen
Even myself, when I don't think I deserve it
I'm a kid surrounded with fear
I'm a child I wish nobody held dear
Because my redeeming qualities are honest feelings and a lack of annoyance
My greatest ability is
I can feel other people's emotions cause I'm a master of empathy
I can sympathize with the man on the bench next to me
The kid two seats ahead on the bus that still joins in the conversations
I wish these people could be somebody
Do something
Help people
I want to help people now
It makes me feel better than anything else ever did
Being a master of empathy may suit me sometimes at night
But during the day my own attacks aren't saving anybody
Why is it okay to doubt myself this much
I could never doubt you
Oh you
With your beautiful eyes
Every day, maybe wanting to die
The way you can't breathe in a crowd
I'll take you the way you are
You're so lovely and you shine bright
I think of you many nights
Most nights
Okay, so every night
And every day
And I smile through the beginning of my own fray
You have that effect
You all do
There's too many of you
You're beautiful and Shane Koyczan tells me "there's beauty in the obvious"
And it's obvious that you don't believe me
And it's obvious that I admire the man
Use his poetry whenever I can, in every line
He's an inspiration beyond many
But I'll admit
His writing gets ******
And that's not what a 13 year old needs to hear
But who am I to tell a 40 year old man what he should write
I am no one
With naught an admirer of my rhymes
My stories
If scars were stories, I'd be a kid that wrote A+ essays
You'd be an author who writes a little each day
Or a lot
I manage to fit words of you, thoughts of you in each line
Is that good?
Do you know?
Will you read this?
Will it show?
Does it show I love you in my words?
Like I've said before:
"In a platonic sense
A demonic sense"
Demonic because I don't have the sense to get you out of my head
But in a beautiful way
Beautiful like the sun shines
The sun shines like the sunset in the eyes of the girl I knew
The sky is so hideously blue
It could be a darker shade
Like the night
When I'm not allowed outside
Why am I always so full of fear
The song Safe and Sound comes to mind
I'm sorry I'm always so scared
I'm sorry that I'm a master of empathy but I don't even know what I'm feeling
I'm sorry
Y'know what happens when you run out of words
You end it
Like this.
I dunno why I wrote this
I guess it's just another one about Tyler
Eyal Lavi Aug 2017
"If you don't wanna' lick my ****** that's fine, but don't attack my character." Said the lesbian in the reality TV show. !

She's holding a red plastic cup, slurring like a drunk. She is profound. If I called her *** I think she'd say "*******, ***. I'm a ****." I might point out that **** and ***** are ***; she, perhaps, would then remind me that after Katelynn or katelinn or however Bruce spelled his new name for a brief period in 2016 LGBT had a Q added to the tail-end... but 4 letters is the max allotment for tagging a community and the Q simply took the splash and the roll off the LGBT brand...

... and thus the Q was dropped; and thus the order of the world restored; and thus, on the very last minute of the 6th day, the Lord's final gift to man and life in general on planet earth was a raging ******* in the form of a drunk lesbian educating us all on the fine merits of keeping one's ****** wet BECAUSE a dry ****** can only belong to - nay! exist as far as the reality star would have you believe... vaginas exist onto themselves, though science has deduced with unquestionable Puritan certainty - despite the very Words Written by The Very Good Lord's Hand himself in The Holy Bible as Interpreted by the Most Wholly Holy Puritanical preacher preaching from Jerusalem to L.A. itself - Vaginas (cap the V, it's a she and she's a noun) most definitely and defiantly belong to mammals only; However should they be dry then said mammal most-probably has a questionable reputation and a clearly corrupt character.
Eyal Lavi
Jade Sep 2015
To the self-harmers, self-haters, the loathers, the detesters,

Our homes were the hiding places of things sharp, pointy and jagged.
Things to take away the pain with more pain,
the fear with control,
the uncertainty with decisiveness.  

Because we did decide,
to take ourselves apart.
Bit by bit.
Like their mutilating stares weren’t enough.
Like their toxic words didn’t burn away our innocence.

What would you know you’re *******.
You’re so fat a cow couldn’t compete with you.
Hey there ***, yeah run to mommy.
Hey ****, did daddy not love you enough?

But how could they know he isn’t *******,
his mind is a beauty you could never compete with.
And that fat girl hasn’t eaten a bite of solid food in eight days,
because the word beautiful has never known how to never stick to her skin.
And the *** doesn’t have a mommy to run to,
she died fighting a battle he would never wish upon anyone, not even you.
And the **** only wants to feel normal,
hoping she will if only she can carve out enough of the bits that feel different.

But if normal is you then normal is the worst thing in this world.
Normal is a bully hiding their truth behind venom.
Casting out into this world all their hatred, all their pain.
Not caring where it lands.
Whom it bruises.
Whom it kills.

The numbers are rising.
Higher than a mountain we can ever climb up to.
There are children on our streets.
We don’t look twice.
Our phones are outdated.
We worry.

What if our self isn’t enough.
Maybe these shiny coins will get us our attention.
Maybe then we will be enough.
Because the person staring back from the mirror is a friend who never was,
a stranger too familiar,
perhaps a ghost with our truths
dangling from the tips of its claws.

Worry about yourself,
because we will learn to be enough.
We already learnt to sleep on the streets.
Under the skies, near blue seas.
They said we wouldn’t make it.
But look at us succeed.

We are already enough.
More so.
So much more.

— The End —