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Ninah Jul 2019
a faint clap of thunder follows suit
piercing through — open wound

crying skies
dripping with unrelenting acrid stench
rain knows me better than I know myself

it creeps upon the ground in such a vengeful way —
carried by the storm
a lightning falls
burning as much as it brightens
a sweet lullaby flows

isn't the ocean deep and miserable
lonesome and cold;
is rain the prelude — our last chance to be touched?

it is true
hour long showers are no cure
for this or any of my illnesses
I am yet to find a more suitable place for my sufferings

like a lightning — I burn
only in rain I own
deep and miserable
only in rain —
the world softly blurs
only in rain
I feel I could melt
to the salt in the water
sea foam and strands

its thunder and
its lightning
coming back home
Brooklyn Apr 2019
a cauldron bubbling
with toxic potion

butterflies with
dagger wings

breath wilting
like fading petals

a word spelled
too many times

a thousand takes
on a movie set


I cannot seem
to completely describe
these twists
these ties
these ropes
these knives
these aches
these lies
Brooklyn Apr 2019
I am at home here
among the green.
When sweet birds sing,
I know the song.
I find familiarity
in the slow way
things grow.
I look up
at the trees,
reaching branches
and feel as though
I have bark
of my own.
The petals of
the brilliant flowers
remind me
we are friends.
Nestled into
flickering patches of sun.
Dreaming of
wearing moss
for clothes.

The wind whispers
“you are always
welcome here.”
Ind Apr 2019
deep and twisted
twists those who should know better.
The weathers changing,
We’ve past the point of blaming,
But know this earth is it.

Beware the warnings she leaves in rising, warming seas.
Listen to her expertise.
We all breathe the same air but only few care - those two degrees are deadly.

A guest who steals will never walk through the same door twice.
Take her advice and harvest only want can be replaced - don’t lace food with chemicals distilled from fuel you were never meant to use.

Nature won’t always be there to go to back to.
Feels incomplete but kinda like the gist of it - it’s as messy as the situation
Brooklyn Apr 2019
She keeps songs
locked away in boxes
like secrets.
She will take them out
like postcards
to help her remember
the feeling of
a different time,
a different person
by her side.
She likes the one
that makes her
eyes close
to see the lights.
She smiles at
the one that  
makes her stand
up on tiptoes,
the one that
helps her forget
she doesn’t know
what to do
with her hands.

The tune
will carry her.

Like it did
the times when
voices broke
like a heart.
When instruments’ strings
would snap
and hurt.
Ind Apr 2019
Bitten blooded flesh;
Proof of the demon in her head
that gnawed away,
Stealing days like takeaway cups
filled to the brim with saucy sin,
seven layers of deceit.
Ind Apr 2019
‘Incorporate music’
But how when there’s no structure to the cacophony you’ve conceived?
No cadence,
imperfect or otherwise,
to resolve the constant clashing,
the bashing,
of keys in your head that won’t silence.

Is this violent dissonance tuneful to those who aren’t the instrument?
Ind Apr 2019
I'm ready for the rain,
ready for the pain it brings,
ready for the cleansing,
the healing,
the arrival of feelings I've been inviting for months...
I've been avoiding for months...
I've been fighting for months.
Because I believed that numb was better but now I crave the harsher weather.
Now I need the hurricanes,
need them so desperately I can hardly separate me from the want.
The savage desire to light a fire I'm unwilling to put out engulfs me.
I want to set myself aflame, but blazes lead to blame and body counts.
So instead, I'll await the rain.
Best to just let it wash away.
Ind Apr 2019
She was not forewarned that with fresh starts come broken hearts
and rebirth is never pretty nor pain free.
To escape the misery it was necessary to first feel the burn,
only it was never meant to hurt quite like this.

Hoping to kiss an old friend goodbye to the tune of a lullaby you've long out grown,
but instead having them trace your skin with knives and ice as you stand blindly believing,
facing their shadow and mistaking lies for eyes as yours water.

It's okay you didn't see the weapon.
It's okay your hands shook as you ripped it from between ribs then stitched your chest shut.
It's not okay they walked away without harsh words, deserved, hurtled at their heels.

But know your freedom is battle born,
and strength comes to those who know their own worth and do not waver.
Brooklyn Apr 2019
I had dreamed
that by now
I wouldn’t feel the chill
under my skin anymore.
I imagined by now
I would have
warmed it away.
How many days,
eyes closed
raised to the sun,
will it take?

I feel the restlessness
with every drop.

I cannot fly
with wet wings.
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