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"One firm step," she said. As shallow as she must be, one could think she radiates midnight, and while no one is looking, her lips are similar to Burgundy—soaked in wine and in her drunken state; resting her body as she sat mellowly where no one would choose those seats made for her—deluding herself that there's just too much space in between, and they danced around each other's thick skin while their gazes were fixed on her. "One firm step," she says, straightening her back.
Every day, she'd meet her own grim reaper in the shade of the earth's brown mist, kissed by her long, thick lashes as she closed her eyes, surrounded by the people she considered dead. As strange as it was, they didn't know her. There's one string of luck hanging side by side in hopes that she'll live another day.
At dusk, she'll attempt to accompany the earth's body at her expense. She'll whisper nice things, and they'll blush at the thought of her noticing them. She'll offer her hand and kiss the molds, and her lips, the tint of burgundy, will now be the same pigment as the earth's body, and they'll chuckle at the sight of her.
When the world is laughing at her, death stands still in front of her, waiting for her presence, but she remains still. When the sky cries for her, she gives him rainbows and butterflies, even though he hates them. And when she's alone at night, she kisses the flies roaming around her bed while he thinks of her—but then again, the expression of death is inevitable. It seems like he doesn't want her to be happy. She lets Earth do what he wants with her, even if her skin glows like ivory. She lets him soak her in his dark mists and long-tailed veins, and death starts to interfere again.
He shows up in a crowded room with his thousands of soldiers, pretty faces, and partygoers. In his simple armor and at the grocery store, in his childlike appearance and beggar state. She must have been so exhausted from showing up minutes later or arriving at his usual business hour—midnight. Even with the screen, she usually spends the rest of her day. He shows up. Death was persistent. He signifies everything she could've had, even the voices implanted inside her. They named him Death. Sometimes he's a song, a lyric, or an instrument she could not quite understand; the ring before the call was answered; the tap before the keyboard; the lump before it washes down by the water; the movement before she lays her eyes on.
He was once a person she grew tired of—but now a metaphor she'll always keep in the back of her notebook. And sometimes, he is an anecdote every old person mentions in their hospital bed. She was shallow, but he was a willow tree.
A swamp.
A locust.
A lover once.
Hi, it has been a while. It’s been months since I wrote something that I’d like to read. Now, I’m just rereading every piece that I scratched from the back of my notebook. I don’t feel like writing anymore. I don’t think it’s coming back, and I don’t think I’ll give it a chance again. There's not a day that I don’t think about it. At the back of my heart, I know it calls on me—in total solitude, in the noise of the world. I haven’t forgotten about it, but I’m tired of pretending that I still love writing. I’m often a wanderer, and a wanderer gets tired too—we get lost in the woods, in an empty grave, or on a blank page.

A wanderer sometimes loathes herself. I’m exhausted.

On the other hand, here’s a piece that I wrote back in 2022. 
I won't leave this page. I know I'll be able to bleed ink again. Maybe I'd write my next piece on my skin—or on an old tree, or maybe in a dream where my words are limitless and in total sonder.
How the world hoards to see us: a collective
Of compulsive opinions, so prevalent in their hearts
Amid the prettiness sleeping awkwardly in your eyes
You’re so pretty in my eyes- I just wish you could
See what I see, but you’re so blinded by the
Glass splinters in your eyes, remaining something of
A child, still finding themselves- eternally lost
In the heart of the university maze,
We found each other.
Laughter echoed through lecture halls,
Jokes and secrets within those four walls.

We shared dreams, fears, and plans,
Unconditional love.
In the library's hush, in the campus green,
Your presence was the best I'd ever seen.

But last month, the world went still,
Your absence, a void nothing can fill.
Butterflies now bring a silent tear,
Sunflowers bloom, but you're not here.

Brownies we ate with bittersweet care,
Your laughter, a whisper I still hear.
Memories of you fill my days,
Memories of you warm my soul.

In every butterfly, I see your gaze.
In every sunflower, I see your smile.
Jeremy Betts Jun 17
This humble pie
Is more like a shiit sandwich on rye
With a side of sty
Now there's a plank firmly implanted in each pink eye
Life's painful, but I'm suppose to be too mocho to cry
No one knows how many times I've wanted to die
Or the number of times I gave it a good ol' college try
Who do you think I am... no really, who am I
I think I'm my own stories fall guy
Fall back on the lie
That I can fix it all with a slipknot neck tie
What's more influential? Good or evil
In my experience it's surely a tie
But between you and I
The devil has more pull that the "infallible" eye in the sky
Call 'em both out, see who stops by
Or even bothers to reply
My money's on the pitchfork guy

Jason Jun 14
Don't have her eyes O' Lord
Bear the eyes of a devil before hers
Better even to stare with dead eyes
Let it be neutral, your saving gaze
Chris Saitta Jun 9
Her memory is like the beauty of the silted Nile,
Of sacred blue lilies and heron
And skimming eyes of the crocodile.
Jeremy Betts Jun 5
I close my eyes
To visualize
A romanticized
Big picture prize
Then realize
To my surprise
It's all been lies
And I have to comfort my soul as it cries

These thoughts of you,
are like the smallest pebble to the grandest mountain,
everything holds a certain value, contributing to
the intricacies of this existence.

And there must have been
an unpleasant disturbance in my heart; as if a pebble
was thrown in my eye’s still waters- causing many ripples.

Oh, it’s perfectly strange;
not quickly recognizing your own tears
anymore;- some people do cry better in the rain.
Tell me,
if I can make love to someone through my eyes;
Allowing me to truly witness and appreciate every
exquisite detail of them— my eyes would become
vessels, through which my adoration flows freely
for you.
Jeremy Betts May 17
I couldn't tell you why
Sometimes I don't try
But I'll look you dead in the eye
And swear I can not tell a lie
Which of course, in itself, is always a lie

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