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topacio 27m
there are some things
that are just written in ink.
the books that line my shelf
the music I play with my fingers
the startling waves I attempt to hurdle
my surfboard over
the recipe my abuelita passed down to
me of her famous tamales
my subscription to Bon Appetit
these constants anchoring me
when characters sketched by
pencil become too faint to feel,
its these delicate yet sturdy constants
that yank me out of sadness
with a "remember me?!"
with a "remember your abilities, young lady!"
"remember your divine calling to perpetually grow!"
Lawrence Hall

                           Enter Orlando – or you - with a Paper

                                           …these trees shall be my books
                    And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character

                                 -Orlando, As You Like It, III.ii.5-6

To write a poem and send it to the world
Is not unlike leaving it in a tree
For Rosalind, your Rosalind, to find
(Even at the risk of being scorned as an acorn)

Putting it out there can be dangerous
Art cannot be art unless it is shared
And Rosalind, your Rosalind, might not like it
(And then there’s that thing about a fallen acorn)

Oh, take the risk: for Rosalind, your Rosalind
Probably won’t conclude that you’re an acorn
You're not an acorn.
Toss a coin in an old well
  for a wish to have a maiden so fair,
into the abyss I succumb and dwell
  to take back my love, my lost pair.

How long I have searched for you,
  in cities of different lights,
only to find out that if love is true
   it will come to you in sparkly eyes.

She's an alarm clock to my sleepy soul,
   the lullaby to my wakeful heart,
a lover who stands her ground to
  watch you grow,
and a woman that loves all your pieces of art.

One more chance
Please come back
I've made peace with my past.
With the memories I've lost.
With the memories that have lasted.
I've made my peace
with the people who hurt me.
With the people I've had to let go.
I've made peace with the fact that my life
will never fit neatly into a pretty little box topped with a bow.
And now that I've come so far,
now that I can truly leave the past in the past, all I can say is...I feel free at last.
G 1d
Today, I started my day feelin’ ay-okay
Productive, yeah, but still feels a bit grey
Conceptualizing, designing & some game play
Basically what happens on my day-to-day

Oh, but, I haven’t mentioned
That before these eyes were opened
It was you that I was with
During the time when I was still asleep

Is there something you wanna say?
‘Cuz anytime you may
Like how I just stayed
After rejecting me — in my dreams & while being awake
Basically what happens on my day-to-day
Lungs constrict with a sudden halt to breath,
Blood still pulsing in veins, cells now hungry for oxygen,
Starving for air.
Useless gasps **** gravity deeper,
Watermelon in throat sinking to diaphragm,
A desperate situation grows worse,
Lending to despair.
Hands claw through nimbus,
Pointless and futile,
Frantic gestures begging for help-
A language of signs no one else seems to speak.
And then,
It's too late...

My heart is reborn an infant,
Learning slowly to walk,
Sluggishly it starts, crawling, stepping,
Then running again.
And I can finally breathe.
Zoe Mae 1d
My poetry starts with a single cell that multiplies quickly
and spreads like hell

Words intoxicate me
like a really cheap wine
And I think silly thoughts
that I turn into rhymes

Some of it's good
A lot of it's bad
But it's the only DNA
I'll ever have
I caught myself thinking
I'd like to write a song of you
except I can't seem to make lyrics.
I chuckled to myself, for what is
poetry if not a song with no music
i stand in a pit of deep anxiety,
its shapeless form outweighs
all the sunsets i stored
inside my skin —
for keeping,
for the dark.
my arms utstretched towards its olors
are last bits of innocence
the only part untainted,
the only part that doesn't flinch —
at the voices,
the movements,
the arms clawing from below.

six feet deep —
maybe a higher number,
people cannot mourn what they cannot see.
soon these spare lights, these spare words, this spare comfort,
they will all dissolve into a shapeless, formless,
state of corruption;
i am a body, hazy in a jar
dumped at the back of an anthropology museum.
preserved, not rotting —
people do not mourn things that do not rot.
and mourning is all i do in a suspended time,
in a time that moves and doesn't wait.

i stand in a pit — on my feet
with twisted legs and in washed-out skin.
i still, as though before a mirror
seeing this weight in full clarity —
it shows in my face, blank as a sheet of ***** ice
where i am buried in.
the rest of the world is shapeless,
formless as it walks by.
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