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My loving Yeshe
As I cry in the snow of
The *****
I can’t help but remember
The love we had for eachother
The knowledge you shared
And your sparkling eyes
I keep hering  your voice
Like a ghost
Saying “I love you, I always will,”
Is in an echo of the echo in the cold
I lost Poppy
Our daughter
Now I’ve lost you
What I would give
For one more embrace
Or
Comforting kiss.
I think of that as
I take my last breath.
Two lovers
A Tibetan Lama and a young lady
Where walking
Arm in arm
Kissing eachother gently
As they were going to
India
Where confronted
By bandits
They fought with the
Young lady’s lover
The Lama
When he was finished
He said “I love you Nebo, I always will”
She kissed him
And ran off to the mountains
And climbed until
There in the extreme cold
Nebo wept
In the snow
Until the cold done her in.
When we were together
I remember kiss you
And you smothering
My face with kisses
As you got between me
And felt the deepest love
And pleasure in me
As you have your
Way with me.  
I knew that
You wereing doing this
To pleasure me
To love me.
Things I hate with a passion
Being told to fit in
I just want to be me

Things I hate with a passion
Being told to grow up ; man up
I just want to be me

Things I hate with a passion
Being told to be white
I want to be tibetan.

Things I hate with a passion
Is people converting me to Christianity
I like being Buddhist.

Things I hate with a passion
Being told that I am theatrical
For my mental illness.

Things I hate with a passion
Being told that
Goths are evil
That’s Bull.
Christianity is a good religion but it does not fit my personality. That’s all.
Rahul 3h
The dawn is blank
like the paper on my desk,
nauseous from the night before,
frozen like the ink in my hand.
Blank sheets all over the floor,
poetry is my mad lover,
blankness is betrayal,
a war lost,
unsung heroics of failure,
bittersweet kiss of defeat by my rhymes.
I pile up the blankness of the paper,
words echo through the gaps between them,
I look close, there's still poetry.

On a page, third from the top,
there's an ocean of yellow paint,
Van Gogh swims merrily on the surface
with both his lips glued.
after a dozen pages, on a paper not so yellow,
a doctor walks the street
with a suitcase full of gifts,
and a dog called death.

I wrote of a woman who
was burned by every man she loved,
wrote about each piece of her heart
thrown in the depth of space,
next to the moon and far apart.

I wrote of Plath on a coffee-stained paper,
of how intensely she held
the lips of death under the gas oven,
of how the smudged ink of Ariel cried
on the table,
screaming and roaring for her.

On some papers, blank and inked,
I wrote myself,
blankness isn't defeat.
blankness is the longest chapter of my life,
it's a legend.





RYS
Naoki B 3h
I’ve kept a collection of our time together
Like the long nights talking
Through storming weather
Tears that you shed sleeping
Thinking about your dying mother
Even the stares you give, I’ll always relive
So with the feelings you foster
It shows how much you endeavor
And I’m so happy to have loved you too
Even through the weather
I stood behind, ready to catch you
you're edgy, full of sunshine and bullet holes
just enough cigarette smoke to look cool
a coping mechanism against the fools
who use to talk down to you

and im talking full blown panic mode
you're haunting and scared, uncompared
and finding it easier to not give a ****

its been a while so im stuck
between actually moving on and
holding on way too ******* long..
what
I waited for you -
down by the Woodbine house
on Kendrick avenue.
I must've told myself a thousand times
that when you arrive I'd be just fine
Sitting on the stoop collecting
thoughts like puddles of rain -
watching countless cars come
and pass thrashing through the
puddles splashed to interrupt my
hopeful mind with violent doubt.
I waited for you.
I'm still waiting for you.
I'll wait for you.
i have never believed in ***,
the bible is a series of stanzas,
which i could never translate into meaning.

it is poetry which never made my spine tremble,
usually i can feel when words piece together the fragments of my heart,
like tectonic plates making love underneath the earth's sheets.

and if it doesn't remind me that my body is not just an instrument for respiration,
it is not poetry to me.

if it does not remind me of the first time someone made a church out of my lips,
or the last time someone threw rocks at the stained glass windows of my soul.

if it does not replicate the sensation of falling to my death,
and then being resurrected
as the feeling of adrenaline baptizes my body.

i don't want to hear it.
somehow the prophets have only reminded me of the home where my childhood is buried in the backyard.
a breeding space for loneliness.

i have always wished on stars,
and prayed to the moon,
because at least for eight hours of the day,  i can see them.

at least i know they're actually there,
my life has been a series of conversations with walls,
i've been on hold for twenty years.

this life has showed me enough of building walls,
and how to make graveyards
and abandoned buildings out of my own bones.

i've spent enough time sipping wine,
and breaking apart my insides,
and somehow still making it look like a celebration,
isn't that what people do at church anyway?

instead i construct stanzas out of my pain,
i architect the universe into a church because
rain and holy water taste the same to me,
except the rain does not taste like my ex-lovers lies burning the back of my throat.

i refuse to let more strangers into my life,
just to remind me that my voice has never been loud enough,
that a scream is just a sound when no one is listening.

what kind of *** sacrifices his own son,
my father sacrificed his daughter's sanity for the bottle,
and there isn't a scripture
that can make that story hurt any less.

there isn't a *** that can precipitate the salt from my wounds,
but the moon is a streetlight in a darkened alleyway,
it is a lighthouse in a turbulent sea of sorrow.

so yes i worship the stars.
because all these years they still remind me that,
there is beauty in burning,
that i do not have to wait around to be saved,

and the moon is the only *** i will ever need because
it reminds me that i have already saved myself,
every day.
Soon as I saw you
I began to follow.
Without regard of home,
regardless of how many steps
it took to keep up.
I can't exactly describe what it was.
It just felt natural,
to follow you.
My legs moving twice as fast
This need to fall in love in the palm of your hand.
I felt a sense of need.
An overwhelming sense to bump into your leg until you noticed
This piece of me that felt something was missing.
To follow your every command, be accepted as I am.
For now I am enjoying this stroll.
This trot hoping you'll notice everything I see when I look at you.
What ever you ask of me
My life made whole in a glimpse.
I don't know exactly what it was that made me follow you,
But I am glad I did.
Until I am old and gray.
I will always follow you
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