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Kathleen M Nov 2019
The light's different
I'm heavy with thought
It pours out of my ears
Could this have been in there the whole time
Under my nose
Under the surface
Like poisonous gas in the lakebed
N Oct 2019
There is beauty in buried love—
tenderly wrenching.
The subtle and soft carry so much more power,
and every touch is a stolen blessing.
No moment is taken for granted;
we are present.
Every look: a confession
to be churned over and over,
while we waltz with desire
never hastily.
We are ravenous for a love so blatantly before us but we don’t dare to indulge.
Mm-bap-bap Mm-bap-bap Mm-bap-bap
So we make beauty with the withstraint and we call it discipline.
Em MacKenzie Oct 2019
Why do me the courtesy
of meeting me half way?
Unleashing your opinions of me,
putting fears to rest and keeping pain at bay.
You might aswell just ****** me,
this game I never signed up to play,
yet still I’m screaming it out internally
but it’s not my place to say.
I guess I’ll keep quiet for another day.
willow Aug 2019
I used to be more,
full like the morning sun,
a fool but made of dreams bittersweet.
Grief took over me.
Suddenly? No,
a long process,
I did not notice.

Time passes by unexpectedly
even if you expect it,
it flows and flows,
unbothered by cries,
by dying men,
flowers melting like
my heart every April;
it asks no one
for it has no mouth
to scream and shout,
for it’s not alive
like you are
or like the papers say,
like your mother used to say.

Oh, if only she knew…
you left your self
on the front seat of his car,
too young to sit there
but he didn’t seem to mind.
He should have been terrified
but no. He was calm.
'Not your first time, is it?'
What?
'How dare you?'

There are times when
I simply sit and imagine:
vanilla ice cream turning to liquid,
dripping on my tummy
under the filthy, scorching sun.
It’s cold and I prefer chocolate
and it’s not fair but
I don’t say a thing.

Make it subtle,
invisible it should be,
shush it all away,
it passes so it’s okay.
I’m telling you,
it should be.
And it will be
one day.
I'll make myself believe
I can be more than what he did to me
Becca Lansman Mar 2019
My bones bubble with lava
red pustules absorbing the hot air an angry cloud full of
hail and snow and sleet
blockades my throat
I am all feelings and no action
all body but no voice
Wet and Wanting
All ears and no mouth
All tongue and teeth and spit
but no words
A violent storm with no landing zone

What am I to do with all this wreckage?
exist Feb 2019
the more memories in my head that become unrepressed
the more i realize that i’m blessed
it took a lot to get me here
and the end is nowhere near
because life is a journey, not a race
i’m so grateful to be in this place
and i tell myself
it could always be worse
practice positivity, sometimes the only thing you can control is your attitude
mars Jan 2019
If they don’t believe you
they don’t deserve to
be apart of your story.

You shouldn’t have to explain
yourself.
mars Jan 2019
With our heads over the starboard of the boat trip we took taunting tropical storm Fay on the port and our dresses in the wind.
He watched from the captain's chair, pistol in his hand. Salty seas hinder our vision of the man in the watchtower turning him into a blur on the vast expanse of grey skies and rotting wet wood.  

Angry crew-children with their bodies touched, banging on the stained glass door to his room where the little girl looks through the marbled blue with tears on her cheeks. Laughing at the confrontation, sent back to work.

Gathering lobster and lost time, both of them scream in the boiling ***. Escaped breath from incestuious embraces return to lungs and we find out that we can scream too, the boiling *** is overturned dripping off the starboard where we stand.

Lightning bolt touches the flag above his head causing chemical reactions to develop into a spark. Flames at the back engulf the wheel the children blister their hands grasping onto the lines as Fay rolls through, lightning after thunder rain never ending. Chaos perspiring on the ship he calls the battalion to secuestrar the children.

The battalion is overturned at the punch, bruise left on grey skin. Captain blubbering with lies the fire heat on his back. Rotting wood is burning, we cover our noses with bandanas and letters marked for Groton. The tide rises waves overtake the port, splashing onto the starboard where the victims jump into the black water uncertainty chilling them.

Swimming to Key West with the dolphins on our back the fiery ship burns in the distance the captain tied to a chair of ******* and lines untouched, denying allegations until his heart is charcoal and all that's left is a charred body smelling of ****** and aftershave. The starboard side is empty causing imbalance to the ship.

Dripping tears and sea water, walking through the streets, we lower our bandanas and hold the letters close to our hearts. Searching for the sun that will lead us home.
ELK Dec 2018
My story is filled with blotted ink
from the tears that so freely fell
Ensnared behind my closed mouth
words form and then rebel
Hands bleed with the need to write
but the pen has long been dry
Sometimes I wonder if
it has always been a lie
Then what is this
that flows through my veins?
Forged from silver
held back by chains
I do not see blood
only unformed murmurs
Mere fragments of the thoughts
buried beneath the armor
And if you tore me open
all you will ever find
Is blank paper
torn pages
and ink run dry.
-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
Do you ever long to write yet no words form? To put down on page what feels so powerful yet so
quiet.
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