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the asteroid hit the earth so long ago that
                                                             i do not remember a time before.  
(the bones of dinosaurs do not remember a time before they were
petrified into brittle and fragile memories; the moon does not recall
who she was before she got stuck in the earth’s orbit; uranus knows
nothing of how he came to spin on his side.)

you could stick your hand through
any of the gas giants and find
                                                          your whole body
                                                           slidi­ng through.  
this same theory can be applied to my skin.  i have very little gravity,
or at least it feels that way most days.

maybe it depends on how you look at it:
one way is perfect, and the other all wrong.  the woman in the casket could either be sleeping or dead.  she could either be a stranger or my mother.  the head or the tail.  the light or the dark.  the two sides of the moon.  the comet striking through the night sky.  the interdimensional toll could refuse to let you through.  the cult could accept or deny your entry request.  there is one and there is the other.  the upside down.  the rightside up.  the parallel universe.  the evil twin.  it’s fresh and then it’s rotten.  this could either hurt a lot or a little.  it depends on how much you let in: how willing you are to bend to the emotional blow.

science says that the human body tends to
                                                            forget physical pain as a survival tactic.
but science says jack **** about emotional pain.

so am i living?  or am i just existing?
     the difference is six feet deep.
writing your grief prompt three: how do you live in a landscape so vastly changed?
I'm keeping the last drop in the drawer
Beside me inside my bedside table
Where once both of our things littered
Atop that cheap Ikea wrongly assembled
Square that posed as a treasure chest
And doubled as dining table and trash can

The last drop of romantic feelings
That weren't dead on impact upon
The drunken uselessly endless aggressive
Words spat sitting at the kitchen table
Where I was fighting to be numb
And you were fighting to be loved

When I'm healthy enough to gear out of
Autopilot and back into attempting to try
Accepting the rush of human experience
I can put that drop under microscope
And get experimental with how to love
Without purposely trying to drown myself
~
The disruptor,
whether digital or analog,
strikes the bell,

bioengineered automaton
—a manufactured life form
given little agency or dimension,

mnemonic to the finitude of life,
and subtle muddling of humankind's
supposed moral transcendence.

~
Juliana Apr 13
The waves part
at the speed of light,
all of Heaven gathered together
into a black hole,
disappearing,
ceasing to exist.

This was an experiment, you see.
A multi millennia project,
the greatest, the only,
team-building exercise of all time.

It led up to this, humanity,
but it wasn’t pass-fail.
Every little win, every
act of kindness, every
giggle coming from a small
child’s lips gave us a point.
Every bit of despair
subtracted one.

What was our grade?
All the wars we fought,
collecting coins like glitter
to fill our picture frame of hate,
did we ever once think that when
He came down, when Jesus returned,
it would not be in a simple robe,
the uniform of the stars, but in a
crisp, clean lab coat,
our savor, the STEM major.
Raul M Murray Apr 13
Government regulators attempted to **** me
God's angels are the people that saved me
They created the problem buy giving the Dr the key
Escapades that spiralled like a birch tree
To suppress confessions and evidence
People were given unwanted medicine
Some ran but caught by the magnet resonance
Others 6 feet under, blessed by a church eminence
God help! Sadists and cannibals eat patients
Colluding in auditory nerves in acoustic vibrations
They are the nations NHS saviours
When people suffer they have secret celebrations
Looking for the innocent soul
Destroying with false reports and a troll
Exploiting every loophole
Services and public on a sly payroll
Pseudo science disease is a abomination
That of mental illness to the nation
That has brain washed the population
Truth will singe psychiatry to decimation
Juliana Apr 10
X Paper two—peer edits
X Chem homework
X Read paper 1, 2—for annotated bib  
X Bio notes
    Read book—your favorite, snuggle up and drift away
X Bio Exam
X Bio reading 1, 2, 3
X Chem notes
    Read Book—the one on your shelf for ages
X Chem reading 1, 2, 3, 4
X Write paper one—second draft
X Bio homework
    Write book—this has been your dream since you were a kid
X Write paper three—first draft
X Write poem—last thing before bedtime
(lines with an "X" should be crossed out instead of the "X")
Daivik Apr 5
They call me Mr.Cadaver
Dead,yet living in hospitals
And schools where they teach how to become doctors
Oh!Doctors My only true lover

I died of a natural disease
You know,the one where you constantly sneeze
Too poor to be buried
Too poor to be burned
So I was embalmed
In certain chemicals
Formaldehyde,then frozen
And in this form turned

It wasn't easy at first
Young eyes looking at me suspiciously
The weak-hearted watching disgustedly
But as time(I have much of it)
Went by I got used to it

I was dissected by stainless steel
So that they could learn how to heal
These various tissues,body parts well
I knew my worth when departed

I was a precise model
Of a living person
With my help
So many learnt

Basic human anatomy
Which vein goes where
Where lies the spleen
So whenever you are on the hospital bed
Remember
My death gave another life to thee

They sell me for many a dollar
To the blue-eyed scholar
And I will become his loyal friend
I may look creepy
But that's just because I'm dead

The teacher points to various places
On me , sometimes I feel a little ticklish
But I a satisfied by the curious eyes
Who are learning about me for your benefit


And when the session expires
My second life,it must retire
But they extract my bones
Put the skeletal frame in a museum
Or break it into pieces
And give it to students of various fields
The dentists want the cranium
I'm bloodless
Anatomy's life bood

So bow down to me
Ye first year students
I taught Da Vinci how to draw a man
Taught Michaelangelo how to sculpt
From Ancient Greece to modern medicine
My death has given life to many humans
My dentist brother asked me to write this
Simply put my life is ruled by numbers  
Digits by the dozens in screaming color

People asking how was your SAT, ACT?
Don’t be shy, go on tell us
You better have gotten over a 30
Or a string of numbers 1500 above

The concept of clocks striking six, twelve, perhaps one
Stressing to be early has already begun
Alarms ringing, time frames narrowing, dictating much of my seeing  

Algebra, geometry, chemistry galore
Maths of all sorts are sometimes a bore

The weight of a newborn, hoped to be a seven
A timely occurrence, the baby down from Heaven
  
A social security number
Rings out like a thunder
While the hospital collects its plunder
Nylee Feb 28
Your gravity hit me hard and fast
But mine didn't even touch you
It just repelled out of your axis
And you still keep pulling my strings
I keep falling over my feet
The physic's law won't work for me
The biology and chemistry both
are working against me
affecting just me.
Juliana Mar 18
You reek like a poison.
You are not pretty.
There is not a faint whiff
of almond tracing the
path of your putrid
perfume
—a crumpled cookie from
the bottom of
Grandmother’s tin.

The apple doesn’t
fall far from the tree,
and you are the rat
succumbed to its curse.

Although the vermin
is you, she is the prey.
Praying to get away
from the suffocating
scent of your racing
heart.

Obey her. Because
without her, you are
nothing.
You are not a diamond
littered in a field of
whimsical confetti.
You are not the gold
plated juice fallen
from the apricot,
sliced open
solely for the pleasure
of your mortifying mind.

You are invisible.
Looking for a reason to
exist. Looking to pass
your pain onto an
unsuspecting soul.
An object. A doll.

You want to be the
air which courses
through her veins,
the thing that makes
her weak
but Peaches,
you
are the weak one.

A puff of smoke
doesn’t do it
anymore, or maybe
it’s in your jeans,
but the picture
is clear.

You are sick
of being pestered.
Terrified of being
labeled as something
you’re not.
You have a headache,
but all she wants to do
is look up at the stars
without the sky falling
down on her.

She wants to go to
sleep at night without
the rats clawing at
her covers.

She wants to breathe.
Pretend the formatting saved.
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