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Lizzie Dec 2017
Abandoning the younger self
Of myself
That I ever held dear.
She's forgetting herself without you.
When you held her close in your mind
all those years
Teaching her who God is.
Well now she forgets.
And she forgets who she really is.
When did you grow away?
Grow outwards or downward from me?
Grow stickered stems and dying of your bloomed petals,
Of all that which oh you were beautiful!
And I loved you for them.
Poetic T Aug 2017
Fatigued repetitions
clinging within me

I just stare, ventriloquist
words speaking without

Petals of white, decaying
within my aroma glass now

They collected dead stems..
Alienpoet Sep 2016
Explosions onto the page
Instead of rage.
The pen stems the violence
Scribbling kills the silence
Sometimes this skin and bone
Is a cage.
The war we rage is to be heard
The pitter patter of words
Which fall like rain
Permeates our soul
Like small explosions of raindrops
Which explode onto skin and the ground.
Blossoms are the
Hopes and dreams
Attached to the thorny
Stems of life
We all have to climb
To smell the roses
Green crooked straws
******* water from the ground
Supplying the leaves
The thorns
The petals
Helpful and delicate

The thorns
Not supplying
But blood
No beauty
Just pain

The petals
The flower
The reason for the stem
For the thorns

The thorns protect
The stem provides
The flower blooms
Then the flower dies

The thorns once again
The stem
Until the thorn’s time
Comes again
Remembering June Sep 2015
She hardly speaks,
but when she does.
Her words are bullets.

And instead
of being filled with tiny
pellets of metal.
They are filled with seeds.
Cause she is growing on me.
Grow me into a vine.
That stretches across
the whole garden.
So when you try to take me out,
I’ve touched every part of your life.
You can’t get rid of me.
I’ll be a pain in your ***.

Attached by my heart strings.
You’ll have a huge box of my things,
buried in your closet.
With all of your skeletons,
and your dresses, your jeans,
and shoes.
And when you blow the dust off of me.
Remember my guitar strings.

The way I used the stems of flowers
as tally marks,
for all the days I hadn’t blown it yet.
So when I do.
Shoot your bullets in my dirt.
So your seeds can grow.
Don’t worry about my garden,
being over grown by weeds.
Cause I quit sewing those seeds,
years ago.

I do not rely on your happy,
to make me happy.
I know I am weak,
at the knees.
Because everybody trips
over their own feet, sometimes.
How many people can say,
they’ve seen something
more beautiful than a sunset.
April Showers
didn’t bring the flowers, darling.
Your heart did.
Your heart did.

Stems & caps divided in 8ths. Handful taken, pupils dilate; things get smaller others larger, pictures dance; your in a dream with open eyes
Martin Narrod May 2014
It's like this, and then there was total recall. Fast like a safety plan made wrong and then bouncing in and out all the way down the hall. Up through cable cars, Korean fast food market, wet fish, soupy street, concrete cracks filled with crab meat and **** heads. Just a square, a five block, two street, sideways quadrangle, beat of the Tenderloin, hour of the dove. Every one's dead on these loose ends. Hills of the back of her backside, skin of the back of her neck. Rapture is the grave of the sunset, memory is that thing that I said.

No one cans in carnivores, no one runs moves like a shepherd. Sunday, daft as candy, luck in the ways of the prophet. Canon of the blaze of every woman that died today. The sleep setting, the motorcycle bending the hollow, the ravines noisy interlude, up through the rough and the tangles, huddles in a six pack, three or four walking up the block to meet the rest of them.

The skin doesn't fit right, it wears wrong, the shoulders stiff, the masseuse excuses himself. Buckets of flowers hang from the ceiling like stripped cat christmas decorations in suburban mastermind serial killer resort town. Everyone is quiet because they gotta. They move their feet like they were hurrying death into a red volcano, like they were the errand of red from the top bell to the bottom of the town.

I sit on a roof top, baking in the noon day sun. Stripping sticks and stems off the side to sideways, just roasting away, laying, low in the afternoon light. I see a girl with her hands on her skirt, wobbling, scooting a priest card on a periwinkle terra-cotta.  I move my head, turn it upside round to take a better look. No one counts to ten when they see me. The gangster that woke up isn't the gangster that went to sleep last night. My wickedness ended my words mean your bright decay. So I ride the pavement exhausted, burying my coughs in an L-shaped arm

— The End —