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PS Feb 12
Yours is the face in the crowd
I want to see.
Yours is the name that I hear
And I always speak.
Yours is the sound on the wind
The missing breath in between
Mine is the serious thing
I know you’re missing me.

Yours is the song of the south
Of east, north and west too.
Yours is the message I see
But forgo replying to.
Yours is the chart that I read
Yours is the name I wail out with dread
When I’m alone sobbing in my bed
Full of the missing in between instead.

Yours is the face in the crowd
I’d rather meet.
Yours is the name that brings pain
The bittersweet.
Yours is the watery depth
Mine is the fire that leaves you bereft
And I know that I’m still a Queen
But there’s too much in between.
This came to me and I forgot I wrote it until now.
No one asked for me to be here
Least of all myself
I know I am unwanted
That I am a wrong being
I was not made to be loved
I’m sorry to all those who have tried
I know you think I fall for those smiling eyes
Those next to kind words
But I know the truth
I am insignificant, and you know this to be true
I am only a side piece to a true connection
People would only miss me
Because they feel like they have to
Or because they’d tricked themselves into thinking I was worth something
That’s not just their problem, though
It’s mine
How can I expect myself to leave when I will leave so much sadness in my wake
Even if it’s not warranted
Even if it’s not asked for
I’ve already caused so much harm by being here
By being wrong
But I can’t end things now
Because that would make everything worse
I know no one truly should care about me
But some are too good to see that
And try to love me anyway
They can’t see that
I was born broken
I cannot be fixed
But I won’t let them know
Because I don’t want everyone to know there’s something wrong with me
I shouldn’t be here at all
I shouldn’t be alive
So every night, I ask myself,
“Why am I like this?”
Why am I alive?
This is who I was
Lost in who I was meant to be
Found all I was not meant to see
In between you and me

This is who I am
Still picking up my tab
Even the one you said you'd grab
But debts are all I've ever had

This is who you are
You won't let go
Cause your love won't let you
No, you won't let go...

This is where we stand
Inseparably apart
Your love pursues my racing heart
And when it stops is where we start

This is where we fall
Half way to where you are
Slipped as I start to pass the falling star
At least the ground is not as far

This is who you are
You won't let go
Cause your love won't let you
No, you won't let go...

If this is all this is
I just want you to know
I know you loved me more
More than love could ever know
duncan Apr 2018
i still tucked her letter away
even if she managed to contradict
all of its contents.
a heroic feat.
maybe her best work.
(alternately titled random axe of violence)

I calculated an average
of ~10.16.... deaths per year
of mass school shootings since Columbine,
a morbid benchmark where,

iGen / Gen Z 1995 - 2012 bore significant hit,
now students require armed guards to learn - veer
really within purportedly "safe places",
which statistics tracks a unilinear

trend, and justifiably causing
absolute zero reassurance
countering alarmist state of mind dust tear
ability to accept rationale

dismissing greater probability
prevails lightening will strike loved ones,
nonetheless share
ring understandable expressing

rightful salient concerns with school board
quotidian possibility son(s) and/or daughter(s) rare
lee remain mum at every opportunity,
how second amendment does not square

with democratic e pluribus unum firmament,
lieutenant management,
quintessential reverent tenets
pointing trigger finger of accountability

at lax gun purchasing rare
lee does emotional uproar demanding
immediate controls, limitations, restrictions,
et cetera on firearms scare

the bejesus from stalwart National Rifle Association,
whence spokesperson doth prepare
convincing rebuttal (lock, stock at barrel) overbear
ring lee outgun legitimate

parental concerns, now near
daily occurrence hardly cause a flinch glossed
inducing similar reactions as
sports home team defeated, sans mere

slightly raised eyebrows while headline news
when another tragedy gets tacked
unto the 122 students killed since Columbine
took  innocent lives 19 plus years ago

which ** hum sacrifice of youth or teachers bare
lee induce ripple despite an increasing number
of spent bullets fallout inflicting
more than 208,000 vulnerable
impressionable psyches sorrows need a lifetime to air!
Fah Aug 2016
Forests of Time await in the vastness of our hearts
and the simplicity of
our inner gems, they sing to us
paint themselves an accolade,
sing to themselves
a daring hum
of life present, serene
in the very same hearts

out here

are heartbreaks and suicides,
here, in these moments our tyranny is our blessing.

If you haven’t yet understood the power of this vesicle, comprehend.

Here down to our toes,
we are death, life, assimilated and working.

We are paradox's conclusions
we are demons denying themselves patience, do you hear me?

This could be our last sentence, our last repeat of the cyclic crimes splattered across screens and into our minds, honed deep into DNA and memories passed down to us,
do you think that karma doesn’t die….

Forget with me, for a moment what may tie to you to this or that, what may make you some way or another and remember,
the possibility of your existence and it's slimness and it's fervor

such beauty I could sing.

Come home.
Come home.
Come home to the wonder of yourself.

7 billion+ people and you are lovable, by some one, somewhere, right now, know this, and no I’m not talking ****** partners, although they may fall into the mix,
I’m talking family and friends,
I’m talking the trees who shake and shimmy and bend,
I’m saying the sky loves you, the rivers love you,
the dreams love you, you are a shimmering essence of pollution
turned sparkling star dust when you live like you are worthy, live like you know what you are, ( nothing short of a miracle)
live knowing the magic and beauty that flows through you,

yes, you who knows what death tastes like…and still smiles at the majesty of it all.

If you haven’t yet understood the power of this vesicle, comprehend.

We all have it on our very lips, we all have the ashes of those long dead in our lungs
we burn that to make our cars run.

We think we’re alone out here in the universe
we never even left home
Or explored the forests waiting in the vastness of our hearts.

Come home.
Come home.
Come home.
It's been a while.
I've been living dreams.
Coriander Lee Jun 2015
Glare at the blank page,
Splatter it with black
the oil that oozes up
from deep inside me.

Shape it to a likeness
Give it a collar, a chain
But I prefer not to name it.

I'm good at keeping the door cracked.
I keep the key around my neck,
In case I need to shut them in,

Or shut myself in?

I'm not sure which side of the door
is the inside.
They bang on rough wood.
Scrape with sharp nails.
I haven't named them.
If only they didn't know mine.
I haven't written in so long. I found it easier to rewrite a rough draft instead of starting from scratch.
Kay P Apr 2016
He was a boy, she was a girl,
Do you see where this is going?

Sometimes she was a girl and sometimes he was sweet,
and sometimes they would smile at each other,
and sometimes one would smile and the other would miss it,
and sometimes neither smiled at all.

Sometimes there were others and sometimes there were not
and sometimes the others got too close,
and sometimes she got rather internally possessive,
and sometimes he raised an eyebrow questioningly but got no answer

Sometimes there was music and sometimes there was dancing,
and sometimes they danced and sometimes they didn't,
and sometimes he watched her and sometimes she giggled,
and sometimes she watched him and had to look away

Sometimes she thought in terms of forever,
and sometimes she thought in terms of 'never',
and sometimes she thought in terms of 'maybe',
and sometimes she thought in terms of 'enough',

(because sometimes she didn't feel good enough)
(and sometimes she worried about not being loved enough)
(and sometimes she stressed about not being pretty enough)
(and most times she didn't feel like she was enough)

But sometimes that didn't matter,
because sometimes he smiled and talked enough
and sometimes his stories were funny enough
and sometimes he showed her he cared enough

And sometime she'll realize enough is enough
and that being attractive isn't always a measure of scruff
and that when you love someone you've gotta say that stuff
because leaving is easy when you don't know enough
April 11th, 2016
Amelia Glass Sep 2015
The moon is content
to believe without
understanding why
she was placed where she
flies, orbiting space
and looking at time.

But the earth wants to know.

It wants to accuse
whoever carved out
its calderas,
and at every aphelion
the moon finds it harder
to move, like she can’t drag
herself back through the blues
of skies one more time.
The tether that holds
them together tears
her apart.

The moon doesn’t get
dizzy, but earth thinks
it’s spinning too fast,
sketches up the sky,
an engineered map of whys,
of stars connected
by thin pencil lines,
she thinks in miracles while it
thinks in margins of error,
equations, exponents.

On nights when she glows
green, the moon envies those pairs
who favor the power of two

because she squints and sees
the blueshift in earth’s eyes
as it crashes closer,
time spills out behind her,
space suffocates
between them, closer,
perihelion come,
and she blinks and sees
earth’s caldera eyes
raised to nothing.
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