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 Oct 2016 Taki Kumiko
Keen
Eventual
 Oct 2016 Taki Kumiko
Keen
This will be the last
and I promise you
That I'll stop writing about you,
Ever again.

This will be the last
That I'll remember you
That I'll remember us
Us, that did not last.

This will be the last
and I know we will be okay
It's not that much
But, *thank you and goodbye.
- 10102016
For a long time, I’ve had a fear of writing poetry.
A weird fear, I know.
But when you’re as self-conscious, anxious, and self-deprecating as me, you’ll find that it’s hard to voice… just about anything.
You see, I would never raise my hand in class, because what if I was wrong?
I would never sign up for weights, because what if I’m not that strong?
That pretty girl in class? Don’t even dream about it.
If you ask for her number, she’ll leave you without it.
She’ll think you’re weird, creepy, or even ugly.
That is why I stayed away from poetry.

What if what I have to say is not all that important?
What if what I write is bad, boring, or people find it abhorrent?

So I stayed away from it.

I kept everything I wanted to say bottled up inside.
Until one day, I sat.
And I cried.
I wondered to myself
What went wrong in my life?
Why am I the way I am?
How can I fix myself?
What is my plan?


It all started with typing.
And even though I’m still an anxious wreck
Aren’t you reading my writing?
Wrap your arms around me, Loneliness,
Like you did the night before.
Plant empty kisses upon my neck,
And fill my ears with Love's lore.

Repeat the lies, I beg of you,
Those of which you've memorized.
Tell me about your knight again,
When even Death has been romanticized.

Oh, wrap your arms around me, Loneliness,
For the real world never can compare,
To the dreams that you've instilled in me,
Although your knight has never fared.

For the love of God, touch my skin,
Engulf my body with your truth.
Tomorrow you can tell the same old lies,
And leave me, yet again, with the images of my youth.
 Oct 2016 Taki Kumiko
Allen Faust
I long for the sleep I am so heinously denied, the subtle and sinking embrace of true rest. The never-ending expanse of ebony satin, staining the existence on the back of my eyelids. I long not for a brief escape, but an eternal one. I chase the fleeting feeling of nonexistence that plagues my conscious mind, deriving from my small excursions into the nocturnal haven called sleep. I am weighed down, neigh drowned by my need to relentlessly pursue this venture. Yet, I feel it is an empty venture all the same.
Comments appreciated!
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