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Tamara Rice Aug 2014
slice me open and climb inside
explore and see what you find
me? you won't see me
deep inside I hide
I come and go with the tide
the pain comes in high
and far back I go to where I reside
I live among the ribs
the heart is my moon
but there's a patch in my ceiling
the blood leaks in
leaving this torn feeling
it used to be made of tin
but then a huge force broke it in
I rebuilt with wood
but it was just no good
so I'm a nomad, I wander
so watch where you step
I might be down yonder
ready to be your last breath
I'll catch you in my trap of death
you can beg and plead
but there is no mercy here
you need to bleed
on your soul I have to feed
you'll disappear with the rest
don't you know this is only a test?
Just wait till he turns up,
just let him show his face.
Will he ever get a lesson
on what not to do to a cat.
Slide toward him
as if unwilling
and ever so slow
on visibly offended paws,
and no leaps or squeals at least to start.
- Wislawa Szymborska
  Aug 2014 Tamara Rice
Emmalee May
i look at you and hot blood rushes through my veins,
making me weak,
thrumming with energy, excitement,
thrilling me to my core,
warning dangerous dangerous dangerous
the sensation envelopes my body as thoughts of you envelope my mind
you're dangerous and not good for me, but
my heart melts and I can't help but want you
Tamara Rice Aug 2014
So bored
and so dead
that little monster I fed
and now she's fat,
full, and a little brat
she starves me
content on watching me bleed
making sure i drown in need
she burns and chokes me
I can't stop embracing her
the only piece of me I have
can't lose her in the cure
and I need to be so sure
so sure, My Love, you are
i'm kissing the killer
clutching my demise
keeping her close to my heart
she's with me always
my only company
she listens always
always, always, more always
she's killing me
i'm gonna cuddle her close
cause if I'm going down
I'm taking her along for the ride
"....Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crumbled! crush’d!   15
House of life—erewhile talking and laughing—but ah, poor house! dead, even then;
Months, years, an echoing, garnish’d house—but dead, dead, dead."

Walt Whitman

— The End —