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I trace my fingertips
along your neon facets.
I twist and turn you
to make a match
or make a mish mash
of coloured squares.

You bring me back in time
to 1980's plastics.
I cannot solve your puzzle
for i lack your cuboid logic.
But just to rotate and
feel your shape in my hand
is sublime and fantastic!
I think about meditation, positivity,
and breathing my worries away.

I think of opening the blinds
to see a monk on fire  
so I pick up a pen and write instead.

I think about the birds out my window
and feel the earth shake as they
fly for higher ground.

I think of students picking
one path to fly and die on
Then I think about the value of money
and what it's really worth

I think about comfort and security
then I think of a prison made of meridian sofas
and melted credit cards.

I think about getting wasted.

I think of social networking
dissociative isolation
and aging narcissism.

I think about the homeless man
and his house made of boxes
outside of NPR's building
"This American Life."

I think of turning up the noise
and smoking an 8th of ****.

I think about the magnitude of our universe.
  I think about *** and image.
I think about power and guns.
I think about how blind we’ve
allowed ourselves to be.

then I think of how I can condense these thoughts
into a single sentence so it holds
your
fleeting
attention
amidst
a
*******
newsfeed

I think about it
I do

That you should start to think too
I thought I knew
until i saw her
dancing through the beat
with standards i'll never meet

I thought I knew
until I heard her
singing like there's no tomorrow
so my voice sang with sorrow

I thought I knew
until she spoke
of poetic miseries
and of beautiful fantasies

I thought I knew
until I saw no one
No one
No one believed
in the girl who needs
encouraging words
to get back on her feet
No one
No one noticed
her broken wings
and heavy chains
of insecurity
No one
No one cared
to even ask
"Do you believe in yourself?"
for her answer is no
definitely no
and No one said
"I believe in you."
that's why she wrote this poem
discouraged girl
Crack my spine and
Lay me open
Am I in those words before you?
Or a footnote
An observation
Scrawled in the margins

Run your hands
Over me
With your eyes closed
Am I Braille
Beneath your fingertips
Can you feel me?

If you lose
Your Self
Come and find me
Hidden in sentences
A map of
Paragraphs

Somewhere in
The shifting corridors
I am a haunt
A shadow; memory
One of those
Lost girls

Shifting scenes
And new
Locations are
Disguises, I
Am buried in the pages
Of your story

Like Echo
I have faded, until
All that remains, is
My voice imprinted
On a recollection
In a loss
 Dec 2014 Taru Marcellus
Megan
I wonder if the moon feels like we take it for granted.

Maybe we are the ones responsible for the waxing and the waning
of the moon.
We must learn of our responsibility.
                                                                It is the same for people

It is a constant cycle of convincing ourselves we are
something people want to see--
luminous like the
orb that lights the night.
And then convincing ourselves
we are only a crescent of a person--
not worth the space
allotted to us.
                               Just like the moon.

It is not nature that controls its cycle.

We are born from the moon. It is more human than we are comfortable admitting.

Waning is genetic and there is no cure.
Maybe I don't understand
the Laws of Physics or
Stellar evolution,
but I know that
your atoms are composed of stardust
Maybe this is why the life in your eyes
is illuminating everything like a carbon giant.

In astronomy they told us
that the darkest parts of space
often contain the most energy
And I thought you should know,
that just like the ancient galaxies inside of you,
your darkest parts still shine.
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