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wut do u think about
when u sleep all day?
do u dream of things
like broken wings or
evr of my face???????

wut do u think about
when ur rly all alone?
r they horrid thoughts
or pretty ones or r they
malevolent in tone????

wut do u think about
when u think of u????
do u luv urself as i do
or r u hiding hatred in
the basement of ur <3?
shruggin' my
shoulders
since it's
colder
by the lake
still these girls
in their skirts
chill / shiver
legs quake
heart break
is over rate/ed
i'm on the next level
suave reinstate/ed
i pray to devils
and demons
that this could
last all season

don't ever say never
'cept when it's ******'
impossible since
honesty's a policy
that no one
ever follows so
lie your pants
off dance like
you're dying
since you're
dead to me

make them
doves cry
while the
caged
birds
sing:

"the truth is
you should
stay ruthless"
emptiness
devours it
wishful thinking
empowers it
darkness washes
over every facet
of a life spent
in cowardice

if sickness leads
to health again
then killing it
is beauteous
Sadness is a razor
Uncertanty marks my arms
Dissapointment carved my thighs
But the crimson is so beautiful
When all you want is to die

My arms cry for a breakup
My legs for being unwanted
New skin where the old used to be
Your body is now haunted

But the scars have a certain beauty
Be it from razor, needle, or knife
They show that you were strong enough
To not give up on life
 Nov 2011 Tatiana Cody
Jim Hill
It could've been
the sweet scent

that sank into sheets.
It could've been

the peel of the red
dress from shoulder

blades, like a layer
of skin.

It could've been
black shoes

left by the door
that shone

like piano keys.
Maybe it was  

the room draped
across your back,

how you pulled
it around us,

shrinking the world
into something

we could
understand.

No,
        it was just

the hollow sound
of the closing door

that made me wish
you never left.
A poem falls short; I'd like, instead
to draw a single line from me to you
and watch it curl into a word
so beautiful it's still unsaid –
or press paper to the window pane
so that the day might saturate
a note that brightly warms your hands,
spills birdsong from imagined trees
and buzzes like fat bumblebees,
but I am bound by language, love; I can't.
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