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 Jan 2015 thommya
curlygirl
Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.
 Jan 2015 thommya
WickedHope
Rope
 Jan 2015 thommya
WickedHope
I
h
a
v
e
f
e
e
l
i
n
g
s
that
form
thou
ghts,
that
form
words,
that          form
sente            ­     nces,
that                       form
rope,                         which
ties                               itself
into a                            noose.
Your                         ­     words
are also                    a rope,
that saves me from
drowning.
Sorry if you can't read it.
Kinda.
 Jan 2015 thommya
Kataleya
Love her like
She's the raging sea,
Unrestrained and dark and deep.
And you crave her touch
Through aching pores
As you slowly drown in sleep.

Love her like
She's the tender storm,
A lovely shade of grey.
Like with every whiff
Of breath she takes,
She's taking yours away.

Love her like
She's the silent clouds
With calmness floating by.
Like you'd want to make
Sweet love to her
Under the moon's apocalyptic eye.

Love her like
She's the blazing fire,
And you lust the candied pain.
Like she's the disease
That swallowed you whole
And you'd like to die again.

When her gentle touch
Makes your chest explode,
And your addiction is your girl.
Promise you'll love her
Through hell and back,
Or don't you dare love her at all.
 Jan 2015 thommya
stas
A part of you will always be hidden inside of the parts of me I can't help but hide and a part of me will always be hidden in the dark circles under your eyes, think of me next time you can't sleep at night.

A part of you will always be under my nails, from trying too hard to hold onto you for too long, a part of me will always be in the knots of your stomach, when you are nervous and your insides are overlapping, think of me.

A part of you will always be on my tongue, I've brushed my teeth until my gums bled but I can still taste you. A part of me will always be in the spot on your neck, next time she kisses it, think of me.

A part of you will always be hidden in the way I tap my leg when I can't think straight, because maybe if I tap enough, you will rewrite yourself into someone else's mind but that isn't the case and a part of me will always be in your knees, the ones that I can still make weak but you still have the nerve to say you don't want me.
 Jan 2015 thommya
Noah
Today was the first time I put on makeup in six days,
flinching as I anticipated the usual sting of misplaced liner.
I have to look good, though. After all,
how else do I make up for nearly a week of anesthesia?
There's nothing else i can do.

I lie on my back on dulled blue flannel
whispering a Hail Mary, one of many this week
and think of all the pointless, trivial things we shared.
You used to tell me that I was always brushing my teeth, and I smiled each time,
laughing through mouthfuls of blood and self-preservation.
How was your week? What's the weather like there? Are you thrilled for tomorrow? Do you remember what it felt like to fall asleep hearing me on the other side of the line?

I wanted to draw today, but notes on my clipboard were everywhere,
surrounding a graphite picture of Lisbeth Salander like a halo.
Notes to you, of course, all of them.
You used to say you liked my lips,
covering your own mouth
so I couldn't see your beautiful, dripping, two toned words.


My to-do list is filled with broken promises and shards of glass, but I swear,
I'll get around to it all some day.
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