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touka Feb 2018
I sip, poor
on my nepenthe
stroking skin
the glass holding poured antidote
I sip and swoon, devote
I'd swim in it
even as it takes its pities
never part with the piment
the earth stills
slows its cities
and I take a sip of him
the warmest regrets
gnaw at my regard
cathartic, quiet egress
my minds reach not so far
as to want for them again
I sip, so poor
on my nepenthe
drink 'til it pours cold
it offers up its pities
pardon any sentiment
of the sorrow it erodes
it offers up a numb
I can't deny consoles
touka Jan 2018
I fight off an atlas ache
I breathe in, it offers a twinge
I roll my shoulders

"what are you gonna say?"

my ribcage stiffens against the skin where it resides
my throat feels like I've never drank

"I dunno."

storm clouds somewhere surely hang
I'm sure they do, it's still so wet outside
petrichor lingers dense and sweet, clinging to the greenery

"this is important. you have to stand up to her."

not impatient, but not eager to waste any time
I'm not eager to waste hers
but mine matters less simply because it is mine

"man, I know."

but she asks for something I'm not sure I can give
if I was to give anything, it'd be my femur bones
here, take these, I don't use them anyhow
maybe you can use them to bat around your enemies

"it's important for you."

something swift and slick and discreet
slides past my lips

"ehhh."

a comedic groan, but still

its not just me, its the legacy.
I am just another mouth to feed
feed me like you've always been
an atlas ache, I'm breathing in
touka Jan 2018
operose, to open rose
slaves to pull its petals down
the time it takes to bloom them out
a senecan stoic to peter his prose
to hide under its sharp thorned nose
pops the top till the flower pouts
dust to dust on its soil mound
  Jan 2018 touka
Soulace
e                       I don't quite know what's worse.                     p

             Being 100%, completely broken
                      i
                                        ­                                               c
Or being 99% completed, and never seeming to find the last...


                                         e
touka Jan 2018
cold,

I will my eyes to focus
reprimand my dark surroundings
and the many failing lights that sit
just a few yards away
blurry, blue dots
that jut out from the soil
of my neighbors yard
some decoration, I suppose

wet,

I hear the past, present and future collide with a crash
with a few strong voices
who bargain for nothing more than an insight
into each others inevitability

cold,

light flickers back on behind me
and I could kiss it hello
potent and poignant,
I'm so glad you are breathing
maybe that's a little forward, but it's more than power
I still struggle to focus my sight
maybe my ears, however
quiet still could not fall if it had untied shoes

wet, and so cold it's become dull

the ground is malleable, mud and muck sloshing around my pathway
my feet toss the puddles of winter water up and around my ankles
it soaks into my socks
sends a chill that stalks the length of my spine

wet and cold

I meander through the murk, biding it away
I jump onto the sleek black surface, staving off the frigid pains
and lay my head down to hide from sight

my vision is full of black holes

it's lovely, the rain
but not when its best accompaniment is the long silhouette of the house you'd escaped
who would I tell
a few foggy figures latch onto my regard

cells collapse in on their own

my face grows warm and I feel my features contort
a sad scowl appropriate for the situation at hand
tears roar past the dam I'd crafted
but it was dark, no one would see
I was hiding under nightfall
which might sound cool if I didn't mean I was laying on top of an old car crying at 5 in the morning

reborn starving and unconsoled

I still hear a few voices, then a few footsteps that quicken
a pace, a parse, a prying for more
and then a collective quiet
I stiffen, stifle my woes

the bite and the cry as it corrodes the hull

numb creeps in around my skin
especially my feet, the extent of the cold finally settling in
but I wasn't ready

the bigger the bang, the brighter the star

I have a conversation with myself in my head
and not to come off loony
but there are a few things that shouldn't have been said by either parties involved
if you catch my drift

theory tugs at the strings in my heart

a soft gust of January wind strokes the bare skin of my legs
I wonder
I wonder if I could stop if I were to start
and so I wonder and wonder
but it seems the answer isn't quite so mysterious

paradigms practice their weight in the void

I bet an imaginary amount of some imaginary currency
to myself, of course
that if I wasn't able to before, I definitely won't be able to sleep now

the dance of matter and its taunting toy

I hear my name called, footsteps shuffling, offering their warn
a somewhat concerned voice from beyond the beyond
the front door, I mean
out of sight, I freeze, my mouth stuffed full of cotton
half hoping they'll forget I exist for a few
so I can try to compose myself

with the space around it as it threatens tall

however well I could compose myself at this point, anyway
I know I'll be found
I don't want to speak, I'm not sure if I could
when these things happened, my mouth tended to malfunction as much as my spine
so I'd bite my tongue and stand shrinking
my muscles curling into a shaken stir

saturn sleeps, its uninhabitable crawl

a warm blanket, I don't remember the color
I'm brought inside and laid down
and I avoid the hot remnants of some loud, leering summer
the air is thick with it

its air stings my skin, and I hear a song
  ‍    ‍
so this is the weirdest, longest and most intimate poem I've ever done. It also kind of deviates from my usual style
(the italics are a bit glitched out BC of hellopoetry so sorry for that)
touka Jan 2018
struck me like sweet incense
of some storm of stardust
and by my doing, of old copper coins
the blood collected in his throat
the steely scent on his breath as it warped his voice
sent cold shrapnel through my tendons
I slipped and sank into the noise

I might miss having my heel stepped on
achilles exposed for far too long
sans the snake to snap at it
sans the sickle to scythe its hit
sans orpheus to ink an ode
sing it until his breathing slows

sing until his breathing slows
*tw* the flesh behind flayed pale skin, sprouting and spindling red, through and through, like sarcodes were made of him
  Jan 2018 touka
Madalyn
You inspire
Words of passion
Words of cryptic infatuation.

You inspire
More than what the pen writes.

You inspire
Longing of tangibility
Anticipation of the future.

Apprehension
Undisclosed

You inspire me
To fall in love.
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