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Razors, did you know they show a kind act of love?
Picture me at 18, not taking life or myself seriously enough.
Well not as seriously as some would take razors and love.

See, I discovered one day just horsing around on a carousel ride
of trauma, that we can all chase dreams, but few of us will catch them. I discovered I needed to be careful where I was dreams to.

Careful like I was in love, careful like I was using razors to chisel through the ground until I reach the earth's bones. I also
discovered, rubbing razors and love the wrong was can feel as if you had a brush with death.

See, God got it wrong, love should barricaded by stonewalls instead of hearts and songs. Love is messy, and poetic, and it carries a ratchet razors that I often use.

Understand cuts are messengers too, and they tattletale and dry snitch every change they get, about my anger, my fear, and my secret stash of razors to a world that couldn't possibly understand.
What the hell didn't they get the memo?

That I am looking for someone to feed on and stay full off of.
because I can't love normal, just insane and misunderstood. Someone to understand, this is why I stay quiet barely hear.

I got voice as loud as silence, and in the bedroom I make as much noise as a butterfly. Ironic they call me Navah the Butterfly, because when I speak it's poetic and no safe words.

Just someone else's slit wrist pouring out of me, O Negative premeditated blood drops to what is really wrong with me.
And I confess, I sick and creative. I am something you can't just simply sleep off, so sweet dreams.

and it is going to take more than razor shape words and music that sings to what's between my legs to fix me it's going to take God!
Running from every direction at once just to come and hold me.

And I will tell them, I don't know how to stop using razors or a world around as a mirror a world that is someone else's heaven and someone else's hell. So Sometimes I play the hero and the villain as I try to pick up the pieces of myself 5 at a time to put me back together again.

but Cant so I hurt with razors for now but one day I will hurt with kindness and I will be amazing! And I will teach my how not to use razors
Camouflaged in the womb
Nickname invisible sightings
That no one sees

Undetectable smiles
Young premonition
A hidden prediction
waiting to be born

You are shared
blood and bone
Still marinating in
An Immature vision
Never seen, just dreamt of
Love lies sacrifice by Navah the Buddaphliii

Will I lie of love?
To the one
Who is as true as day?
How shall I deny his smile in
light of earth's morning?
These questions have burden my blood and choked my breath
As I lie of a million pleasures
Pretending he has pleased
Knowing still not one he shall fulfill
Curse not my lying lips
for they are a hero to his heart
I will abandon my joy
To protect the soft part of his heart
I will show him not my saddened self but piercing arrows of strength
though I long to hide
in the shadow of weeping willow trees
Instead I ask myself
How can I cause pain to the one
whose heart for me is a glow?
In me love is frail
And my words
Are longing to lie
And the truth is
In love I am not
Still I allow him to consume me
And I shall obey our togetherness
for it is wise
Unlike his foolish heart
too far gone in love to see
I pretend to grieve not
I bid my happiness farewell
And sacrifice for him when others dare not
Cry with me the biggest river and together side by side we will drown in our own tears.
Waste yourself inside of me, and let us create a whole new universe.
Let me ask you a few dangerous questions.
1. when did wisdom magically become a weapon?
2. Can you turn the other cheek?
3. Can you turn lead into gold?
Because I can't.

See some of us reside in an unlivable temple
scraping by on ok, hog tied to the flawed words "I'm fine" and find comfort, knowing the only way to truly find contentment is to find a tribe of people willing to be unicorns and butterflies with you.

See we kid ourselves with the belief "they will save me", But we don't live in a house with a glass ceiling so we can see God or a sky that is easily taking apart.

sometimes I wonder, did I wake up today to another state of sleep ain't that easier to swallow than reality, ain't the best fight with yourself.
There I go again chewing on doubt as if it were gum.
Thinking of my mind as part incredible part trash and mostly dead

See what I meant to say is your mind is not something you can just escape from it is something you survive.
So I will continue to wear the sun like the air wears sage in the winter,
because after all ain't the best scent in a dream.
There above blameless clouds and a sluggish silver lining is an ivory pearl ruling like royalty in an unforgiving sky. In it are innocent stars accused of passionate crimes that are bridged together like a crucifix overlaying the night. The once powerful now defenseless lights are mourning their very own glow that fades away like compliments. They are fully vulnerable as sitting ducks waiting in the welkin.
These heavenly bodied creatures confined to grey areas and hummingbird grey lines are judged by a non-material heaven. When did the sky become similar to a prison, a jailhouse without bars, the slammer for stars? My guess is It started with the imbalanced moon's tall tale of what could have been. Her words traveled faster than a Halley's Comet going to and from every planet leaving bits and pieces of itself. Just imagine being that high from being high, and still, her highness falls for the stars. Those sparkly poetic gems, beautiful Asian flowers, orchids of the night. Only they are alluring enough to sweep the moon off her feet while the rest of Milky Way collapses at it.
It is unfair these up right things that bless the twilight are birthed in a moment they can't outrun, and still, they bolt through a sightless journey as they are chased by a galaxy of everything from satellites to black holes, but mostly what the scorned moon feels. If only they were shooting stars quick enough to escape from the crescent moon's mood swings and her Luna Eclipse of roller coaster rides So ludicrous you swear it was a dream or maybe some sort of nightmare.
Perhaps the celestial moon was never taught love is not a stranger to some but to most and that stars are not gods, but poets. And each night they spit a fine tune poem to the retro sky about how unsafe space feels in the dark and how there are no good nights there. Just empty goodbyes and as for the Royal Moon she got exactly what she wanted and it is for the precious stars to feels just as damaged as she is.
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