lauren wilson Jun 25
there’s a gun in my hand
(metaphorically speaking)
and i wrote this for u,
every last tear and laugh
and droplet of blood that
you drew out of my flesh,
blades for kisses while
the drugs reached your
veins-down the rabbit
hole you went once
again; and maybe i
should be sorry about
it, perhaps loving you
was just as mad as the
pills you swallowed,
because all i seemed
to be was a game
that you made, but
there’s a gun in my
hand, and it won’t
go away
summertime sadness
tarma-de Jan 2017
Breathe in loads
of innumerable blades
of memory erasers.

Ah, the feeling
of being lost within
your own thought.

Wishing for just
a brief break— from time
and its fast pace (or
if possible, let it
stop. Let the world

There are familiar places
you can’t get used to.
And sometimes
it will all just fade
with experience,
lessons, and

your most beautiful
well-rolled joint.
Nic Mac Mar 8
is all effort denied.
It clasps you, at your base.
Shame, lives here,
Nothing. To erase.

is to not find yourself,
once you've searched eternities.
Amongst the blades of grass,
where the blood fell.

Whether you walk,
Whether you run,
Whether your fingers will it so.
To be undone,
To lose,
To go.

You cannot outrun, what followed you here.
You've held the rope too tightly,
Don't blame the blunt knife.
For what you'd never sever.

are those of waste,
as the anxious heart, keeps it laced.
It knows your face, it made it.
is the pain you make it,
Dragged here. In this place. To shake it.
safe to do so,
to let it go,
you are one.

Cut off this limb
but had tied, to the soles of your feet.
By Nic Mac
Desire watches through the tall grass
Blades skipping past her face with no class
The target sipped from the stream of routine
Believing itself well equipped
Sometimes all alone at other times in a relationship
Then the wind whips, and desire is quick
Chasing down the target till it’s in her teeth
A struggle ensues but is brutally brief
Suddenly through the air a shrill whistles soars
Desire retreats to its master, happy with its score
And there stands a childish figure, famous from lore
Sensing the mayhem, from above cry the sparrows
Cupid winks and says “I don’t always use arrows.”
Days when feelings strike in unexpected ways...
Lizzy B 8h
For my cousin, Chris Goldrick

Lacing my skates
after walking two miles
in girl-strictured delight
Mom's stories of Sonia Henie--
No, not ever

Lacing my skates
with  snow-white pompoms
felt skirt
and nylon tights
Cute little hat with matching scarf
My thighs and fingers
already freezing
icy burn
from miles on foot

to get there
The lake where--

I must get out
I must get OUT!

Knowing what
to expect from my body
the quick-twitch of muscle
Could always sense
gravity of water    
at 22 degrees

Desiring to feel
the motion between steel and ice
Read speed's vibrations through my body
The brain registers relation
to weather's effect
Tell of velocity
possibility of fall
Feel the slash of the blades beneath me
Throw my weight sideways, sudden
to hear that furious hiss
An object in motion tending, dire
to stay in motion

Threatening to stay there
in its heights-- of speed

from the crowds of skaters
swirling distant in the lights

Seeking instead
the farthest reaches of Porter Lake
speed and speed and more
to overcome
of what it is to become

at the outer edge, of humanity
A force unto myself


Pregnant and slow
with years and babes

The best
must be broken and tamed
of what it takes to stay free

catching the edges with every stride
catching my toe in the quick
180 degree
spray of frost
to the sudden still

Listen to the frigid chill

and the heave of my breath
tumbling into evidence



on, into darkness
of woods on frozen water

The wildness of it all

So infatuated with flight
so full of grace

I forgot Sonia

The moon rose
from her seat in the treetops
and applauded
in blues
Wrote this immediately from a dream a couple months ago.  With all the heat and humidity, it sounded good to go today.

This dream was an actual relived memory of being 12 years old and skating at Porter Lake in Forest Park of Springfield, Massachusetts.
i stole a cigarette.
no, this isn't a metaphor.

there's just times where I feel
like I deserve to be what falls in the ash tray.

I don't know why I keep trying to harm myself,
If things are going okay...

It's like, I'm so used to the torture and pain,
I don't ever want it to go away.

No wonder I had clung to my razor blades
No wonder I had clung to the trauma
No wonder I developed depression
and look at me now, stealing cigarettes.

Desperately trying to find a way to destroy myself
Fill my lungs with smoke
A stench that is more than just stuck on clothes.

It's the past, coming back to life
inhale more

You want to smother these thoughts
Lose them in this smoke and fog

But no, there's no escape
Not even when the cigarette is done

The scars still string your skin
The pain woven deep into your veins
The bloody scabs you keep picking at

It's a coping mechanism
Or a way to slowly die

Is it that... I need to feel something, always?
Is it that... I have fallen in love with Death?

The couple of times, where he teasingly came
close to...
give me a fatal kiss.

Is this what I lust over?
Is this... what I want to feel?

In any case... this cigarette is still lit up.
Drifting me more out of myself.

And I disappear like the smoke in the wind.
I stole a cigarette.
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