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"flinches" poems
Icarus washes up on Miami Beach over the spring break of 2k16 and finds a world where the gods roam the streets, where his wax wings burned themselves into trenches of scars down his back, where we warn our children of the dangers of flying too high, but forget the part about the riptides waiting if you fly too low. He asks Siri how far away the sun is, finds Apollo in the red rocks of New Mexico off I-40 just outside of Albuquerque, alone and basking in the heat. The ice caps are melting. The sun still hurts to touch, burning Icarus's hands and leaving fingerprints in the feathers of his melted wings, but Apollo is much kinder now, soothing the skin cancer with freckles and soft touches. It no longer feels like a damning. This is what happens to the children of tragedies: they flinch too much, they fall too hard, they're fragile as glass but immune to everything the world can throw at them. Icarus flinches at the sound of the oceans. He knows the wrath of Poseidon. Icarus rises from the dead with his irises washed white and his rips etched with Hades's name: he should have been a child of Persephone, spring in his hands and flowers in his hair. He should have spent his days sprawled in the sun's caress. He should have been infinite. Icarus flinches too much. That's what everyone keeps telling him. He flinches too much at every lifted voice and crashing wave and he flinches too much when he feels sunshine on his face. Icarus is sorry for flinching too much. Icarus is trying not to flinch too much. Icarus is sorry that it's taking so long to just get over his trauma and stop flinching so much-- sorry. He doesn't know what to do now that he's touched the sun and this time it didn't burn. He wanted it to burn. He wants to burn. He wants to feel his bones breaking all over again because that's the only time he doesn't feel like he needs to be in control. Why is he chasing things that hurt? Why does he feel like he deserves to hurt? He deserves to crash. He finally touched the sun. Icarus feels empty, and he's still flinching.
0
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 2:10 AM UTC
the sun is 1,953 (92.96 mil) miles away
Icarus washes up on Miami Beach over the spring break of 2k16 and finds a world where the gods roam the streets, where his wax wings burned themselves into trenches of scars down his back, where we warn our children of the dangers of flying too high, but forget the part about the riptides waiting if you fly too low. He asks Siri how far away the sun is, finds Apollo in the red rocks of New Mexico off I-40 just outside of Albuquerque, alone and basking in the heat. The ice caps are melting. The sun still hurts to touch, burning Icarus's hands and leaving fingerprints in the feathers of his melted wings, but Apollo is much kinder now, soothing the skin cancer with freckles and soft touches. It no longer feels like a damning. This is what happens to the children of tragedies: they flinch too much, they fall too hard, they're fragile as glass but immune to everything the world can throw at them. Icarus flinches at the sound of the oceans. He knows the wrath of Poseidon. Icarus rises from the dead with his irises washed white and his rips etched with Hades's name: he should have been a child of Persephone, spring in his hands and flowers in his hair. He should have spent his days sprawled in the sun's caress. He should have been infinite. Icarus flinches too much. That's what everyone keeps telling him. He flinches too much at every lifted voice and crashing wave and he flinches too much when he feels sunshine on his face. Icarus is sorry for flinching too much. Icarus is trying not to flinch too much. Icarus is sorry that it's taking so long to just get over his trauma and stop flinching so much-- sorry. He doesn't know what to do now that he's touched the sun and this time it didn't burn. He wanted it to burn. He wants to burn. He wants to feel his bones breaking all over again because that's the only time he doesn't feel like he needs to be in control. Why is he chasing things that hurt? Why does he feel like he deserves to hurt? He deserves to crash. He finally touched the sun. Icarus feels empty, and he's still flinching.
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47
pretty girl with her head in a book, trapped inside a silver tower, dreaming of places that don’t exist. handsome man with his heart on his sleeve, trapped inside his mind, dreaming of his daughter that doesn't exist. gorgeous city filled with gorgeous people, happy smiles and happy laughs. it’s a lie and they know it. handsome man tries to save pretty girl but she’s already saved herself, with the help of her dreams of places that don’t exist. songbird comes along and they don’t know what to do. handsome man wants to **** him. destroy him. end him. pretty girl feels songbird’s sadness and cries for him. handsome man can’t bear to see pretty girl cry, so he lets songbird go. pretty girl smiles and handsome man can’t breathe. pretty girl and handsome man discover the city together. from the seedy underground fight clubs to the high society tea parties. handsome man doesn't fit in at tea parties. pretty girl seems to blend right in. handsome man’s eyes never leave her. pretty girl feels his eyes on her and she turns away to hide her cheeks turning a dusty pink. pretty girl doesn't look him in the eye anymore. songbird comes back and tries to take pretty girl. handsome man sees red and kills him. pretty girl’s heart mourns for songbird. pretty girl spits words at him like knives, he flinches as they cut him. handsome man doesn't look her in the eye anymore. pretty girl wants him to leave. handsome man walks away and doesn't look back. pretty girl lied. handsome man finds himself back in the seedy undercity. bloodied knuckles, broken nose and a black eye. pretty girl finds herself wandering the city’s streets, wishing handsome man was there. pretty girl finds him in the gutter with blood running down his face. he still looks handsome. handsome man struggles to speak. blood seeping from between his lips and his broken teeth. handsome man tells pretty girl he can’t bear to see her cry. pretty girl cries even more. handsome man isn’t handsome anymore. handsome man dies in pretty girl’s arms. this isn’t how the stories go. she was supposed to save him. pretty girl is on a warpath. handsome man would hate to see her now. dark red lips and an unforgiving gaze. pretty girl is tired. she hates what she’s become. she wants to see handsome man.   pretty girl dies in a back alley with a gun in her hand, pressed to her head. pretty girl isn’t pretty anymore. pretty girl, pretty girl, with your head in the clouds, haven’t you read the stories? don’t you know? the handsome man always dies. handsome man, handsome man, with your love in your eyes. haven’t you read the stories? don’t you know? the pretty girl never survives. pretty girl, handsome man, don’t you know? the heroes fall and the city falls with them.
0
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 6:31 AM UTC
always a girl, always a man, always a city
pretty girl with her head in a book, trapped inside a silver tower, dreaming of places that don’t exist. handsome man with his heart on his sleeve, trapped inside his mind, dreaming of his daughter that doesn't exist. gorgeous city filled with gorgeous people, happy smiles and happy laughs. it’s a lie and they know it. handsome man tries to save pretty girl but she’s already saved herself, with the help of her dreams of places that don’t exist. songbird comes along and they don’t know what to do. handsome man wants to **** him. destroy him. end him. pretty girl feels songbird’s sadness and cries for him. handsome man can’t bear to see pretty girl cry, so he lets songbird go. pretty girl smiles and handsome man can’t breathe. pretty girl and handsome man discover the city together. from the seedy underground fight clubs to the high society tea parties. handsome man doesn't fit in at tea parties. pretty girl seems to blend right in. handsome man’s eyes never leave her. pretty girl feels his eyes on her and she turns away to hide her cheeks turning a dusty pink. pretty girl doesn't look him in the eye anymore. songbird comes back and tries to take pretty girl. handsome man sees red and kills him. pretty girl’s heart mourns for songbird. pretty girl spits words at him like knives, he flinches as they cut him. handsome man doesn't look her in the eye anymore. pretty girl wants him to leave. handsome man walks away and doesn't look back. pretty girl lied. handsome man finds himself back in the seedy undercity. bloodied knuckles, broken nose and a black eye. pretty girl finds herself wandering the city’s streets, wishing handsome man was there. pretty girl finds him in the gutter with blood running down his face. he still looks handsome. handsome man struggles to speak. blood seeping from between his lips and his broken teeth. handsome man tells pretty girl he can’t bear to see her cry. pretty girl cries even more. handsome man isn’t handsome anymore. handsome man dies in pretty girl’s arms. this isn’t how the stories go. she was supposed to save him. pretty girl is on a warpath. handsome man would hate to see her now. dark red lips and an unforgiving gaze. pretty girl is tired. she hates what she’s become. she wants to see handsome man.   pretty girl dies in a back alley with a gun in her hand, pressed to her head. pretty girl isn’t pretty anymore. pretty girl, pretty girl, with your head in the clouds, haven’t you read the stories? don’t you know? the handsome man always dies. handsome man, handsome man, with your love in your eyes. haven’t you read the stories? don’t you know? the pretty girl never survives. pretty girl, handsome man, don’t you know? the heroes fall and the city falls with them.
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72
but I know just as a cat flinches when you move to pet it, so do I. we both no longer know the difference between affection and attack.
0
Aug 6, 2021
Aug 6, 2021 at 2:40 AM UTC
scaredy cat
When you first look her in the eyes and admire the way they shine in the moonlight, look deeper than the iris and drown in her pupil as it is dark and it is deep, and it is similar to that of the Marianas trench itself. When you get deep inside her brain, you will see the monsters that man cannot at first glance. It gets so somber that your heart will get heavy and your palms will sweat, you will repeatedly want to turn and you will want to run away, but don’t. Because these thoughts are not demons after you, they are attacking her relentlessly and while she does not need a hero, a helping hand won’t hurt. She is not helpless, but she is also not safe and she is afraid, and she is hiding from them. So when she flinches away from your touch, be gentle. Like the breeze she feels when she opens her window on a late August night to feel something other than the stillness of her room and to remind herself she is not just imagining her existence. Remember that she has been through her share of nightmares like you, and while some may not be as bad, they are incredibly real to her. Remember that she needs someone to love just as much as you. Do not think this is a demand you love her when she has no one else, just open your mind and your heart because that skinny girl with tired eyes is one of the most beautiful you’ll ever meet and you will remember her for years to come. Please, be gentle for she is fragile. She is cracked, but has been dropped and broken so many times, the pain is not as bad, the hurt is not such a surprise. Do not let her be surprised if you stay when she expects you to go, because she will, she will assume, she will get weak and she will picture you leaving when she needs you most or she will try to push you away, but remember her smile and remember her face because every actress is told they have so much to love but that does not mean they are all in bliss. You’re the polish on her scuffed up shoes, you’re the sun peeking through her blinds on a cool summer morning, you’re the reminder that it will all be okay, So long as you don’t run. When you meet a girl with shaky hands and a faint heart, remember that she can get stronger again. You are not her crutches, but you are support. Do not think her life depends on you, because it doesn't. Never put that on yourself. You are not a superhero, but you can be her helping hand If you remember that it’s alright to stay. I’m scared, too.
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Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
How Not To Love Her
When you first look her in the eyes and admire the way they shine in the moonlight, look deeper than the iris and drown in her pupil as it is dark and it is deep, and it is similar to that of the Marianas trench itself. When you get deep inside her brain, you will see the monsters that man cannot at first glance. It gets so somber that your heart will get heavy and your palms will sweat, you will repeatedly want to turn and you will want to run away, but don’t. Because these thoughts are not demons after you, they are attacking her relentlessly and while she does not need a hero, a helping hand won’t hurt. She is not helpless, but she is also not safe and she is afraid, and she is hiding from them. So when she flinches away from your touch, be gentle. Like the breeze she feels when she opens her window on a late August night to feel something other than the stillness of her room and to remind herself she is not just imagining her existence. Remember that she has been through her share of nightmares like you, and while some may not be as bad, they are incredibly real to her. Remember that she needs someone to love just as much as you. Do not think this is a demand you love her when she has no one else, just open your mind and your heart because that skinny girl with tired eyes is one of the most beautiful you’ll ever meet and you will remember her for years to come. Please, be gentle for she is fragile. She is cracked, but has been dropped and broken so many times, the pain is not as bad, the hurt is not such a surprise. Do not let her be surprised if you stay when she expects you to go, because she will, she will assume, she will get weak and she will picture you leaving when she needs you most or she will try to push you away, but remember her smile and remember her face because every actress is told they have so much to love but that does not mean they are all in bliss. You’re the polish on her scuffed up shoes, you’re the sun peeking through her blinds on a cool summer morning, you’re the reminder that it will all be okay, So long as you don’t run. When you meet a girl with shaky hands and a faint heart, remember that she can get stronger again. You are not her crutches, but you are support. Do not think her life depends on you, because it doesn't. Never put that on yourself. You are not a superhero, but you can be her helping hand If you remember that it’s alright to stay. I’m scared, too.
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42
Ohana means family and family is forever But the times get rough when we all aint together Who's fighting with who And you're walking around crazy cause you don’t know what do. When one says a name the other one flinches and every time you turn around another one is ******** What happened to the times wed **** for each other Take a bullet for each other Now its turned into "We'd **** one another" everyone's depressed cause none of us are talking Then it gets worse when one of us goes walking. Ohana means family but sometimes family aint forever.
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Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
OHANA
what had happened what we made may be compared to a fishtail braid the situation the mess we made may be likened to a fishtail braid just as it takes the braid a few minutes this "love" we had took a few years woven slowly, outcome dainty despite the flinches and the fears just as beautiful the braid is our "love" was magnificent oh! the beauty! with sorrow i'll miss never desired for it to end and then it happened; then you stopped the fragile masterpiece, the work of art slowly, the plait became undone; messy. ugly was the result i, the fog that fades you, last farewell bade us, the ruined fishtail braid
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Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
fishtail braid
I am hearing rain for the first time Like soft hurried footsteps, The sounds of mice scuttering, The creaking of an old house. I am crying again in the darkness Caressing my true self, Feeling her ****** fur As she flinches from my careful fingers Her eyes are endless black pools Her thin legs are injured Curled up, she whimpers And cowers in pain I get too close and she scurries away Into a shadow, Leaving me alone with the rain
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Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC
Emma
The boy smiled The girl flinches As if the smile would disappear She crossed Fearing the bridge would collapse She hesitated ...Took a breathe Then looked again... He disappeared She lingered
0
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 1:59 PM UTC
Suspension Bridge Effect / Stockholm Syndrome
she told herself for years i can forgive him it'll be easy but the voices come back in her mind and the picture comes back and she can hear herself screaming "daddy leave mommy alone" "daddy why are you hitting her? and her heart start to beat faster and she answers his phone calls in fear of what their next fight will consist of and she told herself i have to love him because hes my dad but she never did she couldn't feel love towards him he had hurt her too many times he took her everything away from her her happiness he took all her trust away and now when a guy goes to grab her hand she flinches in fear of his hands and when a boy leans in to kiss her she steps back in fear of whats going to come out of his mouth from the time she was two and hid in the basement with a baseball bat in case mom decided she didnt care anymore she screamed "daddy dont hit me, daddy i love you" but he took his bare hand and punched her as hard as he could she can't remember the pain but she remembers the tears and the screams and the look on mommys face when she ran downstairs to her baby with a bruise the size of daddys hand mommy said "baby i'll get you out of here" but it took her ten years ten years to let daddy go ten years to see he hurt s too much ten years to see he wasnt gonna change ten years to see that i was broken and its gonna take the next hundred for me to ever recover from the fear
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May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
daddy
The scarecrow, solitary in the field Tatty coat, all astray Looks out over all his land If he could talk, what would he say. Summer,autumn, winter too Wind and rain, clouds of grey He never flinches from his post If he could see, what would he say Children play amoungst the crops Neatly parcelled bales of hay Days grow shorter, crisper, cooler If he could hear, what would he say Invisable tears and a broken heart His lonely vigil every day Timeless days and empty nights If he could walk, would he walk away.
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Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:23 AM UTC
THE SCARECROW
That Elephant needs to shed some pounds Said the Hippo to the Giraffe.   You’re right, and abnormally tall, indeed.     Did you hear that it bathes in mud? Interjected the Bullfrog while savoring a fly, What an absolute disgust. I hear you, Elephants these days lack class, incredible… Exclaimed the Hippo as gas bubbles suddenly Formed in the murky water behind it. Funny thing is, despite its staggering size, I hear it flinches at the mere sight of its shadow! The trio burst with laughter, but was cut short With a slight rustle of nearby grass. EVERYONE RUNNNNNNN! The trio fled for their lives. A tiny field mouse emerged, amused. Animals.
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Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
Animal Talk
His teeth brush her skin and she flinches. Breathy gasps on shifting eyes Slide across the icy air, and inches Of separation mark porcelain lies. Porcelain teeth mark crimson brands And whiter still the skin where wedding bands Rested not long ago Upon skin that recoils from his perfect hands. And choices that only she can know.
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Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
Teeth. Skin. Gold. Porcelain.
Solid from the crust to core Carries all the weight Even when it can take no more There's nothing that's too great Standing tall through every storm Never flinches in the dark Once it's tired, lost and worn The struggles left their mark Taking in the rays of sun Absorbing little heat Then relieved the day is finally done Once again been beat After fighting all these years Enduring what was thrown Having no more need for fears Crumbling and unknown
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Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
Density
This friend I have is one I know She would never want to go Something's burning from inside I can't bear to let it hide Another moment, I fear the worst; I decide to tell her first Searching for courage, but it's tough; I don't think I have enough Finally, I say the words Though every single sentence hurts The fear is cutting through my bones My heart is beating through my toes After I have spilled it all I look up and silence falls She begins to grab her things My fresh tears begin to sting I reach my hand out for a touch She flinches and says "You're ******* up" I can't believe what I've just heard But I remember every word Clear as crystal inside my head I'll be silent forever instead I can't do this anymore; I feel my heart slam shut its door She ran fast away from me She didn't even hear my scream I kick, I cry, I pound my head I can't believe I've lost my friend This friend was one I thought I knew; She walked out right on cue
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Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
My Worst Fear
Sobbing from down the hall Everyone feels unsafe Yelling and anger in faces unseen Restrained violence set free Slamming doors, crashing lamps Flinches and anxiety Papers being ripped by invisible hands Conversation and laughter Forces out of bleeding throats Swearing and ****** Held back fists fly loose Overlapping shadows emerge From itching cuts and scars Broken glasses shattered everywhere Whispering of rubber bands Bruising slender wrists Sudden silence, a gut wrenching scream Heavy footfalls creating earthquakes Fear wrought eyes bleeding tears Saying a last goodbye As the gunshot fades Bringing silence once again Forever to be heard.
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Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
Trembling fear
She sits in the Doctor's office, with one thing on her mind; To rid herself of this Fetus, so she can go on with her life. ~ Her dreams would all be ruined, if this child were to be born; She just can't let that happen, thus she decides to Abort. ~ They call her back to a room, she follows the Nurse's lead; Gently she lays on the bed, then sees the ******* machine. ~ Her mind is filled with doubt, "Am I making a huge mistake; The baby isn't even alive, get a grip, for pity sakes." ~ Then the Doctor enters the room, he is really quite polite; Inside of her, he inserts a tube, and she squeezes her eyes tight. ~ But deep within the occupied Womb, the Fetus flinches away; As the hose begins to tear apart, how and what it may. ~ Then it grabs onto her tiny hand, no longer a thumb to **** The baby's eyes are filled with tears, for the pain is just too much. ~ Little by little, it tears her apart, no one can hear her screams; But parts of her pass through the tube, thanks to that horrid machine. ~ Her tiny head is the last to go, donned in curly, black hair; She's simply but a memory, Mama's product of an affair.
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Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 10:23 PM UTC
~THE ******* MACHINE~
he wears a neon bib in a garish orange colour, but his face is nearly grey. he won’t meet her gaze and flinches when her hand touches his, wary of the warmth. she’s been angry, said she wouldn’t come and he believed her. she couldn’t believe that. not the call, either, civil-spoken bomb that exploded in her middle-class hall onto an ikea phone table. she cried alone and shouted when she saw him, heartbreak private but anger her shield. she blamed him out loud, herself in her head: “why? why did you do that?” the question is for both of them.
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Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
prison visit
SOUL: Wrapping around me, Holding me close, Tapping itself and clothing my nose. Keeping me in and tight. My safety and my sensation. Feeling sunshine and shame, Goosebumps and bruises, Keeping me intact. It changes color and indicates. Touching me, completely. The skin on my back my protectorate. The skin on my hands my guide. The skin on my face my years here. It is with me to the end. It grows and stretches and covers my vessel. It flinches and heals and craves to be nestled. It sweats and bleeds and cracks. It wrinkles and sags. And Baby, it’s you and it’s me. But beautifully, painfully, tragically it is not. Because once the skin has done all it can do. Once it is thinner and can work for this Sinner no more. Once it has lived and known me through and true. Though I have lived and known it too. It dies. And I go on. To claim another skin. A skin to clothe my nose. A skin to protect my soul. A vehicle to let me travel on this earth I think I know. Poor skin. Naive and Perfect. SKIN: Poor soul. Going on forever ever, and never ending, never resting, always needing me.
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Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
My Skin
If you could fly to the moon, I might follow. Sailing through the clear darkness for an eternity, I’d reach the moon’s silvery craters and softly land. As I touched down, the powdery dust would eddy up from beneath my tensely arched feet in cloudy plumes --small billows of slow-motion, churning grey. And in wild tangling curls, my hair would float above me, swirling in the empty blackness, full of stars glittering behind the strands. The moon is a cold bright landscape of black and white. I would run through its pale light, floating slowly over the dusty craters in a clear, quivering, underwater-silence. And when I reached that line, where smooth dusty darkness begins, and the silver light ends, and the shadow-line drifts from month to month, then I would stop. I would stand on the dust -bare feet apart- drop back my head, bare my throat to the line that divides me down in half -light and dark, dark and light- daring you, earth and stars reflecting in my eyes. If you reached, stepped towards me, I would watch you --an image, and a despair, and I’d slip into the moon-night. You’d be alone, blaming me for my hatred. Because when it becomes her habit, a girl flinches away, before wondering if, perhaps, that time it wasn’t necessary.
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Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 9:06 PM UTC
If You Could Fly To The Moon
The frigid air catches between her shoulder blades winding the wings of the key. She begins to shiver to life as gears are set to motion.                                                                    The wooden bench shrinks, her lips begin to part and let out                                                                        balmy breath of steam                                                                                                                                 a smog that fogs his glasses. She’s wound and bound to kiss him.                                                                                                                                                 He wants this, too.                                                                                                                                   His engine begins to putter                                                                                                                                          as he begins to pucker.                                                                        Their cold lips meet, and while an explosion in her core smolders,                                                                                                                                          he feels like a machine,                                                                                                                              running through the motions,                                                                                                                                       trying to produce magic,                                                                                                                                               but feeling artificial.                                                                                                                                         A bolt must be *******                                                                                                                                                 a wire out of place,                                                                                                                          something is jamming his gears,                                                                                                                                             a rhythm out of beat.                                                                                                                                               He should feel alive.                                                                                                                                              He should want this.                                                                                                                                         He should want this.                                                                         Its just animatronics.                                                               Aren’t men built to love women?                                                                     He pushes her face off his.                                                                                         Anxiety fills his pipes and dew begins to condensate, while the fire in her eyes are put out by the black like oil streaking her face.                                                                                                                                                               He’s sorry.                                                                                                                                                      He’s so sorry.                                                                              He hurt her.                                                                                                                                                    He hurt a friend.                                                     Wind so white fills the distance between them                                                             His wet hands grab her red mittens, but she flinches and protects them like tiny finches and puts them back inside her cage, safe in her black pocket, and walks away, leaking, busted and broken. White erases her.                                                                                    He’s left to be a Tin Man who wants to rust in the snow.                                                                                                                    A dent has shattered his almost love,                                                                                                                    and a first kiss he wished he missed.
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Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
Mechanical Kiss
The frigid air catches between her shoulder blades winding the wings of the key. She begins to shiver to life as gears are set to motion.                                                                    The wooden bench shrinks, her lips begin to part and let out                                                                        balmy breath of steam                                                                                                                                 a smog that fogs his glasses. She’s wound and bound to kiss him.                                                                                                                                                 He wants this, too.                                                                                                                                   His engine begins to putter                                                                                                                                          as he begins to pucker.                                                                        Their cold lips meet, and while an explosion in her core smolders,                                                                                                                                          he feels like a machine,                                                                                                                              running through the motions,                                                                                                                                       trying to produce magic,                                                                                                                                               but feeling artificial.                                                                                                                                         A bolt must be *******                                                                                                                                                 a wire out of place,                                                                                                                          something is jamming his gears,                                                                                                                                             a rhythm out of beat.                                                                                                                                               He should feel alive.                                                                                                                                              He should want this.                                                                                                                                         He should want this.                                                                         Its just animatronics.                                                               Aren’t men built to love women?                                                                     He pushes her face off his.                                                                                         Anxiety fills his pipes and dew begins to condensate, while the fire in her eyes are put out by the black like oil streaking her face.                                                                                                                                                               He’s sorry.                                                                                                                                                      He’s so sorry.                                                                              He hurt her.                                                                                                                                                    He hurt a friend.                                                     Wind so white fills the distance between them                                                             His wet hands grab her red mittens, but she flinches and protects them like tiny finches and puts them back inside her cage, safe in her black pocket, and walks away, leaking, busted and broken. White erases her.                                                                                    He’s left to be a Tin Man who wants to rust in the snow.                                                                                                                    A dent has shattered his almost love,                                                                                                                    and a first kiss he wished he missed.
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45
If the skies would break out tonight, you will see the fury-- silver white streaks across the prussian blue, that every once in a while, the night too, shall give in. The rain rips through my turpentine roof, splitting the cold raindrops on my forehead, while somewhere across the city, two lovers meet under the canopy of a shared umbrella. They will eventually get out of the rain that brought them together and reach across the surfaces for hands in the darkness. And get into a car, drive away, forgetting everything else. Lightning strikes, thunder roars. They get scared, the driver flinches the car screeches and I lose the only one I have. The car swivels, hits the one on the road before, a flash of light and into the one forever. Headlight. Heaven. They will drive away from the rain that brought them together, while I will still stand there in the rain that took away the love of a forgotten man.
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Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Headlight, heaven
Short struggle to the floor, I sigh, your wrenched fingers clamped tightly around my pointed wrists Your convex caps join thigh to shin pressing mine through scorched earth slowing seconds grab my breath pushing further out, and drawing ever in. Spasmodic jolts, kicks and flinches; failed punches, rattled writhing, wriggling under your smirking calm, this is second nature. Third wind I strike again with snake like prowess, your dead weight flipped but inches. Obey or suffer, your knee rolls, to my chest; laser precision, your other uncoils on the blackened dirt, ash and soil. Flat footed battering ram to my ribs then throat, ever slower, ever heavier. The pain goes, the knife enters: over and over and under flesh ripping, torn skin. I pity not the wondering victim who trips on my carcass. Face first, horrified glance towards the sign that reads: Beware trespassers, out here nobody hears your screams.
0
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Country Stroll
The language of Los Angeles gets lost in translation. Even the rain clouds drop their contents with an unfamiliar accent. The peculiar way she tilts her head, the distinct way she crosses her legs, are every bit incorrect. The uninvolved way she sits, steps, speaks, alludes to her lack of the irrepressible nature surrounding her day. "The rest is rust and stardust." She is quite American. There is no turning of the shadow under a European sun. The silence of her heart, the stillness in her limbs, is barren, muted, her leaves brittle. In the breezy part of the afternoon, her core lay hollow and unfelt, regardless of... He wakes her, demurely she makes an effort at soixante-neuf, arbitrarily she bends for him. "Her dream-gray gaze never flinches." She is quite American.
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Mar 23, 2020
Mar 23, 2020 at 4:35 PM UTC
Charlotte Haze
Perched high upon burl wood roost dangling feet swing upon           mossy girthed heritage                                        maple tree Her majestic gnarled scaffold flinches not from my nebulous gravity, nor the weight of her unraveling                                        golden autumn gown Her lamentable achings   felt in the voice of the ripening chill              within the campfire                                         scented breeze For I have climbed so blindly high, the clinging brilliant yellow leaves metamorphosing like these fragile paper wings,   opening palms born to soar wild as the wind,                                          to just let go and fly free Waiting here patiently, wistfully as destiny, for the final edifying moment                                           of fate’s unshacklement - - -; the surrendering to,       the moment of love set free,                stolen by the wanton                                          gypsy breeze                                                                        wild is the wind
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Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
Stolen by the wanton gypsy breeze