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refresh mesh May 2015
my story starts in North Carolina morning at 5:32
where I was excavated from my mother's womb
2 weeks past due
and immediately taken to an emergency room
because of a minor disfigurement called
ulnar polydactyly
where they laid me down and cut flesh & bone away

value your days and spin on a tire
at the bottom of a tree, twist the rope.
cut away any fray and pickle your desire
it's not a noose, it's not your hope.

i was born differently than peaks explained
i was told medical bills were a blessing obtained
so that my fingers would not continue to grow
so that fortunately, none of us will ever know
where those bitty bits would want to go
where would I go?
if I hadn't been bound
by what I hadn't contained?

how do parents agree to cosmetic surgery on their newborns?

don't they feel sick?

when my mother explained why i had these scars
She didn't ask how they felt on my hands.
and when my father kissed the bumps crunched on cars
He insisted that I had intact, normal, nerve strands.
But I could feel phantom fingers
and devil horns

don't they feel sick?

now I spend every day
chewing all the rest away
Now I count months and men
Men, who will cut their brood out of their only mate
to slice off any disfigurements and hold its jaw in place
then ball those hands in fists so her fingers can rest in peace

please
Listen when I ask for help
don't Give up on my body, just
cut the hearts of those playing God, for
anything Or anyone can happen to a newborn child, or
else, not again, it's
off, not again, not
today, not again.

I'm 6 years old, alone and terribly
glad to be awake
free of the villain that I’d been
free to make
Chunky animated evil clouds and monsters
with human names
mistrusting my family from the
earliest days
imagining my parents were zipped up
in skin resembling mine
their starchy air force uniforms
finding me everytime
Then my baby brother was on time, cooked just right,
born perfectly
When I found out about his circumcision I stopped
feeling sisterly

Why were my sweet, placid parents so surprised by us?
Keeping their secrets and distance from us.
Give us the answers, show us history!
why take me to Sunday School if you
won't sit through all of it with me?

there is nothing more disturbing than weekly church hopping.
there is so much to fear if we do not plan on ever stopping.
when I look for friends
i do so excitedly
looking for their ailments
and finger ******.
wondering who else
is in horror
of their size,
of their capacity.

"Look at these baby spiders in our garden,
Look, momma. They're so tiny.
The pumpkin nearly squished-
There's a centipede!" I'd be whining.
But, oh,
It's gross. I hear "eww" and "oh my god" and
"throw it away, bugs belong outside!"
I can do that. We all belong outside. I can do that.

From Santa Monica to Rapid City
I turned 8 and avoided depression
I plagued every single bookstore with
my ridiculous obsession:
ecology
Tornadoes, forests, food chains and chemistry
already fascinated me

I loved that;
the atmosphere of creation.
Shapes alive
with Movement and
centrifugal Force,
stopping motion, Pressure,
inertia and Speed.

I studied
legs. I watched the
long propelling jumpers, the
tool-like structures, of
insect tarsal claws, and
the spurs like knives.

Then aquatic mammals came to me
Where I first learned about ***:
the whale's hip bone, a mystery.
To the history of earth, it was
Big males, powerful females.
and evolution seemed to be the cause.

Then arboreal anthropods,
Where I first asked about distribution,
toes and fingers,
and counted
on hand
the numbers
and suddenly
deplored extinction.

It was a hot knife in my belly that never went away
I want to ask their god all the questions that besot me
why did they agree (twice!) to cut away that which is not rotting?
If DNA is best selected among genetic diversity, why must we all look and feel the same?
Blanching at any difference, hating on new names.

is it such a disaster
to expect variation from your master?
why are 2 extra phalanges
such ******* calamities?
Why do we observe differences
as an excuse to mutilate newborn babies?
Americans slice ******* off intact baby boys
Americans slice ******* off intact baby boys

A doctor deemed my extensions useless
but left me my brain and heart
which began to terrorize me
from the very simple start

I dreamed of all of us:
scary islands with giant magical
flowering
who was poisonous
to the population of anyone and
anything
who was dangerous
printing off the battle plan which was
escaping
Yes, I dreamed of all of us
Where is my gold star and my participation trophy
J J Aug 12
Gallantry badge stitched to rotting cloth
as the skin sinks and the bones fade
and the love made is left to reek the bed
where sexless wife and lonely daughter
   Lay their head's arrest.

In due time they both tan, sag and crackle
Under weight of the sun.

That dizzy cyclops that roped forth
homecoming boats and ships stands
five years from being defunct; rusted
to the hue of a coppice
and hardly the attraction it once was

But oh well— sighs the sailor, too old and bankrupt to care
for approaching poverty— the money has been made and my life spent

For others (his Sister, his Niece, his Brother)
They lack the ability to sigh;
the closest they get is the occasional stormy wind
that cracks the surface, blows through their teeth
resembling a crooked lullaby,
Revolves the bullet lodged in their skull;
O occasional stormy rain that beshrews the water
clogging their lungs and, in due time, The leaking muck
that’ll pluck and sharply snap inward the casketwood--
directly against the bullet gathhering mold in their heart--

Their souls have been spent.
One less soldier wouldn't have changed a thing
(The result was a certainty propagated
   as a contingency)
And if G-d bare'd witness his eyes no longer sting,
  His grievances had and his puppets dead
Following a suffering in his name.

If Thy Kingdom holds true
They bare witness now to the lighthouse
In it's chipping hue, it's trivial dock and visitor
Silhouettes—

All held in place and burning; They disfigure
Under weight of the sun.
Set in the aftermath of a death in the family duting war
Brenna Gracely Nov 2017
Please understand
This is out of my control
Slipping though my fingers like the wholeness I had before he ransacked my temple
and shattered my only jewel.
Nauseating shame
Embarrassment at the failure to hide such weakness
Whilst knowing none of this is a reflection of my lack of strength
A triumphant survivor, a warrior, stripped to a feeble state...

Victim.

Not again.
Lacking empowerment and support, I shrivel
Violently collapsing upon myself.
Self destruction.
That glow in my eyes resembles a star
Imploding
Until my blank stare into the expanse of the past ricochets back the flashback
With more hold on the light in me than a black hole could ever achieve.
I'd rather fake lightness
Than feel the weight I bear compress you too.
This is my burden
I never want it to be yours,
But need so desperately
For you to feel it too.
Please understand
I cannot carry this on my own
Knowing this panic is irrational according to the present setting
Yet it is so real to me otherwise.
Still broken, I flinch at anything resembling a threat
Even if yesterday it was neutral
Or even pleasant.
Frasier Mar 18
Tears shed from the soul.  Her body pleading for acceptance.  The beauty she possesses yearns to be touched ever so delicately, with longing and passion. Her mind refusing to acknowledge even a miniscule sliver of life, which may contain anything, resembling something other than the love she deserves.  
A stranger observes from afar.  His passion for life diminished by the minds inability to allow its soul the pleasure of being touched by something truly beautiful.  As he watches her beauty and elegance dance with childlike innocence through the night air, his soul begins to shed tears. He approaches her and his heart cannot deny the beauty which is she. Her ambrosial smile and delicate laughter pull the two together and they delicately embrace, hands trembling.  
He touches her nervously but precisely on the face as their eyes meet. Within the stare, they find comfort, acceptance, and passion.  He delicately places a soft, gentle kiss on her face.  She feels tears trickle to her cheek from his…Tears shed from the soul.  -Dennis Frasier
Naked arms extended to heaven
resembling monks of infinite patience.
The scrawny trees waiting the ravens
missing the joy, enduring the silence.

The bluest blue the sky can wear
the coldest breeze of cleanest air.
Whim genius artist who painted there
the purest white the eyes can bear.

The king of stars with dimmed power
hidden behind the hills and meadows.
The queen of night rules longer hours
dresses the field on fearsome shadows.

The time will come to end your blue
your dark realm made of white silence.
The sprouts of life are coming through
beneath your blanket, thriving with patience.
Winter takes a lot of space in Canadian's lifes. It comes full of strong feelings and sensations.
Lucas Jul 18
crickets tower over austin
as witness to
localized flow
and twin connection.

the regular season
of molasses and ice
paints the environment
with laconic sibilance
resembling slow ******
in the woods.

it's too long
as ignominious culture
puts down the war effort
and puts forth equity.
we are together
and are going to be together
for a long time.

weave the rug
as monads
and lovers
weave long kisses
into lascivious past times
and dance themselves
into flurry
and scorching gaze.

please don't leave just yet,
the opposition wails out
over tendon
and marrow
that stands clashing with metal
and guided entropy.
the war effort,
the sorrow,
turns to gleaming blood and *****
as we all prepare
for the summer moon
to break forth
and tell us a good story,
at least once more.
Ryan O'Leary Jul 9
In the mist and watery
Irish sun, it was lit up, as
a runway, with droplets.

Suspended across two
branches, resembling a
dart board.

Even had a bulls eye, nothing
on target, the hungry asterisk
hung around for a fly tripper.
The city light stars
Still appear to me scars
On the surface of Earth
More resembling Mars
Than the sapphire,
Emerald
Bejeweled sphere of life
With a white veil of clouds
To shield us from the light
Of the sovereign
Solar glare's
Untimely flare
And the holes
In the ozone
We can not repair
Nor can we reconstruct
Thawing glacial palatial
Ice capitals crumbling
In queendoms of Nature
The nature of humans
To topple it,
Profit it
Then in its place
Build a shining metropolis
Profligate in
Its consumption expansion
Suffusing, subsuming
The entire planet
New homes
From the old
To seek shelter from colf
Are those city light stars
Such a sight to behold
Rebekah Jan 14
An awkward stance, a lopsided walk
leaning to the left-hand side,
most likely a result of supporting a tall and lanky silhouette.
The heftiness of your clumsy steps become louder and louder as you come closer,
and as your head tilts, and your shoulders relax,
I see the reflection of my smitten face in your glasses.

Your hair, ***** blond,
and often resembling a birds nest,
has been ruffled just the way I like it.

Your tired wee eyes,
a bi-product of your constant desire (?) to read,
is my favourite sight to see.

Your baggy jumper
hangs off your skinny frame,
and carries the smell of you.
A hint of  Calvin Klein, some musk,
and just the smallest bit of damp (a small chuckle)
but I'd have it no other way.

That smell, jumper, hair, and lopsided walk,
they're safety.
Especially those eyes,
those huge, soft eyes.
They're home for me now.

So make a cup of tea,
and pull up a chair,
because if home be where I lay my hat,
I have laid mine quite certainly.
Daan Vandelay May 17
Remembering moments, days
of birth, resembling collecting
anything of worth, resurrecting
old, navigating new in ways
to keep it fresh of taste,
to sit down and discuss
your day without haste
yet still creating fuss
around the stories, tales
you've heard before with more details.
Is romance.
Chelsea Aug 5
"If you could have dinner with
anybody, living or dead, who would it be?"

Well, my guest of choice
Is neither alive nor dead.
He does not abide by earthly laws
and is not bound by physical form.

He shows up fashionably late;
at my front door stands an outline
resembling the shape of a man,
dressed fashionably in vanta black.

He is everything and nothing.
He speaks with deafening silence,
whispers in static and white noise.
Tonight I'm dining with "the man
who has all of the answers".

I've compiled a list of unsolved mysteries and universal unknowns.
Strings of words come together begging to know:
Just where did everything go wrong?

But the man with all of the answers--
The man entrusted with the universe's objective, un-biased truths--
The man hidden in vanta black,
first has a question for me.

That man who has all of my answers
has no interest in my casserole.
He instead eats up the shell of my soul
for when he asked me his question,
he realized there was one answer even he didn't know.

I wasn't expecting dinner
to remain at the table
untouched and cold.
"Who are you?" was the question
that swallowed me whole.
Ryan O'Leary Aug 3
Directly above the dining table,
suspended from a ceiling anchor,
was a gooey, gluey, fly strip.

Fountained from a cardboard
green cylinder, resembling a
shotgun cartridge, fired.

The flies, numbering too many
to mention, were a metaphorical
symbolism, for the lead pellets.

Underneath, on the same axis,
was the serendipity of their
demise, a crumbed bread board.
Etréstles asks oblation to the unfortunate of the World ..
he asks to give his offering House that is not his house,
to synchronize your departure to be in the company of Solitude,
He does not have his sacred Cemetery before leaving for Nineveh ...

He has disappointed himself of the Archpriest of Ayia Lavra for his strong telluric pains in his marble abdomen ...
The holy oil that furrowed his forehead, furrowed his soul
he has not recognized himself when his own umbilical nap has flourished a wafer of the Messiah who has traveled alongside him by the pavilions of Messolonghi in clarions rubies ..

My father Staktos; come, I have not yet received the indulgence of abandoning what is not abandoned, I need to hear your voice from my sixth reincarnation playing on the roads of the oracles that illuminate the world, which is yours and the Messiah Choir on the Magdala heavens .

Father I have not yet gone, and so many lives I have lived to see your distant face on grass barley resembling your breaths of late sunny spring celestial sermon sermons. But this time I want to cheer you beyond the imagination of eclectic anemia, with the aching pain descending through my impure heart.

Nothing torments me more than to move away from the hells that do not know that I run through the prairies towards you without getting tired, imagining that I will fall into the neglect of your forgetfulness. I quickly lose my Laud from my right arm as a short-handed little fish, to commit the indiscretion of anticipating me to worship you with my dislocated left arm that carries the Harp from Lethe confiscated from Euterpe.

Harmony that ignores Dinora in the false forests of Messolonghi in flames. You are my cobble who pierces the cries of my crucified hands, timbers of lymph incense next to the sweetness of your words that grew green in my dreams.

Challenge with this interloquy of your incandescent soul, this is how The Last Temptation of Etrestles begins with its bleeding fingers, in the inflexible forgiveness of praising all those who want to dance with the mothers of the Shadows; that Staktos is his father, before reviving him and resuscitating him in his exodus to Nineveh, land hunched over by the Host, tortuous and artificial light shone from the recklessness of him who will make him sleep through the desert of life in farewell fantasies. Winds are felt singing whistles of hydrogen sulphide rocking from the edge of the cliff of the cloud, to fall on the shoulders of the timid death, False Blood, clumsy blood to wash my feet on Virgo and Jupiter in the sand. .

Father, in purgatory, make the sounds of the new dawn without any detail or gesture of repentance.

Thus Etrestles receives the Eucharistic host offering in his holy mouth and runs down the corridors of the great mysteries of the Nothing of good spirit of all Mantle.

To be continue…
imtooawake May 25
I wonder...
where it will get us in the end
by it, I mean our love
When the day like this comes, I am unable to think straight
the worst case scenarios pop out everywhere
resembling flowers during Spring time or golden leaves when the Autumn strikes
they are everywhere
they work as a reminder for me... not to give my mind, body and soul
J Jul 4
we never think about the impact one human can have on us as individuals.

the memories of you flash through my mind, like a projection. a live action film.

the smiles, the laughs, the loved exchanged.

everything was so simple.

now in the present, we both look into each other’s souls as if we are strangers.

as if all the promises, the touches, the euphoria;
were erased from reality.

my subconscious is evil to me, reminding me of the demons that plague my heart, you.

you once being the angel that was bestowed upon my existence by the universe, now resembling a soul ******* succubus, draining me dry of all i have left.

the thought that this movie that we call ‘love’ could suddenly come to end, tears the pages of everything i had written for this never ending script.

but i guess what i really have to ask myself is, did you ever really love me at all?

or was this meant to have an ending of tragedy?

the kind of tragedy that you never really have any answer as to why things happened the way they did, or what would’ve came after if there was a different turn of events.

now i look at myself in the mirror, seeing the reflection of a girl whom has drowned herself in the sea of love.

what is next?
Ben Palomino Mar 30
I have been writing poems
For almost 2 years
Something I thought I'd never do

Each poem I craft
Starts from a thought
Then a mediocre draft
Each one resembling
A chain from the past

A pain, a thought, a longing
Yet I feel I'm always missing something
A road block from improvement

I read the poems other write
With such amazement and envy

What is it I'm missing
To see the world
You see?
Nik Bland Oct 2018
I fear that you caught me at the worst of times
With a heart resembling broken glass in this chest of mine
And I’d pay all I have  if you’d see the best in me
But I wouldn’t be surprised if you chose to leave

If you’re searching for sunshine, you may fine only clouds
The lightning cracking at distance so it’s not too loud
But I’d give the world to be just something in your eyes
Though it’s present in my mind that you may say goodbye

Rising to the occasion was never my strong point
Though there’s ever fervent effort, proved by creaking joints
If it would make you stay, I’d lay the mountains flat
But it’s more likely you will go and never come back

Prayers may be silent, but they spit out fervently
And I will put it all on the table if you stay with me
There’s one more “one more chance” I don’t deserve from you
Coupled with love that won’t run out, even if we want it to
Em Jun 4
You are frantically flailing your arms in the sea of “I like you’s” and “You are amazing’s”
Gasping for just.
One.
Breath.
That's all you wish for.
But no.
You are forced by the mangled hands of the universe to watch in utter despair as the one you love loses interest.
Day after day, seeing the replies get shorter and shorter.
That deep, dark, flawless affection slowly slugging down those white walls of purity.
Knowing you’ve played this **** game before.
But you still drag your limp, broken heart away with the same result.
Same feeling.
Your wide-eyed self trusting this time will be different,
but realizing you were wrong.
The thinking back and forth,
the not knowing anything but the fact that your thoughts are your absolute worst enemy.
How about wondering if there was something you could still do to save
yourself?
But with the struggles of life all around you,
already suffocating you beyond limits,
you can’t find the energy to sound the words.
You sit back and stare at the sight of your shattered body scrambling for one sight of light.
Watching as the soft and gentle waves of pure anxiety lapse over your expressionless face,
Resembling the tiny pieces of snow that fall to the ground causing you to hear the last crack.
Not being able to look away at the sight of your entire existence crumbling into an avalanche like state as if it never existed in the first place.
Feeling the last layers of your hearts walls peel away,
freeing themselves
from self inflicted hurt. At least they are free.
irises Oct 23
purest flowing clarity
resembling the innocence of a child's soul
lies in the muddiest and cloudiest
rivers

within us all.
it flows within our veins

if you only let the light shine through.
Megan Oct 2018
Angel.
Angel littered with scars, her halo askew above her head. Worn wings turned black and blue, *****. No longer white and pure; she's seen too much to remain white and pure.
Poor angel girl.
Poor angel girl with trauma igniting her senses. Rain soaked hair, mascara paints her eyes black, smudged crimson lipstick resembling the blood she plans to spill.
Angry angel girl.
Angry angel girl with boiling blood and fingertips of venom. Touching lives and turning them to ash. Falling asleep to the screams of those who hurt her.
Angel turned devil.
Angel turned devil with sunken in eyes, pain hidden behind the blue. White knuckles gripping onto reality, she doesn't want to be alive anymore. Losing control, losing control, losing control.
Devil girl.
Devil girl with no soul, spitting on the lives of those who wronged her. Pulling strings like a puppet master, karma at work. No-one hurts an angel girl and gets away with it.
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