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The night breeze carries
A warm, lilting lullaby
A familiar melody
Sweetly swaying like the rocking of a toy rowboat
The trees are seemingly silent
Beckoning only to the wind, and softly when it does
The ferocity of years past, the wildness that once was
Is all but quenched now
If you listen closely
At noon on a perfunctory midsummer’s day
The slightest whisper of a sigh
Hesitantly begins to say
“Something more once lingered here
Bestowed upon the presence of these few yet fertile ferns
I wist at its memory”
“Wild woman
How unmoored you once were
Not a day went mundane
Nature basked in your name
Entranced by your fame
The graceful untame
Where have you gone?
Why, for shame?
My roots nail me down
To this wretched earth
For agony, I cannot search
For your untethered soul
But if the caverns in your labyrinthine mind
Remember our sweet, unparted time
My shade never shies away from your name
Rebirth our massacred roots
Tend to the soil of your claim”
And so the trees wallow in unrested pain
Sitting in solace, through rhapsodies and rain
I know not if the wild woman ever came
Upon her return
The motherland awaits
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Sacred sweet and twisted
Sordid sick and sacrilege
It’s finally sinking in how
I fell for every trick
In the book of your disinterest
In the Holy Bible of the fairytales
The fantasies of what we could have been but never was
Lovely little lies
Lustered luminescent lachrymose
I can almost taste it disappearing on my tongue
The bayou is enraptured in the melodrama of the twilight sky
Yet the evening stars are shining like our childhood still exists
But underneath the limerence
Coming back down to the earth
There’s a scarlet streak snaking out the waters
Acid rains and gangrene rays of sunlight
Bursting into days
Covered up by the endless storm clouds, heat lightning
Furthermore, how the effervescence tricks us into thinking everything is fine and well
When there’s a dead boy in the bayou
And no one heard his screams
There is a girl and her boyfriend in the house behind the water
And she whispers be my Valentine to the crimson-colored raptures
So silently sadistic that I throw up all over Heaven’s gates
Wait for the currents of the swamp to wash my body on this earth clean away
And no one but the angels know about the dead boy in the lake
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Every day the widow wakes and folds her origami up
With broken promises and pretty lies
Desperate I love yous and sordid goodbyes
Haven’t I given enough?s and everything is fine
Her grade school days have taught her all the perks of being a wallflower
Or, rather, what she likes to call her invisibility powers
So she folds her origami in the sanctimonious silence of the winds
Obeying cautiously so as not to provoke the graveyards on her hands
Sacred, sweet, and twisted
Sordid, sick, and sacrilege
It’s finally sinking in how
She fell for every trick
In the Holy Bible of disinterest
The manuscript of what could have been
With a man who no longer deserves her last name
The evening stars are shining as if her childhood still exists
But underneath the limerence, coming back down to the earth
There’s a scarlet streak staining the waters of the bayou
And for a nanosecond there is heat lightning, acid rains, gangrene rays of sunlight
But it fizzles out into a quiet midnight sky before the world can even cry
The widow is unfazed by her existence and the prospect that it could end
She welcomes the idea of its absence, nurtures it
As if greeting a childhood friend
Perhaps that is why when the lightning struck her square in the heart
The widow walked, genially, into its beckoning light
Into an apartment called death
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I think that one of these days I might die
In a coffin of varicose veins
I think when I die, it will be quite the same
Of the life I am forced to lie
Your dagger cut deeper than flesh, than bone
The crush of my skeleton bleeds into cold concrete
And the news will call it a ketchup stain
Neat and tidy, clean me up with a bow
I am your daintiest flower
And one day, the news will call me
The boy who had it coming
Parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme
Which one am I today?
Which shard of glass in this mirrorball of disillusionment
Catches your fancy in this moment
This second
This fragment of time?
My wants are irrelevant
My needs don’t exist
I live to satisfy your titanium fist
Which will it be today?
What will I be today?
What will you make of me?
What will you take from me?
When will there be nothing left?
One day, when the news calls what’s left of me
A ketchup stain
Will you paint my gravestone
With the same shade
To remind this town of
The boy who had it coming?
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I taste the sun and bask in the most resplendent sweet that has ever graced my tongue
The divine of the heliosphere, she who races to part my lips
Her flames melting into sugary syrup rushing into my veins
And it reminds me of when you once had done the same
When your electricity lit up the darkest hours of my days
And when the choir beneath your brownstone sang a minor key in rain
But the gravity of your supernova, our stars exploding, jolted me back into orbit
After your memory surfaces back, well the sun, it tastes like your coffee breath now
So I spit out the sun and Icarus just laughs in my face
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I am crystalline and clear yet black and opaque
I am a multitude of things that the world will always take
Taking and taking until nothing is left
Never giving a care, until my last breath
One day, a grave will be dug up in my honor
And no flowers shall lay to accompany it
I think that the birds may feast upon my sorry carcass
For even they could bear it no longer
Someday in the future
Perhaps in a year, perhaps tomorrow
When I am shards of a person
Will you care?
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Pollution distorts my imperfections
The stars seem like human bodies now
But more importantly, my each and every flaw
Is shrouded in the smoke and in the dust
Good riddance to what was
I’m trapped in the cobwebs of my mind
Stuck in the stickiness that binds
Like a knife, cutting through the edge of something bright
A heavenly light
In a fashion that could almost be seen as romantic
I panic
But you’re not even listening
And I realize that you haven’t listened since we met
And I realize, perhaps in the smoke within the sky
And in our lungs
You may have been a figment of the night
You may have been a figment of pollution
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My mother cries at every movie
Through the introductory score and the end credits
Roll the empty film half-turned elitist
Even the sky has turned defeatist
If the movie is sad, she will cry in its tragedy
And if it is happy, she sobs for she is not the one living the fantasy
The days of euphoria are gone
It’s time to be an adult in a world that cares little for the paper plane dreamers
Two dollars in your pocket and somehow you make a life
But the world tells you to go back to a land which no longer can be yours
So which is true?
Roll credits and I turn to console my mother’s tears
But there’s nothing but a longing little sigh
And hopeless, loving eyes
So I offer a hopeless, loving smile