I'm here and you are looking at me and I at you and I am tugging at the string that I had so tightly tied around your finger hoping you won't forget and I'm thinking about my body burning every freckle, place that you touched or held every inch of skin and limb and crinkle that holds memories of a smile burned tossed among the wind in a bohemian-like dance that insists I be tossed like bird food among the places that I loved when I only ever really loved you but I suppose being worm food isn't much better at the hands of grave diggers too So I'm here looking at you Hoping you'd give a penny for these thoughts because they feel worth a million since they are like dreams that when you wake up you pine to remember but they are already gone perhaps they are truly nothing but you still want to know even go mad to hear what unconsciousness tasted like the high of genius you get from snorting unreality like a drug Just tell me, was I beautiful ...
I was raised in a black glass church Where they told you it was see through That they never hid anything for it was made of glass But even if it is glass You cannot peer through black It's truth was feeble and thin The glass broke into brittle iotas of the dark With one fingertip pressed, and no blood spilled Only the blacken blood of the black glass church Then I went to the church that was built out of sand I thought this one would be better Since it was formed like a castle With a red flag even posed on the top But who would have known That it was only for a show? Until the invertebrate blue waves Came hurtling in across the church of sand And the church became only a home for the tide once again I was about to give up when I found a rock to sit upon And it happened to be a church carved out of stone That didn't lie about its transparency And wasn't quite pretty enough to be for show So the church made of rock...
I draw my pale thoughts over my head like a blanket and wonder if the discomfiture ever gets softer on the heart see I've learned why the heart beats against the chest wall, it is a war drum on the front lines of my thoughts the harbinger before the marching towards the skin and the vessels and the hair. at first, I wanted my skin to stretch like the tendon of a blue sea to make room for all of the ache, but now I want to be small, to shrink and slip through the eye of an needle and take less space and air than everyone else in the room I dream of being the first atom to split; of being swallowed by a beach pelican, and spat out like tiny fish bones he couldn't devour; there are so many unfinished poems in my chest, I'd like to think my body is an unfinished poem that I am writing, and that one day maybe not every poem will be about my body, but they will be about the mountains and rivers I command to rise in the softest parts of me; I hope you are commandi...
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