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Reality InvertedJump through the mirror...
and from the other side take a look.
What would it be like to see the evil you?
How might opposites change the rulebook?
You might go from pauper to prince,
Or lose everything you have in a day.
When you step into the alternate
History is come-what-may.
Maybe in this universe you made a mistake,
And you're six feet under a flowerbed.
Or perhaps everything went great,
And from a silver spoon you're fed.
Or perhaps you're in a place,
Where your parents never met
How odd to see a world you're not
Cause your parents run a different duet.
There's no limit to the alternates you may see,
As the mirror continues to distort
How many versions of you will you see,
As the universes continues to contort?
Watch me jump, change, and shift
And my reality completely rearrange...
You may think you know all the answers.
Do you know how the questions have changed?
Symmetry is overrated
And I'm just about to crack
I can't handle living in theory
I wanna go back!
Jump back through
ClicheThe patient in the hospital
He got all bent out of shape
And hurt his lower back
Now they're going to operate
The doctor was a new one
Confused on what was the goal
He operated on the spine from his little toe
And tore the guy a new a$$hole
The doctor didn't clean up or disinfect
And left the scalpel inside his chest
They sewed him up like Frankenstein
And so he never woke up from his rest
He now lays in the morgue
A scalpel stuck in some part
The coroner wrote the death certificate
"Died of a bleeding, broken heart"
Nothing is cliche when it happens to you...
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Pilgrimage v8Poet, you must see
A clearing in the deep woods
Far above the Earth
The sun with me for one day
Rises higher into the east
Over the mountains
A terrain of green and white
Leaves ride high up on the wind
Controlled by the rushing breeze
Far from the city
Where the golden river flows
By the crooked path
Where the deep green leaves rustle
As the breeze sweeps my front porch
Near the apple tree
The jade fountain is silent
As the sun rises
A pirate buried treasure
Where the river makes a curve
Birds rest in the trees
Where filtered sunlight slips through
In the morning sun
Poets argue over chess
In their own special manner
Pale orchid blooming
Safe among the ancient pines
...how precious the hours!
The time passes so quickly
A child becomes a man
One lingering star
Turns the landscape golden red
...flowers in shadow
Flies zig-zag in the sunlight
Dancing with their own shadow
Beyond the dark trees
Rose petals drift on the fog
Treetops in the clouds
A field of fine cotton
BeccaliciousThere once was a girl named Beccalicious
Who's ability to rhyme seemed quite suspicious
Said she: There's no reason to feel fright
I just want you to try and write
So pick up your pencil and be ambitious
Bloom With A SmileA plant gives its life to produce some seeds
Overcoming insects, drought, bad soil, and weeds
And then those seeds begin to blow
Surviving animals, disease, and the cold winter's snow
On an awesome spring day, one seed finds a home
Right next to a manhole, so far it did roam
In a tiny bit of soil, this seed was planted
Not one speck of moisture did it take for granted
It scrimped and it saved the energy that it had
The intensive heat from the asphalt was so bad
And with the toxins and the exhaust from the buses and cars
It might have been better to live in the atmosphere of Mars
And yet each day it struggled, and it continued to grow
Despite being stepped on, and taking many a blow
And with the help of its friends, the sun and the rain
The little plant endured, through all of the pain
Often it thought it would be better to dry up and blow away
But the those loving friends made things better so it could stay
Its two leaves became four, and four became eight
Some days were awful, some da
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Makers Of The Cage. Holders Of The Key.Our eyes are the closest thing we have to freedom.
We see endless blue sky, and the stars beyond.
We see the beauty of the world.
We see our reflection in the mirror;
the reality, and the fantasy.
Our eyes see far and great.
But the rest of us cannot follow.
Our hands probe the steel bars around us.
Fumbling in the dark.
Cut by the sharp edges.
The bleeding never stops.
Our feet shuffle around.
Trying to go places.
But we walk in circles.
Our emotions go from red to blue;
orange to green;
yellow to purple,
mixing in a haze.
Our mind goes to dark places,
and only wanders deeper.
Oblivious to the place right next door.
It knows the freedom,
it knows the pit.
There are endless paths to take.
There's a cage we need to break.
There is a key ourselves create.
In our hands, it's never too late.
a cherry pit dog heart.she holds a cherry pit dog heart in her hand, arrhythmic
beats like children playing pots and pans in kitchens
mother builds from scratch, black bean soup prepared
for dinner by a creased artist; wisps of white
upon a grandfather's head remind his daughter's child
of winter as he talks of horses in cuba who scratch
their backs on wooden posts; the first time she eats
ox tail is at an uncle's funeral, sitting in the basement,
surrounded by her surname, wondering why everyone
seems so happy; her grandmother keeps having
that dream where she's cooking and pours hot oil
on the animal in the kitchen, singeing his skin—
she cries out at midnight, sobbing for her daughter;
black eyes watch as her child keeps growing,
inspecting her process for future improvements,
while she takes pride in getting her sleeve caught
on twigs as she runs through the forest; motherhood
enters her every so often, at times uninvited, but
never for her prince in white, the bundle curled up
on her bed, floating
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
The Proposed Subway RouteWe're all going to die
We have bitten off more than we can chew
The future doesn't matter
Life is just death in transitu
Some disembark too soon.
Along the proposed subway route
Everyone is lost
Nothing is absolute
Stick alongside men of prestige,
And receive the acknowledgement
So if I travel with great heroes
I will remain confident
While the wheat bends before the reaper
And the darkness brushes against my skin
Hold my hand just for a moment
And comfort me as a dear friend
As you touch my lips
My flesh crumbles at your touch
The sunbeams that seem to pierce the glass
Don't disturb the darkness all that much
The dogs of war shouldn't be forgotten
You must remember me
Still, though we exit with the poets
This is no guarantee...
Don't forget all that has gone before
While my memories reach into your mind
Torn photographs remind you
Of all the lost people left behind
Recognition and awards is part of the pleasure
Until someone forgets...
I will expect nothing...
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More