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I do know how it is to cry, bawling your eyes out

feel how the tears streaming down your face

the snot messing up your nose

these hulking sounds fleeing your throat

feel how your ears turning red

and not. give. a. fuck

because you are already so far beyond caring

how you look like to others

your hurt and you hurting bad

I know how it is to cry like that

and it isn’t something I will recommend

to anyone, ever

You couldn’t have slapped me any sweeter if you tried.

The force of your dominance leaves a sting as the night air attempts to lasso my ferocity.

I was so sure I’d find your crest imprinted on my skin, as my fingertips prodded for evidence of you. Instead, you opted to occupy my innocence and went straight for the delicate vastness within - your playground.

I only have myself to blame for being so open to all you were offering, and now, I’ve nothing left but learn to make peace with the repercussions.

And when i ask you for your forgiveness, it’s because i need time, to accept you in all your glory - to digest us, this.

But until that day, i’ll keep you at arms reach as you seem to only render me in numbness.

Why do you leave me speechless?

- o-serendipity-o

i will end my poems the same.i am just going to sit and watch you.

hey your fridge is playing music

ah yea if you let it go,it shows pics

i had no kids before but,it displays

drawings of how our kids would draw

that cliche mama papa house & me pic;

everything is smart now,my prescription

eyeglasses tells me that my ex is now dating

her old ex,asks if i plan creating a soap opera

to produce it to the masses,sitcom ‘ahah’

i just want to implant you in my brain;

as a chip,so i can sit,

and watch you sip wine.

The world is our stage. We are all merely players. Going through motions. Actors of notion. But down in my heart, I knew this from the start. What we have between us have isn’t just acting; it’s real.

J.c.A

i live simultaneously in the past and in the future; i write down the moments i experience so that i can remember them later on; and so i live life as both the record-keeper and the person who will end up reading her diary; i exist as both the versions of myself in the past and the future, but i do not quite exist right now; i never feel like i’m alive

I know
so very little,
only things of which
we do not speak,
rosewood stains
on my canvas tote,
and the way your tongue tasted
of wine on stovetop tiles,
hot, red, smooth.
I let you hold me,
and somehow for a moment
this felt real,
pink lips and love bites
recalling
what memory cannot.
—  V.I.P.P.// the morning after; August 24th
Fish Tank

The room breathes a bit
Through its sunshade gills,
The closet door agape
Like a mounted bass mouth,
The wire shelves like rows
Of thin, ragged teeth.

The afternoon light filters through
The watertight plexiglass
And into our unblinking eyes,
Skittering across bowls of loose change
And jewelry boxes
And pictures frames:
The stray scales from a cleaned filet.

We lie gasping, side by side,
Crying in silence,
Wrapped in blankets
Like sheets of parchment paper.
The grey hairs on your temple
Shimmer like broken mussel shells
Scattered amongst stones.

We peer out of our fish tank
And onto the currents
Of the afternoon commute:
The moon pulls forth a tide
Of compact cars and minivans
Through the suburban jetty,
Our water undisturbed but for the hum
Of a submersible pump
Churning fine bubbles,
Leaving us clean and alone.


© 2017–2018 DEVRA

Double Shift

when the couple grinds their elbows into the table: salt their words and watch where you step. their fight is not yours to clean up. pack up their plates. it will all be cold and congealed when they get home, but they’ll finish what they started.

smile politely at the man with silver in his beard and gold on his hand. listen to him talk about the Canary Islands. when he starts talking about planes: excuse yourself. he’ll drink his dinner and go home to a sleepy smile that smells like gin and a daughter who was sixteen when you were twelve. you’ll be glad that you didn’t get swept into the eye of his adventure.

soak your wrists in dishwater. don’t confuse your grimy reflection with a prophecy. slice lemons and lean into the sting. the ache in your back and the fire in your feet will be silent for a second.

pay attention to the ones in the corner. you’ll learn the difference between thirsty and dry, hungry and empty.

don’t forget which one you are.

Writing is your warfare.

With bruised ribs and a calloused heart, 

You feed your open wounds with old scars.

Let the ink release your haunted mind.

Let it stain the paper like bloodshed on the battleground;

For the tear-soaked mascara stains on your pillowcase

Will always paint a better picture

Than the memory of his Polaroid smile.

no idols

cursed with a predilection
for valiance;
I’m loud in my quiet places;
moody, faceless–
I gotta run the table
to feed the table;
sour grapes– no wrath;
sour kush plus the spark of creation; whiplash;
what do I do with
all this sweet sad music?
earthy chakra– I miss being angry;
whatever this is
ain’t my final form.
my ancestors ain’t leave
any footprints for me to follow;
which way do I go?
good chiba,
high; under-achiever;
a skywalker
with no father either;
they’ll go til we extinct
that’s why we require these predator instincts;
the fit flash;
designer jeans, karate shoes, and a big link;
glory requires a seed of righteousness;
“who’s night is this?”
screamed the brother, the king
who’s crown didn’t need to be seen
to know it was there;
seconds to spare
but the cop says I’m out of time.
so I’m out of time.
what does that tell you
about reality and its perception?

the evolution of us begins with words, and ends with poetry. You’ve seen winter bend under the complexion of drying smiles, of whispers meant to choke love out of your heart. I wish we were doomed a little closer together, but I’ve been following your laughter, and pressing your name between my spinal prayers. sometimes I’m just trying to love you harder than the moment before. sometimes I’m just trying to see you clearer through tear trails left on my mirror. maybe the world is getting too small for your lungs. maybe we pinned your dreams too close to fingertips closing in on midnight. when will you realize I can only survive you once? yet I’d still let you hurt me just to say that I’ve felt you.

image

You are what you eat. What would you turn into? 🍎

Gabby Apple

Gabby eats apples for every meal

Her face is Gala red

Her habit’s become a bit surreal

Leaves sprout out from her head

Her hair is braided like a stem

I’m afraid it’s so severe

She’s even got a couple worms

That ooze from ear to ear

Her armpits sweat out sugar

Her eyes shed tears of cider

She has a ripened figure

And it’s only growing wider

She’s the sweetest girl of all

The biggest apple I’ll ever see

With her appleseed walls

On her house inside a tree

Dark Illusions


In the moments that seem dark

there is always obvious distraction

worries of future moments or shame

of past mistakes perceived action


These moments the light seems dim

we are only asked to be quietly still

to breath in the air that is living fuel

this calm silence is darkness killed


Even psychic or prophetic thoughts

never more than a warning or guide

best acted upon in no action trusting

the intelligent force is Creation’s ride


We’re just passengers if we choose

taken towards the intended wonder

given every freedom to drive if must

allowed any consequence or blunder


It’s not harsh or cruel in any way

we’re just not able to know the plan

directing all at once no coincidence

always drawing us into the eternal clan



Peace

Lost Dog (12.9.2019)

Monday mornings and haircuts.

so I was sitting there,

minding my own business, you know

and then you came along

in through the door

I saw you at once


you had cut your hair

shorter, modern, different

and I just couldn’t, I just couldn’t

I got stuck, my eyes just followed you

around around around

the new haircut - it suited you well, too well

I mean, shit


weren’t you it before, you totally is now

totally


-


but worst of all, I kinda forgot to tell you

‘It looks nice, yo’


(or whatever right,

*pathetic flailing*)