Posts
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Dying Women / Taxidermy Butterflies
We are like taxidermy butterflies
placed forcibly, neatly, in an oak display case
so we may be admired for our unique anatomy
rather than living free in fields of milkweed and daisy. -
What Everyone Said and What I Believe
Ever since I was a child I was reminded it was not my fault.
I was reminded it was not my fault and I would never believe it.
When my mother and father were set at each other throats -
Questions for the Spirits That Haunt Graveyards
One
Does a willow still weep just as loudly
even when it has no leaves to cry with
in the baneful dead of winter?
Two
Are there still more colorful flowers -
Pomegranate
She conjures the list of groceries for her monthly run
to the local shop that is spelled with an extra “pe”--
and for whatever ancient reason, it is spelled like that --
the rectangular sheet of lined paper only says the word -
Coming of Woman
I never understood certain phrases as a girl.
“She wears her heart on her sleeve,” they told my father
And he would agree and I would play smart
And I would agree despite my own obliviousness. -
Who defends peace with chaos?
I.
we are The abandoned forget-me-nots.
wide-eyed but in doubles, surrounded by others
without mothers or fathers alike.
huddled together around a candle like the rats
Loves
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Hood Rats: A collection of Poetry- About 5 PM
5 pm
Is a time of day where it's not quite night yet.
Some would say, The day is young.
Others would argue, the day is over.
They will get in their cars and drive home to their families.
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Better Things
autumn leaves, they
fall to the pine-bathed
soil, and my heart falls
with them, and I think it's burning
too, burning too, for all it takes
is one glance into your
amber eyes, september sight, and
you've got my -
The Artist of Fall
When night awakes sooner,
and the stars become brighter,
Fall descends onto the land.
Soon enough, winter will bring its false sand,
until then, the leaves paint the sky-
as the trees and wind begin to sigh.
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New Polaroids
Amber leaves cling
To umber trees reaching
Frayed roots deep into the ground.
They've told you time
And time again, "autumn is the season
Of the dead.
Green leaves rusting, flowers
Dusting over till the pink -
Spooky Season
When the air is crisp,
with a chilly breeze,
fall puts a spell on me.
The leaves fall in a wisp,
as an artist weaves-
a portrait of the fiery sea.
Though, it’s not February,
love seeps through the air.
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Things to remember, pt. 1
You are not a number.
You are not a letter.
You are not something that can be
measured
on a scale
with a beginning