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Two PoetsWriting a poem
with TWO people
and nothing fits.
This NightRescue me, my knight, this night
Rescue me from my heart of sin
On your snow white steed come forth this night
Rescue me from this hell I'm in
Through the window, my knight, this night
Through the window you come to me
Stealthily come in the dark, this night
Through the window to set me free
Into your arms, my knight, this night
Into your arms; I'm safe, I'm sound
Kiss my lips and hold me this night
Into your arms; here I am found
I open my eyes: no knight, not night
I open my eyes to the light of day
My eyes are opened, but my heart is closed
I open my eyes and keep the dream at bay
Waiting for my knight, this night
Waiting for the sun of day to part
With shining armor, dulled with the night
Waiting for he who holds my heart
Together, AloneIs there such a thing
it used to be wonderful,
like a song in the night,
existing only in my mind.
There was a pulsing,
a live wire surging between us.
Call the power agency;
the electricity's out.
But the bills haven't been paid;
they're lying on the counter,
and I can't bring myself to care.
Me in the bed,
and you on the couch.
one rent to be paid,
one coffee machine,
and one television screen.
But there are two hearts tonight,
two broken hearts.
A Match Made in HeavenShe was so wrong for him, she thought,
she couldn't get it right.
She looked into the mirror,
and she shuddered at the sight.
It's not that she wasn't pretty,
that her looks weren't up to par
Only that her heart was broken,
and her eyes like lifeless stars
Every time she saw him
he told her she was wrong
He said that she was beautiful,
that her words were like a song.
He told her all she meant to him,
he told her without regret
But her doubt in him grew bigger;
she didn't believe him yet
She looked into the mirror,
and thought of all her flaws
In terms of beauty and perfection,
she was breaking all the laws
Her boyfriend was the perfect one,
a gentleman through and through
Who held her door wide open
and meant every 'I love you'
She, however, was ugly,
because of those memories inside
The past which came back to haunt her
forcing her to run and hide
She couldn't be perfect for him,
what she could give him had been taken away
And though his arms were open to her
she thought that she cou
Give a Dead Man CoffeeShe wakes up in the morning three hours before the dawn
Hurries downstairs with just her night clothes on
Rubs the sleep from her eyes
to give a dead man coffee
Jumps in her car without fastening her seatbelt
Drives down the highway thirty over the limit
Got to go real fast
to give a dead man coffee
Then she spends some time digging up a grave
and wishes for the flowers that his family never gave
Sweat, tears, and blood
to give a dead man coffee
Her grandpa always told her coffee was his life
He said he loved the stuff, slightly less than his wife
He said it would always wake him up
so she gave a dead man coffee
She's just sorry
get it to him
She's sorry that this time,
enough to wake
I'm sorry, Grandpa.
I hope there's plenty
Es Dificil Para Ti ComprenderYo quiero más de lo que tú puedes darme.
Yo quiero más de lo que tú tienes.
No se bastante sobre la vida y el mundo
para decirte de mis emociones
y como yo te quiero,
pero no soy quien tú necesitas.
Will You Pick up the Pieces?The only way
I'll let you
is if I'm sure that
whenever you break my heart,
you'll be the one
who picks up the
Innocence Will Be LostWhen I was a little girl, I loved everybody in the world. And everybody loved me, too. Because I smiled wide, as children do. But I got older and I learned that as time goes by, the tables turn. I walked downstairs and saw the news. The tears and blood made me confused. My eyes then focused and on the screen was a girl my age just trying to scream. The reporter said that she'd be fine, but the word 'raped' was still going through my mind.
And from then on I knew that goodness
was scarce and hard to find
And I knew that hate and cruelty
Lived in the heart of all mankind
I grew up scared and bitter
I let other people be
I could never show yself
I couldn't just be me
And then you walked into my life
Your smile made me start
Your eyes were soft and genuine
And I quickly lost my heart
You told me you'd take care of it
And I believed you, too
And though I used to be so scared
I put my trust in you
The first time that you dropped my heart
You swore you didn't mean to
And if in my life you pla
the truth about growing up
1. It's easier when you don't think.
1. It starts early,
on a cloudy day when you recall
the 'childhood memories' of
two summers ago,
that's when you start your backslide into
2. On the bright side
you won't notice this until you're
good and ripe in age,
so maybe it doesn't matter
3. That tightness in your chest?
The feeling that you're not ready
to take on the rest of your life; it
4. It stews in the pit of your stomach
makes you doubt,
but there will be days when you look back
on the mountains you climbed -
the raging rivers you crossed -
and you'll have a sneaking suspicion you were
more prepared than you thought.
5. There's nothing like your own bed.
6. Laundry will never smell right
without mom's sweat and tears.
But you still have to separate lights from darks,
keep the zippers pulled tight
and the buttons unhooked.
7. There is comfort in your parents' presence.
8. Things change
the future gnaws and rips
Southern modernizationBlack comedy market economy, banana peel political humour, cards with the cartels, the solution free room service and credit the union. Bolivar twist, ding dong dollar under control, valley of the coin desert with no value. Gangsta paradise, the victims are the people. Big mac and cold conflict interference a part of it all. In little Mexico you’d need a high horse to jump the great border wall that boasts its peak.
Viracocha melts waters unlike those it rose from, making waves of out of metal oceans to overtake the current south, re-steel, re-take, tech-mechs the entire south into neo-Machu Picchu, cyberpunk music moulding, reshaping old society into an new age, iron dynasty, fresh coat for an old, ancient look. The coattails of Quetzalcoatl if he were a modern man pull together the merge of future and long passed past..techno temples and the like.
LullabyHush, my baby,
Be still, don't cry.
Lay with me
A little while.
Close your eyes,
Slow your breath.
Hear your heart
Inside your chest?
Your heart is strong,
It guides you well.
Be sure to listen
To what it tells.
I hear him now,
Outside the room.
It won't be long,
He'll find us soon.
Now close your eyes,
Slow your breath,
And rest your head
Upon my chest.
Darkest MoonI celebrate my right to live;
To the dismay of some, perhaps
It should be noted
These words I write, however true
Are only portions of the moon
I’ve decide to shine light upon.
But who am I to preach respect?
Who Am I to preach equality?
An advocate for re-personification
Of the female gender
But exhibits cannibalistic characteristics
Within dark spaces.
I am a shadow
Hidden within an Eggshell, painted pink,
Waiting to hatch.
Is the darkness
The night brought upon us.
things to tell you before i leave for collegeto mrs hatcher:
i promise that one day i will write that poem you asked me for
(the only thing you ever asked me for)
and i will finally tell you that you deserve
so much more.
to mr. walker:
i promise that i will not pity you.
i promise that i will not envy you.
i promise that you will always be one of my forget-me-nots and marigolds.
i promise to always be grateful.
i promise to be careful.
i promise to be crazy.
i promise that i will remember what it feels like to be needed
and what it feels like to let someone who needs you down.
i promise that i will never resent you for asking for help
and that i will always be there when you do.
i promise that even sixty years from now,
i will not be surprised to find a letter from you in my mailbox.
i promise to always remember what it felt like to be young and crazy with you,
how scared and lonely we were.
i will remember that we both survived it,
and that we'll survive this, too.
CarolineYou loved the fire
of rogues -
imperfect men who shot up
the endings of the day
and drank down
too much beauty.
And like one of them,
you bellied with rebellion,
felt his tense seed
toil where women
and craved his notoriety.
Poor girl -
his verses won the day
and the call of words
was too fickle a lover
for any constant star.
Don't blame yourself -
are more attractive
and all poets are
You Were Born Missing SomethingYour skin is glazed with crystals of frost
and your heart's valves are close to
freezing shut tight
from being devoid of something
Though I am torrents of hail, whirling storms,
warm tears streaking,and tornadoes of rage
that flow uncontrollably through my veins
and out of my mouth,
every breath near you is warm
because your words are so cold
I am a natural disaster at its finest
with bones twisted in painful angles
and a crooked spine
you were born spineless
it was a broken sense of beautifulhis smile was like dust caught
in sunlight; more like a dreamy state
of being than reality, like the half-
remembered yesterday that still haunts your
memories because you
didn't want to forget how it
we'd lie on the floor with
slats of light shot across the ceiling, drinking
in the atmosphere
with windows propped open by
books and yellowed pages,
and by the time
we wandered into sleep, we were drunk instead
smell of roses --
he was a broken kind of beautiful, a
beautiful kind of flawed; love-letters, anonymous
and never sent littered
the dusty floorboards beneath his
of what we were before
love found it's way
back around; hours passed in a sunset haze
as my fingers ghosted over words
he'd written half-asleep, ink smudged on his fingers --
they say the music
comes when your heart's about to break, more
like a whimper than a bang; but i've
never heard a song so
sweet, and this sense of lovely has found it's home
inside my bones --
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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