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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| Diana Marie Maichin of Marlborough, of the blond hair and blue eyes,
sweet night
rapture your
breath lips wrapped
in honest touch as we sleep.
Is there no better trust than that?
The blood of your body quietly generates the fuel of your sickness...
I taste each inhale as we sleep lip locked. Later I know you will roll over and leave me.
Its the ocean beating down calcium.
Its a storm missing shore, washing up the sailors broken bodies under the sun of a fun day.
quietly.
we have the most fun.
these tiny things in your breath smell sweet to me.
you ask me why i lie to you about drinking?
you want to know my shame?
shall i post it on face book or scar my forehead?
you know why. Shall i ask you why why you mutulate yourself?
no. you know why.
but these things come between us. as a couple we hurt. as individuals we become clever concealers. every tear burns Diana Marie Maichin. because there have been no others as you. be careful where you lead your followers, for they are many. when you turn around to adjust they are there.
sharesh and his soft eyes...
jamil and his skinny arms...
lauren and her misery...
where is the quietness of comfortable you? your tempest breath in me swells through our lovers sleep. now this ocean is paranoid dry with the warming of bitter friends. your ugly staring of my age and your mean teasing. worse your evil laughter as you trap my weakness of trust.. after you already lie.
there is nothing to say. throw a line... hold on. take that last breath before she turns over her insincere passage of sickness, now breathing another tune to in another direction. sweet... trusting... deadly.
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| destination historythere simply is nothing to be done tomorrow which i could not already have read about. therefore, time well spent must mean either burning the books i've already read plus amneasia, or locking myself to your words while I roll over the falls in a barrel. | | |
| Vaporized String at the MoviesI shall watch Shadow Lands tonight. Perhaps. And my tears will be persimmon kites cut free in broad daylight. | | |
| walls fade
lime,
antique
like curtain beads
litter my area
around this closet
above many strands survive.
Clothes mark the floor like
stones.
I safely hop across high tumultuous river crossing.
Her mattress is
on the floor and the morning light angles in from the lone window
reflecting the bright yellow of the sheets into a misty glow. The
little nightstand has some broken object on it which she is fawning
over. She hides her face so that no one can really see this hurting.
Suddenly a flush of color wells up like the sadness and tears used to. The object falls and she throws herself back onto the mattress. Her
rib cage opening like a flower where once metal armor, protected
her with beaded stones.
Color flew in and out through tiny pathways up through the floor and
mattress bisecting her new flower and shooting up and out against the
ceiling. Everything in a soft potent hue like the small window
curtains in the morning light. Somehow she created this new dimension
and decided to show her face and grow into the world with only her new
breast flower of color for protection. | | |
| AmazeHealer, poet, survivor
Garion Clare Red
Bright sliver of life
Shine brightly
Im trying not to care, because
I dont want to want anything
'enoughness' is what i need.
Colour. The natural colour of you, me, and this.
Its not grey is it. (shamelessly grasps his pajamas and starts the fireworks for our next trip to Europe) | | |
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