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    stumbling in fields of elsewhere makes me suspiciously sated,  stubborn, and sad.  
I’ve heard memories change each time you recall them, as if each is a set of two facing mirrors where both panes have sprinkled in artistic license. It reminds me a bit of history,
I’ve heard memories change each time you recall them, as if each is a set of two facing mirrors where both panes have sprinkled in artistic license. It reminds me a bit of history,
My erythrocytes are letters my blood is tomato soup made of english and iron paper cuts are spelling bees blisters ooze puss and punctuation. Sometimes I feel if I ever bled out
Learn Between the Lines Scholarship Slam Power Poetry Poem Title   A cryptic poem With poem casualties.   I sit here, write here, and believe that the spirit will change them.
Dear self, I found your old book. The book of lines and ink that pulled you out from where you were. Poetry saved you. I re-read the poems you had marked.
Letters To/From a Journal   4/8/2017 Journal, Maybe it’s because I’m 6 hours into my last year of childhood, Or because of the incessantly pounding of the thoughts against my skull,
The horizon doesn't seem too far,  The sun's heat gives me warmth, Though I am so close, It doesn't burn Slowly, all my fears are melting away.
ask me again why the wounds hold me here like clots & bruises of another ruined sky with its sharp edges & its palette of blackbirds its long reach
Disscussion, Can't we just talk? Round table  no intimidation from whom I was Born, Blood shared, Bones grown, Umbilical Cord. Can't we just tal- Intimidation. Raised Voices
The question “What is the meaning of life?” Is like asking the question, “What do all poems, taken together, mean as a whole?” You search for a single meaning through the entire realm of possibility
I apologize My self-consciousness is heavy My pride is immesive And as the years go on, my happiness has only gotten more expensive  For you, and only you.
Unbroken. Awoken. 17 with a lot of dreams. Every day they rip at the seams. Try to take my voice and I'll scream louder. Try to take push me down and I'll fight harder.
What A Year It all happened so fast,The year 2016. High school came to an end And college was no longer “just around the riverbend”.
Poetry is both processing and process.  Poetry is the naming and the name.  Poetry is the discovering and the discovery.  Poetry is primal; it is breath and emotion and creation. 
I contain many beautful things Things such as roses and dasies But you know what's crazy The crazy thing is that's all people see People don't come to see me in the fall I have nothing enticing at all?
I am a child… I am a child from a father’s belt and a mother’s discipline. I am a child still receiving parents’ benevolent love.
Truth be told, I only saw what is real Because my heart is an open sore that I do not expect to heal. You see, a beaten and battered heart knows how pain feels So it lacks all remorse when it comes time to kill.
I mouth dirges in the Cimmerian shades
(poems go here) As I write this song down for you Feeling a feeling that resembles a dark blue By the end I hope to get through to you And hopefully end up making the feeling mutual What else can I possibly do?
Another Saturday Poetry Night: The only hands you get to take, belong to your keyboard The lips you get to kiss, that of your swollen self-reflectivity The voice you get to hear, is your own mind’s
The walls close on all four directions Grasping the concept of self-knowing reflection Wisdom hollows through the vacant walls Nobody to hear what she says as she softly calls
My youth was a boarding school where I slept in a waterbed of tears. Made a mess of my sheets, I was teased for wetting the bed. But my mourning saved many from not waking up another morning.
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