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it is amazing. the variants there
are of girlhood - cracked spectacles leak glitter, plastic, gel, the virus spreads with every definition. we are a mixture of brain and heaving lung - one keeps, one kills the other. priests say - "are loving and consuming not the same?" do not swear at my body (my brain, my blood). you should not name it (not priest and not another woman). we must not make more names than there are people we must not pick a person for a name Catch the sweet river water
That moistens chapped lips, And honeyed tears that overflow Hold yourself Your love holds worlds together Did you know? It’s okay sweet, sweet baby Wash the sins from your fingertips Release the staleness of emotions Heavier than the unforgiving sun Walk into our mothers acquitted tongues This is how you’ll come to yourself after kaveh akbar
fire stained skin. sinners at dawn. we’re. failing at both. manhood and. womanhood. we clutch moons. in our plucked hands. to reveal the secrets of. femme. to wash our fire stained. skin. with prayers and obituaries. for our fallen sisters. the sun reminds us. our love is dangerous. our love is designed. to be roadkill. the sun reminds us. our mothers. weep for their sons. we pray. in the moonlight. we pray. in secret. Is that the only way? to be beautiful? i was born to feel. i was born in
vulnerability and heartache. i was born to know grief in my bones. i was told to perform. i was told that my pain made me unlovable. well, who would want me if my sadness was displayed, plastered on my face, through salt and acid, for everyone to see? it’s macabre, the sight of a lady crying. silly child, if the shoe doesn’t fit, do you not know to carve your skin till it does? it’s always your fault, has no one already taught you that? Long nights, I spend dreaming of a river
Winding between wooded plains and forgotten prairies Softly breaking to caress sunkissed grass Walls which shelter the aspiring ants I dream of the tulip fields claimed by the sun Serving as paint on the planet’s canvas A landscape soon to be perpetual Call me back
when the lotus flowers ache start rotting and fall apart piece by piece give me a ring and ask me to sing and I’ll do it like before don’t think I love you anymore but i’ll sing you to sleep once more for sure. I hate dandelions now; wishes are too big too sacred to let a passing thing keep In a fit of rage you call my name
I carry my calm to you and as you indulge in its crumbs I dine on the melees of your malevolence for I am but a repository of the spoils left from your wrath you are but a wave accustomed to crashing onto souls walking along the safe lines of the shore, leaving their peace plundered. Was mad,
Shying, And scattering. I knew waiting for me Was a firm seat. My heart was packed by Blocking and waiting. Between Death, My coincidence of delay of traffic stood, Doubtless and unknown. I liked him. He long understood me and We became the best of friends. He had killed the average representative Of travelers and the wanderers of romance. She was anticipating it - grief,
She remembered the last time, the searing suffering, and expected the same, again; inside she knew that their time together was almost done. But no, no, She was wrong, very wrong, grief changes and is new every time; it was different, but still distressing, the sadness was more heartrending, more harrowing, Now …. this time …. she grieved them both. Today I feel like a Man.
My drowsiness marionettes my fingers to rustle imaginary stubble as weariness collects under my eyes, matching the half-melted snow that gathers where the street slumps. I weave around with my worn leather boots, brown with fibers amiss, and my posture resembling that of a writer or lawyer or professor or psychologist or editor or traveler, or anyone who is bent from the efforts of collecting voices around them and passing them off as his own, (though proud that he was the one to notice them and put them together in the first place) walking back toward his abode where some lady may or may not be waiting. |