Category: Poetry
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broken toys, syllables of a harvest moon
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A place to hold a thought
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a raid on our tongue tips, dipping in the honey taste of…
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She said: take your curse, digest your sorrow, own your misery
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I love them, their blue stickish torsos and jaunty meanderings
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You will raise the spray to the sky, beloved, beautiful.
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I run from the wound causing mayhem along the causeway of my mind
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a hole in the mattress deep as I’d dug it
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These wounds will bubble over and grow, running in the streets consuming. Everything.
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When body is considered landscape and maps are considered time, we can feel what can’t be found
