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Posts Tagged ‘cliches’

I hear the whispers

Baby I hear them speaking the truth

To fall for you

I’ve heard your words fall from a thousand lips

From faces no longer clear

You can’t have me

Pay no mind to my consent

Pay me no mind

There is nothing good left between

 

Glacier passion devoid

If it makes you less sad

Consider me a broken thing

Beyond emotional recovery

Still fit to ride

Past investment

Holding fast and whittling away

 

When the light falls

And I become a still, solitary shadow

Don’t turn it into something it’s not

You took all I have

Frozen cunt

Disengaged gag reflex

The place where I feel home

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You can take my mind on an adventure

Show it the world, let it sin and stain

Until it becomes static

A head on the shoulders

Of age

Pain

Fearful living and failure of oblivion

It is so easy to remember the sweet

Drowning of the mind

The quiet

Now the volume is a solitary mute

You changed

I did not change

You grew

I grew stunted

And looking into your eyes, I see the climate change

Further away from you

My bruises show

My

Allegiance to the static

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Small music on my mind

Brings me to you

In a haze of humiliation and bemusement

I remember those drowning days

Of pained misery

Here I am, standing the way I am supposed to be, stilled and silent

Inert for that few moments of relief from the paralysed blood sluggishly driving me away from reality

My mind whispers, an explosion in the silence

I just really want to fucking feel anything but this absence of

(heart) (head) (hope) (ambition) (noise) (warmth) ( of

(heart) (head) (hope) (ambition) (noise) (warmth) ( of

(heart) (head) (hope) (ambition) (noise) (warmth) ( of

(heart) (head) (hope) (ambition) (noise) (warmth) ( of

My body is battle worn, scarred and no longer up to the challenge of a fluttered eyelash

Without the body, the walls are a thousand years in standing, a thousand ships launched and dashed like hope

This body is cleaved, deformed and moulded now to a fearsome sight

The mind is a bear chewing off its own leg

Absent and running on instinct

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This is a story, a pained sigh in the housing of a page.

A hundred pair of rolled eyes have bound this.

Left it sealed as tight as that hidden box of intellect that small girls pack away with the sound of the plastic rustling on their first padded bra.

It’s a stark view, the female mind to the outside

What do you contribute?

Encasing your mind in concrete, lest it be discovered and picked clean.

Ten words

Ten short moments

Ten ways to not be raped

Ten ways not be beaten beyond what you deserve

Ten ways to ensure that you are, after the age of ten, alive, dialled down, functioning and fully integrated.

Fucktoy                                Appreciative                      Pretty                   Muted                  Hesitant                               Chattel                 Accepting                            Sacrificing                            Forgiving                                                              Capitulating

From pigtails to rohypnol

This is the story of ten words to help you navigate, to fly under the dominating radar

To be the girl that is to be owned with a veil and a hymen intact, or at the very least a count under seven of previous owners.

A tale of ten small words to keep you small

To differentiate between Dolly and Doxie

Ho’ and Her.

Ten words preferable being fucked up the ass in an alleyway by a faceless stranger because he can and you can’t do a single thing to prevent it because you lost your way.

Distracted amongst the millions of words in the English language.

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I once wrote the most perfect words

On paper, using a list of serious and well-meant memorials

To those few people who were on the peripheral

I sucked down the various, easily accommodated lies

With a final hoorah of golden sour mash bourbon

I lay my head back, waited for the calm

I woke, capitulating to the narcissistic, the encouraging and the masturbatory

Fantasists, white coats hiding those turgid offerings

I flexed and cried at the correct times, I flexed and felt reality chafe

Ate the burnt offerings of positivity, hope, reassurance

Concealed the letter, soured and sullen

It never takes too long

For me to arrive back here until I am gone

Affirmations failing, I burrow while you congratulate

I live on my knees

Doe eyes, hidden gag reflex

Dulled wit and burnt out

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Avert your eyes

Pretend you don’t see

That I am a love poet

I never meant to let you down

I lied

Indulged and fattened with the spite

Dusk and moss covering the cracks

But I don’t want to change

This secret love poet part

That sits patiently waiting for

A long, soothing note

I never meant to let you down

I never mean to let you down

But I breathe for the moments

Those moments of crawling shame

The danger zone of flickered interest

The anticipation of following the hunger

And swallowing the lies

I can wait

I can wait

You don’t know this about me

But my clichéd lines of disinterest are

Hope, embraced, given and scattered

You see my love has eyes

That see through the cynical me to the cynical you

Don’t give me wise words and realistic moments

I am a love poet

Your reasons are another line

In another account

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evanesce

Without shame

To drown in freedom of clarity

I am stripped bare of beauty

Charm and interest

A desert of communication

Acrid earth shapes like bile

You fuck and pour your desperation

Are you hoping to quench the thirst?

Or sate your spite

Your fingertips across my skin

Dragging like a cry for care

I can’t answer the question to what makes us tick,

I am sitting here, have been for so long, waiting forever,

Waiting for, please, hold on, waiting for that firing synapsis that ignites the knowledge that this is not it all.

How can you leave without a trace or shadow on life?

The clock ticks and never stops,

Sharing none of itself and I watch you leave over and over,

I am just empty space and you are empty space, and like some existential clarity, none of it matters.

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