Small and Untitled

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Words, words, like candy
Like bins of gummy bears and licorice whips
Like Saturday morning rainbows on the kitchen floor, claimed with a bare foot
Like when the floor is lava

Words, when a pen is a sword in your hand and you write like daggers
When the letters spiral and carry
When they leave a trail of blood

Words, words like magic

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My thoughts are rain
They pour, but can only fall so far

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Horror
In the mirror
Horror
Reflected in the screen
Horror
Sometimes I catch a glimpse of such
Horror

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If poems are flowers
Then I am a hummingbird
I jump, I stray,
I cannot stay.

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This is an oppressive cloud
Of dirt and age
Of trash and rolls of fat
Where turkey tetrazzini sings and my body is on fire

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The castle gleamed with white stone walls
Laughter and music rang through the halls and voices were like angels
They spoke my name
I found myself there, in dark corners
And the voices pulled me free
Some with potions, some with magic
They worked together like a spell
And broke an evil curse
I still feel it speak but I am back in my own skin.

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The devil searches for my idle hands
Creeps into my thoughts
Twisting my spine, a crooked oak
Hands are branches to scratch my eyes
All I am
All I’ve become
Spreads a wide, green foliage to block the sun

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I am ready for winter
Hibernation
I have stores of food that have waited for the time of their purpose
To bury my soul in snow and feast off the fat

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Vile
To write these words about small things
But regardless of their height
They are large obnoxious pains

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I have been stranded
Oh that foxy little minx
She relieved me of my valuables
And dumped me in the drink

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Day old, day old
Perspiration
Building inside of me
Frusteration

Trenches
Trenches
Bind me down
Burning
Burning
Spun me round

Blazing
Blazing
Balls of glory
Hurling past with so much fury

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She’ll only kiss with lipstick on
A scarlet shield
A mauve glove soft as moth wings
The barrier that holds you back

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Beware!
The End.
The Nigh.
Beware!

Where dark halls hold dark doors and dark doors hold bright, white rooms.
Beware!

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I try to save even the poetry that is bad
The poetry that mocks me
The poetry that makes me cringe
For who am I to say that they are bad and these are good.
I am just the poet.
Who am I to say.
I am the tomb unknown
He who does not matter
Who am I to say,
I am just the poet.

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I have been insulted
By myself
I have no response
For everything I say
Is true

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I am climbing
I am scaling
I am making my way up the ladder

I have a long way to go

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The cynic says
“Butchered like cattle
We are drying beef hung from hooks
Waiting for the day we are consumed”

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