You Might Be A Strangerwhen you feel the heat of someoneYou Might Be A Stranger by *BeyondJen
and are warmed throughout your soul
from heated coals, fires, and flames please
don't let it go
just let it show.
bask between the somewhere
of friendship and love[d].
add a log, build it strong
don't be scared, huddle 'round.
fan the flames
fan the flames
stare in awe
love the glow
don't let it go
if you're scared of getting burned
believing your soul will be harmed
from embers' glow in the night
back away, play it safe
if you're scared of getting burned.
if you're worried what will happen
when the distance in the sky
comes crashing down, crashing down
don't be afraid, I'll hide yo
my bones on your bonesmy bones on your bones by ~silklilies
Where is the moon?
I lost it when they ate my mouth. The
incompetence of my body is as patterned as a
drug habit, moving from morning abstinence to
to nightly desire. My mouth, gone, with
nothing to remember it by but sores and
And I can do nothing about it.
I look up and my throat stings with the rain.
I am exposed.
(Her eyes are the color of used pennies,
rotten leaves, caramalised sugar, breathing fish;
they make my stomach forget where it is,
amnesia becoming an internal distraction from emotion.
So strange, how one usually takes a body for granted
until it stops breathing.
|'Cause I dig... <3|
WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.
I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze
like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.
Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;
safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.
optimum exposureCinco de Mayo, the city is drowning
in tequila and the first rainfall
in months, and she is home on the couch,
cupping a book like an injured baby bird,
pen and notebook just within reach and
and she wishes someone would
take a secret photo
of this moment:
and fingers like piano wire, the arc
of peacock-green, the whole of her
a poem, incorrectly translated.
The desert drenched in the sleepy
sweat of creosote and cedar, and
she doesn't miss the street scene, she
knows her heart as cryptozoological creature:
they have theorized its existence,
but it always shies just out of view
of the lens.
The Town Witch Every town has its witch. At least I think they do. I know ours does. She isn't scary like stories say she should be. She has a face like my older sister's, the one who isn't married yet, with an eager smile and bright eyes. Her hands though are like my Momma's, calloused and stretched with small roots under the skin.
Her cottage is just outside of town with a small path that runs down to the sea. Her garden is full of overgrown plants that Momma would always "tut" at when we walked by, but it's full of herbs and flowers that she tends with care. She always smells like the honeysuckle that grows around her door and like baking. She bakes o
|I can't always keep up with proper thanks, but know that I do thank anyone who reads anything of mine. |
Also, you're already welcome. So no need to thank me for a thing. (: