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starting something

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when unrequited love lingers too long,
it eats you from the inside out.
it claws its way under your skin,
and it boils in your blood.
it runs, screaming, through your veins.

it corrodes your body,
leaving your heart intact
to endure all the agony, 
all the tears, all the burdens
of your decaying corpse.

when its once-steady thrum falters
and falls out of step,
you are compelled
to put a gun in your mouth
or tighten the knot of a noose
or teeter on a precipice.

not because you have given up,
not because you have chosen death,
not because you are selfish,
but because your tired heart
can no longer bear the weight.

death comes when
the rotting in your bones 
outstrips the swelling of your heart.

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Finding the Writer

I am the error in my ways

a format that I can't explain

in status of an editor

it's hard to read my own work.

 


The principals that I've applied

are stretched and so they are denied

connected by similarities

immersed in substance but lacking a hook.

 


Vague does well to justify

I've tried to find a better side

but things are not as stable

or specific as they seem.

 


Just take a look and you will see

with reason there's uncertainty

and though I read and write in text

I am not a book.

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Looking to the sky

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The Craven

Gazing at an unsent query,

Long past midnight, drained yet leery,

Here I find myself with long nights' labor,

Craft of muse emplore.

My finger hovers 'fore the key,

My belly tightens, lurches, lees,

To warn me, bid me bide a little longer,

Begging, "Edit more."

I wrest and wrangle with this doubting,

Draft, redraft, and research shouting,

"Nothing else, if you have yet to say it right?

Then say no more!"

But say no more? A chill subsides me,

Pillared strength to salt inside me,

Resistances court me, sussurus

A chorus calling, "Edit more..."

Another beg for beta readers?

Lines read aloud, revising meter?

Second-guessed to second-handed

Threadbare scraps of withered lore?

What then? These choristers find silence?

Bless my tales of love and violence?

Laying down praises like feathers?

Rose petals? Nay! "Edit more!"

I tear my hair, the roots upending,

Knuckles red and ripped, fists sending

Shards of mirror glass against the walls

And ceilings, scratching doors.

And yet, I cannot send submit,

I linger, doubting faith and wit.

So here I stand, fucking about on tumblr.

Thinking, "Edit more..."

And with my muses long since parted,

Pages, links, and lives discarded.

Writ upon the epitaph of one more sinner?

"Edit more."

Prompt: An eldritch Anonymous asked me:

"Quoth the raven: 'Nevermore'."

Seriously, though. There is such a thing as too many drafts.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, exposure, and cash. I really will give anything an honest try.

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Words do no justice

 

I dreamt in poetry last night, I cannot remember a single word but I felt the art in my bones. Tried as I did to recall the pentameter it eluded my thoughts, fleeting shadows of metaphor and beauty. But you were there. This I know.

The image was spring mist and pastel blur, shifting heart-swells carried me aloft. I felt you rather than witnessed and that was far more tangible for the viewing. Perhaps there was not poetry as verse or couplet but movement and sensation, the enchanting poetry of your soul infused with my dreamscape. Whatever the truth of brushstrokes laid on masterpieces of desire, we were there and poetry was your sweet breath across my cheek.

I dreamt in poetry last night and awoke to find the stanzas contained no words, only you.

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Anxieties for Alone

Steaming cup of coffee with the rest
of the meal laid still on the table, I have kept
the knives on their proper cabinets. Set
everything to their proper locations—wine
glasses, the plates, shards of broken
tiles, the scattered forks on the
floor. I think I have OCD, but this is just
Sunday; normal to clean up
like mundane bathroom
rituals.

The nest of mice and
roaches, gone. The stench
of oozing vinegar, wiped
by a tsunami of cleaning
products. This is just Sunday.

Body heat is just resurfacing from
the epidermis. And I just need to cool
down,

eat my meal that has gone
cold, sip the still steaming hot cup
of coffee, and keep the pickle jar

in the freezer. That pickle jar
where I keep my heart.

Always be weary
of freezer

burn.

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So...what now?

Caught clocked in

at another boring pitfall;

back blocked off

front/left/right

all wrong.

Thinking that

I've got to be

something better

than a better me,

and I could be content

but is that what it means

to say you're free?

I just move

(I never said that I am living).

I don't have to prove

a single thing

cause I'm not listening,

and the only one that matters

doesn't need to hear to know

that everything will follow

once he's finished saying so...

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I was never here.

I was never a line of

misaligned buttons a pair of

lips which lines were always a size too small for yours

and if summer circa 2011 did not stain the back of your hands

my fingertips never touched your palms.

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The Birds Still Sing

 

earlier this morning than other mornings

I woke to rain peppering window panes

water filling street storm drains

dark sky upon a dark world, spilling

birdsong inspired, my soul thrilling

 rain will fall; yet, the birds still sing

 

this eerie dawn, ghostly resurrection

petulant deluge, drenching, dank, and gray

a somber intone for the day

as if my thoughts weren’t dark enough

nasty bits of swirling stuff

rain will fall; yet, the, birds still sing

 

the thought occurred “how can that be”

precariously perched in some oak tree

unspared foul weather, unlike me

yet sing with joy, rapturously

 

while the rain still droned and birdsong choired

from a bank of thoughts obscured in fog

one thought into clear view slogged

how wretched, I, to grouse and mewl

of life unfair, unkind, oft cruel

rain will fall; yet, the birds still sing

 

I’m warm and loved - suburban “nest” is dry

the jalopy starts each day on cue

my old shoes don’t shine, but they will do

if tomorrow comes, it’s a brand new day

these clouds may part; the sun may play

yes, rain will fall; yet, the birds still sing