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 Oct 2015 Meandering Words
Moe
Home
 Oct 2015 Meandering Words
Moe
home is
sitting in my truck at 2:30 in the morning, smoking *** and talking endlessly about nothing.
home is
laying in your bed and heavily sleeping at 4 am.
home is
playing on a playground and smoking cigarettes at 3 in the morning.
home is
sitting in your truck at 1 am and looking up at the stars.
home is
listening to jazz at midnight. even though I really hate jazz.
for me,
home,
is not a place.
home,
is you.
and soon I'll be coming home every day.
happy birthday, sylvia plath
i'm writing you a birthday letter
because nobody does it enough anymore

i studied your book once and
had a horrifying vision
that i would be rejected
and i would forget language and words and
i wouldn't write anymore
like you i suffered to breathe
i suffered to watch and i
found comfort in *****
i couldn't drink it neat like you did
i could fall asleep
but you didn't

your pain pained me
and i wondered what you'd think of
my writing
if we'd swap poems and

but we couldn't
i suffered rejection too
and for a while the words wouldn't come
i slept more and ate less
i smoked more and spoke less
but i found the words again
taught myself from reading dictionaries of loss
and though my bad habits remained
i felt ever so slightly more like me
and less like you

i got better
i wish you did too
You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.
Seething through the broken night
Shush the moment brought to light

The whispers heard by crying sound
as footprints cross the solemn ground

Gates passed through to Bachelor's Grove
Eyes of cold and constant flows

She haunts your thoughts and every step
Shivering spine with goose bumps left

Ghostly figures at night time stray
Orbs on  film can't look away

Look right through the fields of stone
Aged with time and weathered tone

Shoulders tapped with haunted thought
The air was empty, your mind is caught

Turned around with no one there
Hallow's Eve with more to scare

Visions of past and Chicago's dead
Rise on up through blackened thread

Screams of terror and morbid sins
Stopped in tracks, they're gone again

Reach the gate of rusted steel
Fallen down on deadly keel

Out of the depths of the spirit's trove
Passed through the gates of Bachelor's Grove
a little Halloween themed piece about Bachelor's Grove cemetery in Chicago, a really haunting experience
In high-school chemistry classrooms across the
country, you are forced to memorize all of the different
lab equipment.
They never tell you to memorize the constellation
of freckles spattered across the bridge of your
lab partner's nose, but you do it
anyways.

You learn about Marie Curie and radioactive decay, but you
find you are more interested in the way his smile starts small
and grows to light a fire in your cheeks.
You blame it on the Bunsen burner.

You study polyatomic ions and how they act as a single unit, and it
reminds you of how he winks at you right before quizzes
and you find you can't focus on anything at all.
You blame it on the lack of breakfast.

You test over periodic trends and ionization energy, but all
you can think of at night is the way he taps his fingers
and maybe it's why you can't sleep at night.
You blame it on a restless mind.

In high-school chemistry classrooms across the
country, you are forced to be careful when handling
Erlenmeyer flasks.
They never tell other students to be careful when handling
your heart.
They never tell you how much easier it is to clean up the mess
from a shattered beaker than it is to clean up the mess
from your shattered heart.
ombré shadows
hazelnut health help
sparkling necks please
come back to my chest
cure the apple bruises
the hardness of the night
the zeal and lust for all things natural
help my wandering bones
clouds perfumed with smoke
moans that shiver my brain
faces lit by the scenery
the blank walled scenery
angels floating on your wallpaper
let minds fly down
into a cavern. maybe
let the yellow yawns echo throughout
the stars into your
sickness.
**** me
to make me more like you
and so if I sing into air
it's heavenly air
essential angst
I kissed his lips at midnight and somehow he convinced me that Sunday mornings were made for bacon and cuddles and Saturday nights shouldn't be spent crying yourself to sleep

I kissed his lips at midnight and I learned what it feels like to have someone who truly wants you in all their timidity, someone who is ready to lift your chin up and grab your face and lean in despite height differences

I kissed his lips at midnight and I realised that sometimes the best decisions are made spontaneously, out of the blue in the middle of the street with hands intertwined as if we knew each other for ages when really it was two hours

I kissed his lips at midnight and my heart was left in his hands, because those kisses continued until Sunday at four thirty pm and since then he's all I can think about
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