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 Feb 2014 Hooflip
Lappel du vide
i wrapped myself in twirling circles
inside a redwood tree,
tall, burned and cascading all around
our shaking bodies,
a bundle of sage drifting through
patterns of golden
rain.

naked bodies swam in dark
water that slept under a drifting fog;
Newport filters made for tired fires,
driftwood instead.

emptied packs and emptied stomachs
threw themselves into
a waiting bed of blackberry brambles
scratched skin burned in
2 a.m. drifting shower steam.

now,
i am tired,
because i fed the fire within me
too much
and something is slightly missing,
left along with the charred remains of my
forgotten shirt,
on a riverbed that was once brutal,
but now held bare golden limbs.
it's probably lying somewhere
carefully disguised in
light and blowing leaves on
a dark forest floor,
but i haven't the energy to take it back.

bruised necks never swallow well.
 Feb 2014 Hooflip
witchy woman
I suppose
as we grow older
the bitter wind
bites,
just a little bit colder.

The summer heat,
feels just slightly
more unbearable,
a tad  
too sweltering.

The wind whips
more aggressively
than before,
blowing through
the window screens
& underneath front doors.

Summer scent,
doesn't seem
to hold the same
saccharine bliss,
as it did
when we were
but kids.

Dread & gloom
appear with the
slow spit of rain
but,
do you remember a time
it filled
the puddles in which
you used to
laugh & play?

"Youth is
wasted on
the young"
We are so
often told.

Yet I see
no prevalence
in being
embittered & old.
 Feb 2014 Hooflip
Jessie
rEaLiTy
 Feb 2014 Hooflip
Jessie
I look at the same place
Once
Twice
A thousand times
And I still will not be sure
That it is reality

I don't always say what I mean
And I mean a lot of things I don't say
So I talk with you in my head
And you, and you, and you
I always get replies

I catch myself smiling or frowning
And then I give myself a scolding
But the worst is when I forget
Which conversations were real
And which ones were not

Sometimes
My body twitches
And I can't stop
 Feb 2014 Hooflip
Sydney Ranson
I sweat in my sleep now,
and drench sheets from dreaming
of the three years
when a fourteen and a half hour
time zone difference
was what my every day revolved around.
My tee-shirt clings to
soggy skin that shivers and prickles
with goosebumps,
and continues to remind me
that I’m waking up without
telling you goodnight.
I jotted this down in about five minutes. Just putting it on here as a zero draft for some feedback. Thanks in advance!
Cherry-pick your exposure
that you won't have to deal
with those parts of yourself
making you uncomfortable:

Keep running from the inside
if you so insist;
running in smaller circles,
I want to witness it:
faint from the dizziness.
 Feb 2014 Hooflip
Lappel du vide
it's sort of funny how i can bang you like
a frying pan to the head
and *** all your cigarettes
until your pockets are empty
and so is the bed
because

i'll want to know what kissing the
boy who lives next door
with the green eyes
feels like too
 Feb 2014 Hooflip
Lappel du vide
****
i wish we could drop acid
on a rolling hill like earthly ocean
waves,
summer breeze swiftly rocking
us back and forth in the
twisting realities, and
folding, condensing, expanding
visions, exploding in our
open, wide eyes.

i wish i could kiss you
and feel flowers grow from
your lips,
my ******* turning into
opening roses
soft and voluptuous under your
persistent hands.

get grass in my hair,
and count each and every one of the
angrily pulsating stars above us
as we lay naked somewhere
where reality can't breach.

let me comfortably say after
that i have lost my virginity;

because it'll be the first time i've ever
made love to a god.
 Feb 2014 Hooflip
Lappel du vide
i wrote my first poem
when i was somewhere around the age of two or three,
singing out the words,
and having my mother write them down.

something about a rose,
and its devotion to the light.
i have it scribbled down somewhere.

then, the words took form in shaky
childs writing,
small words and sentences describing fantastical worlds
swirling vividly in my mind,
and then in elementary school drawl,
across colored construction paper,
then on my arms and legs in middle school,
in black ink scrawling across
golden skin,
sinking in.

then, books full
of endless pages filled with
flowing and burning inspiration piled on my desk
and by my bed
the most ferocious of inspiration finding me in all my
highschool classes.
a sketchbook,
or at least a pen always held close at hand,
i even had inspiration in the shower,
and sometimes ran out naked
if i forgot a pad and pencil.

my love of words started when my mother
used to read me poetry in the womb,
and play tapes of Native American
flute music as she fell asleep
to the small, but constant feeling of
my unborn lips inside her growing stomach
forming the outline of
words to be written and said.

i started writing,
and it became my addiction;
and i've never felt the urge to stop.
 Feb 2014 Hooflip
Lappel du vide
STOP
CALLING
PEOPLE
"MOTHER *******"

DO YOU HAVE ANY RESPECT?

WHY IS "*****" AN INSULT?
WHY DO MEN CALL OTHER MEN "GIRLS"
WHEN THEY ARE "WEAK"?

WEAK?
WEAK YOU SAY?

A WOMAN BIRTHED YOU OUT OF
HER ******* ******* ******
SWEATING AND ******
IN A BATTLEGROUND OF AGONY,
SHE WENT THROUGH HOURS OF THAT PAIN
JUST SO YOU COULD BE CREATED.

do you really have such small respect
for the STRONGEST CREATURES on this earth?

**** IT UP, AND LOOK AT YOUR POSITION IN THIS WORLD.

WOMEN ARE NOT WEAK.

if you really want to test the strength of a *****
why don't you kick a man and a woman's crotch at the same time?

you can guess which one will be crouched
and holding their nether regions, gasping in
agony afterwards.

STOP BEING
SO
*******
IGNORANT,
AND RESPECT
THE *******
BEAUTIFUL WOMEN
IN THIS SPINNING WORLD.
who are "mother *******" anyways?
fathers.
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