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When Sarah left.We did not speak in volumes, we had quiet mouths that were infant-likeWhen Sarah left.
in their crawl towards the matching loudspeakers we made from plastic cups.
It was a year ago today. It was
a hot day and I sat on a Union Jack, clasping ski goggles and suntan lotion
like they could save me from things that grow
and swell inside
or things that make you ashamed to be in love or things that make you blinder the sadder you get. I sat as two men spoke of a man named Clive. He would come and reuse bricks and bits of bones to rebuild the wall
we kicked d


Another statisticToday I went to work. I smiled while I asked for extra time for my exams, what I really meant was extra time for my heartAnother statistic
It is malignant, you see, and lately it's been telling me stories that swell
and will result in death.
Stories of when I fell in love with a narcoleptic girl,
in a pub where we clung to psalms and souls like I was about to move to the other side of the world and pray with my chest
tucked safely into calendars.
Stories that would unfold when I got on a plane all foetus-like and frightened, stories like this,
of secre


i'm a broken heartI don't write poetry with the right heart, I am a little disgusting.i'm a broken heart
A little pale. A little starving And a little pleasetakemeback.
I have a broken microphone in my chest, trying to sing to you in muffled sounds that I make. I know I should not love you in this way.
But I do.
Still.


RetreatSince there's nothing I can do about love, I've written it all to exhaustion, I'd better go to the river and pound this paper on the rocks to wash it clean.Retreat
The words come now only to say these things.
I've learnt the art of folding and set armadas on the water, I've dug holes in the sand with my heel, buried poems like some dog, like some baby looking for water who knows that God will come eventually to her aid. I put pen to driftwood once, I have a photograph.
These are the things, these are the only things,
anything else is filigree and


An Irregular Type B+Sometimes I can’t find you between the flaps of muscle, racing white cells, and hemoglobin heavy red, like you’ve hidden under my pulse.An Irregular Type B+
(I know I frustrate you like a linked puzzle you can’t take apart or a Mad Lib with nouns in all the wrong places. I know I’m intemperate, high-temper-rated, and the weather in a cove
by *ilona
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< primus>I just can't get enough sausage in my mouth, no
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It seems a fantastic paradox, but it is nevertheless a most important truth, that no architecture can be truly noble which is not imperfect.
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No need to thank me for "Faves" or Watches; however, if you feel the need, please do so in my Shoutbox.
Thank you.
your work INSPIRED me to get a deviantart account.
I want to favourite all of your work.
it is so good.
and if you could check out my gallery and tell me what you think, I would REALLY appreciate it.
(L)(L)
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If there is any secret to this life I live, this is it: the sound of what cannot be seen sings within everything that can. & there is nothing more to it than that.
~ Brian Andreas
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