Poets-Refuge

I wish I could find the words to make it right I wish I could just squeeze you so tight That all of the hurt would fall like rain I would relieve you of all your pain I know I can't make any of it go away I know that you will find your own way But I can carry some of the weight while you do I can hold space for you to be you I want to be someone you can lean on I want to be there for you till it's all gone The heavy feelings in your chest The thoughts that won't let you rest I'll sit with you in silence with stars in our eyes I'll sit with you in the dark till we see the sunrise

Geometry Mathematics was always in my nature. A keen young mind, eager, striving for more. Born into modest privilege with a gift of numbers and a knack for isolated study. I, Young Mr. Baltimore, took with me into my solitude the time to cultivate a true love and respect for the collection of literature, letters, books, essays, maps and, on my head I swear, scrolls I found at our home library. Needless to say I spent many days and nights in profound study and application. Of all the subjects, I found mathematics both challenging and comforting, thus I pursued it. There is an odd strangeness I feel in knowing that real world events can be explained on two dimensional paper where individuals of a certain ability can discern information into numbers and equations that can aid the relevant cause. To be able to predict, with stunning accuracy, complex events with a sheet of paper and a #2 pencil. Perhaps an eraser. It comes as no surprise that being able to discern such events into

i will not be brought to my knees; should you strip me of a turn, i will cling that much harder to the vision of my mother building castles in the sand. i was a daughter, which is to say i was a murderer of dreams and you won’t keep me from the undertaking— from going through this life like it’s a game of finding ways to put my mother first (what is a daughter, if not the violent attempt at unraveling fate) i will not be brought to my knees, not when flowers learned to blossom earlier to welcome the arrival of my favorite boy, not when his lashes hold the truth to something greater and i get to the peek through the pages of a book to find him fast asleep, hair sprawled, not a care in the world despite the lights i never killed this is the life i get to hold and i won’t be brought to my knees for as long as it is granted i will bask under the softness of our quiet afternoons— faces ripened with the stains of too much laughter, irrevocable, hard to contain; i will speak it

Fervent fingers snatch away the skin Mechanized by disillusioned greed Vagabond peels make way For a terrene star, overflowing with rubescent droplets Such a potent vice Velveteen lips consume the promising navel, signaling the end of continuity And the beginning of impermanence She grips the withered asphodels, a queen of Iron and Dread Will she ever live again? An ashen interlude Breached only by delicate stirrings and bated breath.

How can we admire a clipped Rose? It is not that she is removed from the earth of her birth, Or from her sisters and mothers that cultivated her. But rather that, in an abrasive gesture, we admire her without her thorns. What are we teaching our Daughters? That we live in a world where submission is held in the regard of womanhood? And that as natural creatures, they should be culled of their natural design? And be kept in manners that would illicit their silence? Just as ours has been evoked by absence of testimony to this regard. I would not have our Roses clipped. I would have them bear their thorns. For I believe they have them, So that each Rose can grow separate and apart among the bush. And so that each Rose, in this fashion, grows unique and pleasing. And in consequence the entire bush is reaped of singular sights. With each stem growing so as not to harm its sisters. And each stem being insured in this regard that it will receive its full batch of luminous Sun. And be

And there upon the bow of a battered ship, A crest of ancient man, silent, immutable. Bearing all who gaze into its eyes to a shore of a forgotten world. A Land reap with treasure for scholar and warrior alike. The first who made landfall, an ascended shadow of themselves. Wracked with horror at the simplicity of Natures course, They now find Her as terrifying as the stoic Universe, Who could now only be said to be crafted by an Artisan. A device of resplendent precision, that echoes from itself the speech of but a mirror. Placed in the blackest of Abyss, Yet in that darkness, born a light, That reverberates a Hymn that is only heard once the choir is assembled. And here, today, breeching the Hallowed Halls of the internal Mind, Was loosed upon the world a discovery so foul. Yet only made so by the sheer blindness of our race. That should our tension be our only condemnation, we are fortunate. For here before this verdant void, we afford us an opportunity. To meet the challenge of

I touch my face to feel the tears, There aren't any I can feel, Yet the ocean that drowns me is plain to me, Although you'd never care for it. Long days have turned into long nights, Without you darkness never leaves my sight, It seems no matter how hard I try, The water is up to my neck as I cry. We never found each other I suppose, Never was I in your plans? It seems hard to tell the truth appart. While it hurts that your shadow left me behind, When I have to move foward I don't think twice, You were never here or I never left.

Plastic flowers never die. They are buried alive in dust. Sweet lips of lovers impart sudden death. Love is the bloodiest warfare I'll never pray to you again, in time of plenty, or in need. Stilt up my corpse, Re-educate me to love, only after I'm gone.

Insignificant little thoughts Trash cluttered in empty rooms The lights shut off, even when in use Condemnation of a mind, all from a bruise. Love bomb a love letter, and let it bloom. Temperature rises, as the sickness spreads Dread comes to a head, from nowhere grows the grief. Swallow down and choke on every one of my bones. No more gasoline doused angels, Just waiting to be burned. Burn yourself.