Lines

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A woman by a wall painted with Revolutionary Poetry, in London, 1970s Richard Braine/PYMCA (from ‘Unordinary People: A celebration of British youth culture’)

Indefinite streaks of infinity running in one direction
words spilled over into cups of inspiration overflowing with obsession
so she writes
hurrying to let go of the pain caught in the palms of her hands
when
raindrops washed away dirt only to leave blisters of unspoken words on racing lines
how will she ever catch up?
Not talented enough to open her mouth in time to swallow the air so that she may catch her breath
not enough lines left over for exhausted words to sit and to wait
so what do I tell her?
what advice is there available for the woman with bleeding hands and a song to sing?
what kind of shoes are necessary to ensure that she keeps running in the same direction the lines are running
and
how many times
how many times must the caged bird write before she sings?
What advice shall be given to the one behind enemy lines?
Somewhere within the margins of the page
on the WRITE side of the RIGHT side
tell her
to stop hiding under her notebook
Tell her blue lines are not running they’re waiting
to search for similes beneath the surface
like
question marks these lines are empty on purpose
cuz
spoken words are not written they’re spoken on purpose
you tell her ….
this water didn’t come from raindrops in the sky
but the raindrops underneath her eye
-lids
Tell her it’s OK
to cry
even her messiah did
Cuz deeply emotional is the truth
and hearts aint bullet proof
but these lines
tell her these lines are waiting for her to get there
blank paper anticipate being stabbed in the chest
and wait for the blood you call ink to transform into the familiar alphabets the world has grown to love
called words
Indefinite streaks of infinity running in one direction
skillful lines
waiting
2 be heard

Pre-Conceived Notions

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the first time we met, I stood knee deep in lust
took advantage of your smile
never thought I would fall for it
too young to realize I’ve just never met a man before
dancing in your eyes
willing
to gamble my last just for a chance to see you again
your words,
so elegant that I thought deception wrapped its arms around my waist
tried
to convince me our love was nothing but child play
planned
to hold nothing in my heart but a piece of your gaze
and now
just maybe
you’ll let me kiss the anger from your voice
babysit your thoughts in my lap
let you feed on the wisdom of my breast
and we’ll dance neck up in peace & tranquility

Guest Feature – Fear Itself Is Undefined by Bianca Flores

I lay on my bed soaking my pillow with my tears,
I try to remember exactly what it is that I fear.
Is it the passing of time or the love that I lack?
Is it the mistakes that I’ve made or the fact that I can’t bring the past back?
What is it that I’m afraid of?
Why am I so scared?
Is it the people I’ve hurt or the people that have hurt me?
Am I afraid of everything that I cant seem to see?
Is it the love of a friend, or the loss of my family?
Is it the possibility that my life can end in a tragedy?
What is it that I fear most?
What do my eyes say I’m scared of?
Is it the sun that sets but won’t seem to rise?
Is it the hope that I have that always seems to die?
Is it the trust of a person that I cannot begin to grasp?
Is it all the memories of my horrid past?
Is it me?
Can it possibly be that the thing I fear most is the thing I can’t be?
The things that I try to understand?
The me that I try to be with when I’m feeling sad?
The person I’m expected to be? Is that what I fear? . . .
I think the thing I fear most . . .is me

– Poem written by Bianca Flores