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freewrite (9.28.14)

and then one day you wake up
and realize that
you’ve spent more of your
light dragging your
sorrows into sunshine —
bought more stock in your
pains, and angers, and
darkness, the relics that you keep
with you each morning, than you’ve invested
into your smile —

one day, you will reach down
to grab your bags before walking
through another threshold, toward another
same-old-new-thing, your hands
will start shaking,
will look up at you,
will grow mouths,
will grow teeth,
will snarl “no,”
will ask
how you could be so stupid; how
you could believe
that the pieces of past you wear
like dog tags
dangled lazily across your breast plate
have ever actually spared or saved you; have ever not
just been your own blood painted like a bullseye around
your soft tissues and fears —

your hands will look
up at you and ask whether you
are better off, or whether you
just acclimated to
breathing angry and pushed-to-fringe as if
it were an altitude shift, and just
learned to find comfort in the places
that light doesn’t go willingly —

when your hands
look up to you, lifelines crying, asking why
you have forsaken them, I’m just begging
that you listen.

they are trying to save you.

Anonymous asked:

Do you read other people's work?

Not nearly enough, but I certainly learned what poetry was (certainly continue to learn what poetry is) through my reading of other people’s interpretations of it. 

Do you have anyone specific in mind, because I love reading poems. email them to — and tell me why they matter to you if you’re not the poet, or why this poem mattered to you if you are.


Quote Iconplease forgive my quiet.
I’ve been listening to God,
and men, and
trying to live down
each of my
days, my dreams
haven’t come ‘round
as often as nightmares have; it’s scary
when you can’t let go, and you
have more reasons to wake
up tomorrow than to
sleep tonight.
Niles Heron, Freewrite 9.15.14
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Freefragment, 8.29.14

she was like walking
up to the edge of a cliff
and letting your toes dangle
taste freedom; giving them
a chance to plume, or learn
they were always every-only human, she
was a dream on a picket fence
straddling, struggling to name
itself as either flying or
the other thing.

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freewrite 8.26.14

until I watched her at low-tide, I never
she could pull water from the rocks

until I walked to the shore at dawn, and
found her moon-lonely, floating
above the empty remnants of a river once home
to a town-full of

until erosion turned her cheeks to
aqueducts, pouring herself back into

until she looked at me and asked
if I thought they would notice that
from now on the Mississippi would be salt water,

until I looked into her eyes, hollowed and
cored and caved, and
all of the things I had drowned or orbited
in her over the years was looking back
at me

I didn’t know that running
just leads
to caught

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What Kind Of A Name Is That? (freewrite 8.20.14)

Do not be alarmed, Jim,
I know how you feel
about silence, but it’s not
what you think, we have simply
chosen to begin
counting our dead in the words
they lived, and in our own
languages; ones
built with more light
more love, more
than the ones you gave us.

We are tired of watching
pieces of ourselves ascend
to Heaven, only to have their
dispatch demand that we pay for
the opportunity to stand
closer to God.


A Beautiful Night Sky,
With More Stars
Than You Have Bullets.