kmotsko

‘What is music?’ A little boy asked me that today. I bent down so that our faces were level And then I said to him with a smile, ‘Why do you care? Out of so many people today Why do you care?’ He looked back at me His eyes too thoughtful for his age And he said right back to me, ‘Because I want to make good music.’ I liked that answer, and I told him so. He was happy and he smiled. ‘Take my hand,’ I said, ‘and walk with me now And I will show you those things that proper music make.’ He put his small hand into mine and came with me. I didn’t know what to make of this, he t

Can I? Here I, under something so simple, found our first unworthy reasonings - proving strangely for us the doubtful fact: truths so strong, we’ve not any response for my             shallow,  limitless                                             space [      ]. I’m becoming somebody that I regretted knowing: a remote, confusing and terrified salvation for somehow                       being                                  a                                       [        ].                  (Empty.) Honestly, so  [       ]  incomplete [without this] knowledge that says you’re constancy:  

you see no mark upon my skin you see no tear in my eye you see no sign of pain therefor I must not be in pain I must not cry myself to sleep at night or wake up screaming because of haunted dreams I must not pull the blade across my skin and hope that one day it drives in deeper I must not fear the darkness or shudder at the thought of silence I must not hide myself from life and prying eyes that judge your worth as a person upon the shine of your smile you hear no gasp escape my mouth you hear no horror tale from my past you hear no words of pain therefor I must not be in pain I must not scream so loud it's silent o

My friend, when we met I didn't understand you, And you didn't understand me. I would play with you because I felt as though I should. You were, after all, here only for me. We didn't always get on as well as hoped, My time with you was almost a burden. Many times I left you to play with other friends, But you always waited for me to return. Many times I would grow frustrated with you, I even attacked and mistreated you. But it was I who knew not your potential, And the ways in which you sought to aid me. As time passed, we grew together, You became my confidant. It was to you that I would turn to express myself. You'd always

the distance to you is measured as the crow flies not with rolling dice deciding movements through spaces (squared with rules) not with red fleece followed through labyrinths dark not followed round bends, only measured as the crow flies (and as our bird lands above on power lines high be sure to speak softly or away our crow flies)

his memories are making a glorious mud i. it is a lumberjack's wife whose veins are budding twigs, arms feeble as every dried branch to soak a shining star. it is her who bares such troubled wrists for oven mitts, so ardently delivers her hoggish assembly some hulking bird whose body cavity is crammed tight to the sphincter with a spiced bread. instinctively, she goes for the knife. there is some raucous applause as she serrates its oiled, peppered and flightless skin and on into its succulent chest meat as every spectator dreams of flying. her blade burrows farther in and under enough to dredge up a pinkish marrow, where

Fat. Fat. Fat. Look at my stomach. Sticks out so much. Size 1 pants? Not thin enough. They're loose? Only because I'm sucking it in. Two, four, six, eight, all of my ribs can be seen. Not enough. My hips? What's wrong with them? They stick out, so what? That doesn't make me thin. Almost below 100. Maybe at 90 I'll be happy, even 80. 70 could be ideal. Thinner is better right? So why are you staring at me like that? I know I'm fat. You don't have to remind me. You don't look at this in the mirror.

Playing a song that seems so sad, over and over mom fought with dad. Got a divorce when I was just six, now I have a heart that refuses to fix. I don't even know where to begin, I never want to talk to you again. you don't care you just ask "why?" i wake up in the middle of the night to cry. sometimes i want to die. staying in a room just us alone, you want to stay here, but i want to go home. you hit me, you hate me. You sit you make me. you tell me how much i mean to you, but then you beat me down, and say your sorry. i need to stop believing your lies, i need to trust my brain and not my eyes. you apologize when yo