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sad story, self #1 April 8, 2009

Posted by Girlbird in life, poetry, relationships, writing.
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What she hates most is the
bitter fact:
there is no one to blame, really,
but herself.

After all.
It was she who built the cage,
And, sleepless,
reached around the bars
to turn the key in the old, rusty lock — yes.

Baby did it,
all by herself.

Of Siblings and State Buildings February 24, 2009

Posted by Girlbird in poetry, relationships, Uncategorized, writing.
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She threw the Empire State Building against the wall.
Years later, he threw her.
The pinnacle of fourteen years spent shouting in public halls.

She took his spotlight, invaded his small
Attentive atmosphere.
She threw the Empire State Building against the wall.

She took his space, and made it fall
From the sacred height he revered,
Giving way to fourteen years spent shouting in public halls.

He took her heart and made it crawl
Into a world engineered.
She threw the Empire State Building against the wall.

They often uttered nothing at all,
A silency heavy, austere.
The rest of those fourteen years were spent shouting in public halls.

It was only a toy, insignificant, small.
But the repercussions were severe.
She threw the Empire State Building across the wall,
Cutting the ribbon to years spent shouting in public halls.

(a villanelle… and a true story.)

the tragic tale of the cast-off coffee pot February 14, 2009

Posted by Girlbird in poetry, writing.
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She sits, pending, in the corner
a siren once seductive,
now abandoned for sleeker, more efficient models.

A snaking tail protrudes, coiling around her body
its two prongs, devil-like,
poised in resentful wait.

Her silver arm extends
in a beckon once inviting,
now only a crooked testimony

to how one,
nearly comatose, perhaps
would reach for her bloodless, bewitching form,

removing her molded polypropylene coronet
to pour moist, blackened grittiness into the dark orifice below
reaching for the pinpoint of migraine-inducing infrared,

to induce the drip-drip of liquid carcinogens
– akin to draining gutter contents after a flash flood –
into the crystal chamber just big enough for one
solitary
cup
of bitterness –

A cavern now sullied by a glaze of dead skin cells and miniscule pollen fibers,
a tell-tale whorl of a stain
the faded lipstick print of an open-mouth kiss.

A cavern that now only holds such treasures
As headless, withered jewels of insects
Ladies adorned in red and black with filmy, crumpled sashes…

Instead of enticing liquidated cinders.

The damsel sits, pending, in the corner.
Forever in wait.

Should you wish to draw her out,
to ignite her inner mechanisms into caffeinated frenzies once again –
Tread carefully.

Pay close attention to the warning
inscribed on her pallid shoulder:

“Caution:
Relieve pressure through steam tube before removing cap or brew basket.”

A worthy piece of advice
when dealing with any
tempestuous vessel.

-Me (Siri Hammond) 02/12/09
originally posted at Snaps, my english teacher’s class poetry blog. This was his coffee pot, by the way. In the corner. I unearthed it under piles of other junk. Hah.

learning January 3, 2009

Posted by Girlbird in life, love, poetry, Uncategorized.
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ahahah it's me all over.

ahahah it's me all over.

won’t you make my heart grow
faster?
won’t you make my soul fly
higher?
won’t you make my dreams linger
longer?
I thought you would.
I thought you could.

but you made my heart falter
sooner
and my soul sink
lower
and my dreams flicker
sooner
because you wouldn’t.
because you couldn’t.

but now my heart is growing
wiser
and my soul is gliding
smoother
and my dreams taste
sweeter
because I will.
because I can.

poetry written at midnight or later December 6, 2008

Posted by Girlbird in writing.
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Obsessive Cleaning

She cut her finger on a can,
washing dishes –
It was 11:38 PM.

(she ony cleans voluntarily when she’s agitated
or when the world turns upside down)

the blood
it stained the water red.

(the dishes too)

there is a bloodstain on the linoleum.

Blood

Seeping into the lines
In her slender finger

(lines of cleavage, she read in her anatomy book)

there’s something satisfying about the way
it oozes out

like a bit of her soul.

(we’re all just masses of tissue and dna anyway)

sticks the finger
in her mouth
tastes so

salty sweet.

Yes, I understand…

We’re all just a mistake
Evolution gone awry.

His lips

…were chapped.

And the other’s were insistently
boyish.

But yours?
She thinks yours would do quite nicely.