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In full bloom

I am ready.
My heart split open
and blooming muted green
like olive trees back home

where life grew with me
branches that take time to mature.
If I look at my feminine hands, fingers
colour of cracked, southern mud

of which roots
of olive trees give birth to love.
Bathe me in sunshine, love
and I will root into you.

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Clutter - writer

How do I make my fingers dance
Oh dance
to the music in my head

I have verses waiting
to be screamed at
unsuspecting victims

Oh dance
My fingers so thin
so strong

My head is
the shell of a walnut
Tough to crack

My brain
coloured walnut earth
with earthly ideas

I am a woman
and a writer
I want to be more

of a writer
a speaker,
a sparkle on a stage.

I am a woman
and a daughter
I want to be more

of an idea
a word or line
a poem flowing like a river

How do I find
the drop
that will make rivers flow

my words
shed through sharp fingers
I want to flood the world.

The school of heart

When my heart broke and my little brain learned that love was not mine,
that love was not forever and love was not unconditional 
I became love. 
I poured liquid love from my eyes as if it would stick on as if pain was the seed I needed for my heart to be fertile.
When love seemed unachievable and family became a choice
I seeked love. 
like a mushroom clinging to trees too large  yet blown by the winds. 
When friends disapointed, bonds forgotten and unimportant...
Love became me. 
Cold and distant fingertips, eyes bulging onto a screen, anxiety typing away poems without life. 
When love, stopped being bitter and forgot for a moment its shoulds and fears and its abandon...
Love happened. 
The way no one said it would.


What air do you breathe, heavenly?
That makes the waterfall of your hair drop so softly.
What sun bathes your skin in gold?

I have loved you forever.
I have cherished the words in your lips
and the memories that colour your eyes.

I've worshipped the strength of your legs
and every moment I have been safe
at the skills of your hands.

Thank the universe,
for what force has twisted your brain
into existence and survival.

But the air you are breathing lately
to make you so beautiful
must come from beyond our universe.

Where have you been heavenly being?
I have looked for you all my life,
and now you are here, your neck drips sunshine.

Absolute nonsense

I cannot read you strange being.
You are full of light and good thoughts.  I love the way our lips birth smiles together. 
I cannot make sense of words but oh I really want to because my heart is so whole it deserves every letter. 
Why did no one ever write the book of light that sheds from young and happy eyes like ours? 
I think my idols were too busy, burning papers in candlelit evenings, writing about cows, and sipping morning dew for breakfast. 
When they looked into their lover's eyes, they would see the world bursting into joyful nothingness.


At night I read poetry and whisper
between strawberries and gin,
that aren't always friendly.

My tongue traces
from time to time
The Cynic's Monologue
at love's end, this inability to love.

And I chase
the gods of poetry
for answers within the words.

It might be unbearable
to seek in vain
a truth that is not crafted.
Only paper does not hurt.

And I chase reluctantly
Neruda, Browning, and Poe
but it is Agolli's dry, simple verse
the only love I know.

Now what?

It is as if  the broken pieces of my heart have shattered  so much I have become sand.
I feel 1700 degrees of happiness. 
If I melt into the right shape I will be so beautiful, it will be a crime to let me break again.