Best of NaPo 2018 Week 3

Here you go Now that Week 2 AND 3 are now posted, we're all caught up.

Quick note! Don't forget, if you're trying to participate in the NaPo Commenting Contest (which honestly you should) any pieces featured on Challenge winner journals  AND pieces featured in my weekly "Best Of" (like this one) count for double points. So keep that in mind.  If you do comment on these for that purpose, try to remember to star those when you note the group with your comments at the end of the month! 

For more info, see here: NaPo Comment Contest!

You know the drill! Take a gander and show some love below.


Best of NaPo: Week 3


how to be pardonedi.
Die but
with daffodils
in your throat.
ii.
Drift between
withering and life
mongst the ever-loved.
Know that you are
one.
iii.
Disappear but
with a wing on fire and her
dandelion desire
as you weave, quiet,
into wind. To furnish a dream(18/30)Once,
when the will was clear
and the enthusiasm was smooth
and the printed inks did soothe
and scare away the urge
to use the void of a window as a
downwards plane,
we dreamt of a fertile work:
to plant the pen´s saliva
in the mild dark
of a lazy lamp
and an encouraging margin
and harvest checks
and harvest a life
and harvest a peace.
Once,
but Life and Truth
are inexorable bulllets
aiming straight
to your dream´s spine.<da:thumb id="740557498"/> off he goes - beyond horrorwhile the girl explores miracles with her brush
striking soft on the canvas that is her face
he listens to Deacon Blues and laughs
the horror of stray beasts
when they come across a man that cares..
yesterday night, while she was sleeping deeply
he was lost in thoughts, and lands of math
which he had never stepped foot upon
while he was still at school
the horror of sweet dolls
when they come across a mind that
doesn’t understand defilement. 
and then a string of light, fleeting like the moon
under the morning sky, took the remainder
of his soul away, and he was never to return to her side
instead flying even now, as we speak
towards the crown of infinity
the horror of my young self
when I wonder how long it will take you to realise you are dead
while I should be asking the opposite
how long will it take me to realise you are alive. . ?


if she let him gothere would never be a person like him ever again:
the way he seemed to breathe poetry every time he spoke,
how nothing in the mortal world could ever satisfy him,
and how every little thing he did for her make her
feel like they could conquer the world together and that
she was worth everything
but she didn't know if he could say the same
about her, and she was afraid that maybe
he deserved someone as impeccable as him, and that
she would be settling for someone else because they just weren't
him. A Symphony of Vivid Vexation and Red ResentmentHer mouth is open and you can see her teeth; they look like pearls against a backdrop of
red
She's sad but she's screaming
And you can't quite
"Read her lips"
The way she tells you to.
Her curly black hair bounces after her head, and her hands wave in the air dramatically—
Jazz hands
But without the jazz
And with all the drama.
Your mouth is dry and parched, so you've fetched a glass of water
That you sip as you watch.
You feel guilty
But there's a fury boiling inside of you that's deep and ferocious and refuses to let you go
Pain bursting, jabbing itself into your brain, pinpricks in every fissure and every empty space.
"So we messed up".
But there is no we.
We has been lost in the swirling tides.
There is only you
And no driftwood to save you.
Whose fault is it?
You taste a-pol-ogy on your tongue but it is a foreign food with a harsh bitterness that scrapes against your tastebuds
You wish to spit it out but can only swallow
Miserably.
Your stony silence gives her incenti<da:thumb id="740633384"/> xv. it's a selfish thing, reallyit's a quick freeze and then all my
senses change to senseless and
i'm defenseless to the irony of the situation,
how everything
seems one way but is anything but, the next
time you'll see me i'll be a different person.
don't doubt my ability to adapt,
i'm a storm wrapped up tight and bound and
trapped
but not for long.
there's a blizzard now but
oh i'll show you what it's like
to burn,
my heart was churned and welded from
the pit of a volcano
and you can feel the magma in my chest running
through my veins
running
away
you will run away when you've seen what i can do
but that's okay.
the worst things always come back to you,
bigger stronger for longer than before,
my eyelids are dripping with red paint and
it's all i can see.
(i don't act on sensibility anymore
i act on greed).

what i wish i could tell youi wish i could tell you how she ties knots in my heart, how her laugh & her songs & her touch fills my life. i wish you could feel just a fraction, how sweetly my name rings in her mouth, encapsulated by her full & smiling lips. i wish you could see her beauty, her perfection, how she lets me trail my hands over her stomach, her most vulnerable self. i wish you could feel as safe as i do when she holds me, quiet breath of my neck & so warm. i wish i could explain how it is to kiss her, how i never imagined how good she tastes, her touches which i crave. (& girls are just so soft.)
i am dreaming of the day i’m not afraid of our love. i am dreaming of the day i am brave. Sex and Politics
17/30
Ahhh, dirty sex and politics,
A combo never getting old.
To beat the devil at his game
And leave him standing in the cold.
But tell the truth, it’s all the same,
The Church & State can’t do a thing
When White House staffers get their kicks
While flying high Route 6-6-6.
The sex is bad, or should I talk
From unused prophylactic shock.
When Stormy weather rocks the ship,
She otherwise is well-equipped.
The overuse of eyelash fringe
Takes more than that to make me cringe,
If all that payoff’s meant to be
Cosmetic plastic surgery.
The Donald’s worse from what we’re told,
So Miss, if I may be so bold,
Before you cut him to the quick,
Does Trump have a 2-headed dick? esotericalways he is aware
of noise, or
lack thereof:
his boots thudding
in the snow,
birds screaming
overhead,
night sounds:
animal and
other.
the rustling of
maps, scrolls, notes:
where to next?
where
will he find food,
shelter,
perhaps a companion
to last a few days?
a loner
by design
not choice
a wanderer
not lost
but driven
to walk on
until
the end

Slam PoetryI don't
do
slam poetry.
My voice is
too quiet,
too plain,
too forgettable.
My content isn't
extraordinary -
nothing that
hasn't
already
been said.
And I'm too socially
aw
   kw
ar  d.
People
mystify me...
and terrify me.
So my already
soft spoken voice
becomes a mere
breeze
whispered
into a microphone...
if nerves even
let
my vocal chords
work.
No,
I don't
do
slam poetry...
but I
want to...
maybe someday
courage will
kick anxiety's
arse,
and let me
be
me. The Second SundayThe Second Sunday
The rime of frost on painted eggs
laid quiet joy to the children.
Sunday blood was cold in our mouths.
We knew: God's tears were ours alone...
Flowers on a Damascus road.
MaggotsX @ 04.15.2018 exhaleand you say we are all gods children left in a parked car with the windows rolled up
and i think about summer and the wet air breathing fog and the fireflies drunk
and losing themselves in a sticky sundown and parents scolding skinned knees
and broken curfews and the cool glass of sweet tea sweating a halo into the checkered tablecloth
and i think about what it meant when you said that angels are born to swim

Desert Sand StormSudden burning sensation rises
Gust of wind turns painful
A moment before the demon prises
Tormenting screams disdainful
Menacing shadow looming overhead
Pitch wall high and unending
As atoms being to tear and shred
Flesh and bone begin rending
As eroded in mere seconds
So buried as well under the dunes
Assimilated like the zecchins
Made one with the cursed boons XVII. To the things I will never not see again.van Gogh was near sighted so
to him
all the lights were halos and
all the prostitutes angels
with fuzzed out faces and
skirts rucked up like flags
around hips hot from ¡helpme! hands.
He could never tell the color.
(I always knew your sway was
a wide red one.)
Alcohol bottles +
rivers at night +
guns
have halos too.
Light interferes.
Constructively;
destructively.
Sometimes you’re left with nothing. NaPoWriMo Day 18 - OpulentIt’s not transgressive, and
it’s not transgressive
when I feel the need to stand outside the Marriott
shaking with my fingers up
and thimbles on,
I brought protection
just like always, didn’t I?
Or is it suicide
you’re aiming to drive me to
with your lies at school?
It’s not unimpressive, I’ll
admit that it isn’t,
when you drive up in your Lambo
and my furs get in;
holder dangling from my lips
and from my hips,
just like I always say,
it’s do or die -
I love the way that decadence
does play me for a fool.

SSRIcorollary to the index card decision chart in your
frontal lobe, this is a motivation
and explanation for the integration of this
graviton-driven mind and yours,
sewn along the seams of your parietal lobes,
and beat into the banality of collapse.
    the synapses beat in time with this
    conclusion, the inundated rivers
    on each side of your eyes a concussive force
    to the interior decline, the mixed up
    trains of thought which separate that
    which is 'you' from 'me';
it's left the colors crumbling down the bone-clad walls
of the rehabilitation ward that lies between your ears -
on the better days those decisions look like decimals and milligrams
in tiny black print, but, the uncertain wisdom you've divined
continues to believe, and choke it all down again tomorrow. solarpunktry something new. count the light bulbs in the room.
a prism of glass spins between
my fingers, splitting the light
into wavelengths of different and
infinite names:
infrared, ultraviolet,
chartreuse, and the kind of
indigo you could almost
reach a hand through
i recharge in the sunshine
and believe in a magic called physics;
the warmth of photon-gold always
lifts my spirits, melts me in
minutes, breaks down the limits on
these lyrics (and my smile is the image
of blitheness)
so i taught myself to spell fluorescent
once i learned the truth about edison,
and i'd like to think that better things
eventually get the prize, just like how i know
the sun will always rise. Renga Tree- Stalker (for Kaylee)green eyes high
cat hidden behind
apple blossoms (15/30) singularities.hello darling,
i’m sorry i couldn’t pull
you out of the lake,
or hold you until you
were warm, take the
heat out of me and push
it into your lungs until
you could gasp again.
it’s days like today
that i think that space
would’ve been the perfect
place to love you.
we would both be cold
to the bone, and if we could
manage to float
close to a black hole,
time would stop completely,
and i would never
have to watch you go.

Dear Future SelfWho are you?
What have you become?
Am I alive in your nightmares?
Or am I a dying memory of yours?
Will you give up eventually?
Or have you already done so long ago?
But why ask questions
When you likely already had your last breath?
So farewell future self
I hope you're resting peacefully in your grave by now  xv. 1.
At 21:00 I thought my world
was ending but now
it's 23:15 and I'm mapping
out breaths, spreading them
across my cold palms
as if they were a dying butterfly
I wrestled from my cat's jaws.
2.
"Anxiety? Oh, everyone experiences anxiety."
I grit my teeth and bare
them in a polite smile.
3.
Fingers in my chest,
I crack open my ribs
and grip my heart caught
in a hummingbird panic.
4.
It's a kid bouncing a ball
against my skull and
no matter how much I scream
they just won't stop.
5.
Forehead against the tiles,
I beg for the cold to ground me.
6.
"I don't think you understand." i am narcissaI grow by the river
hm, and I like looking at myself
but only in reverse NaPoWrimo #16wispy fingers
traced new life onto
twig arms

I will do a Best of Week 4 next week, AND a Best of NaPo (overall edition) a few days following. 



-M-