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About Literature / Artist Lo (Erin)Female/United States Recent Activity
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Literature
Chronicle
My life is organized by the woman I am in love with,
the god I am worshiping, the therapist I’m seeing;
my thoughts are not mine, and my heart is plastic
set out in the sun too long - red plastic like a child’s
toy. The child is long since gone, and the house
is collapsing from the heaviness of that child’s
secrets. But what’s a heart to a place like this?
Everything is packed, and I am left behind.
The scars of the mother are surely covered by
the communion dress, and the hands of the lover
are dangerous ones. She is throwing rosaries
out into the river. This is no place for us,
she screams. I shut my eyes. I am not here,
but I feel the water moving up my legs.
The hands of the lover are my hands. I look
beautiful on my christening day.
Spiraling is a term therapists’ use when you
enter the hospital again; I didn’t mean to be
that girl that you hate so much. I pick my skin
until there is no skin left. I look like a little alien
child. The par
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Literature
Transience
I used to paint to most beautiful canvases,
but my arms grew weak from the lack of blood,
and each piece would end with me collapsed
before it. Trauma has a way of lifting me
up just to drop me again. My trauma,
mine.  
The paintbrushes float in the buckets of blood;
the room’s beginning to smell of metal and rotten
sacrifice. I’m misplaced. I am small.
There is no such thing as an artist,
just a product, a desperation that people stare
at under exposed light. They make distant comments
about how it feels to have an insatiable life.
Do I make you feel whole? Is there anything
here for you?
Art is just a form of screaming,
and I’m out of breath from the years.
I have seen enough of Hell to paint
a thousand masterpieces, but my body
rejects this life I’m leading.
The audience steps over me as they exit
the exhibit. All of the doctors, the teachers,
the parents and children. I am left. I am
carefully avoided. I am lifted from the ground
and placed before the s
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Literature
A Poem For Terrible People
I am easily twenty pounds overweight,
and my soul is a couple hundred under.
Everyone else has this heavy thing
that sits in their stomach and tells them
that they’re alive. I think the only reason
why mine hasn’t floated out my ear
yet is because my throat is blocked
by a coal of self hate. Maybe that is
the thumping I hear, my spirit
screaming. I always thought
it was my heart beat.
I can’t tell you why I am here,
and I can’t begin to explain who I am
because I know I’ll start to cry,
and I am trying to save up my tears
for something that’s socially appropriate
to cry over. Like a mass murder
or uplifting trending video on facebook; not,
definitely not because your succulents
aren’t arranged in the way
you wanted them to be.
I’m an ametur gardener
buried half alive in my own
half hearted attempts at having some
effect on this world. My arm
reaches out and paints my own
plot pot with a chevron design
in Robin’s egg blue.
God, I wis
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Literature
Prefer
I prefer her naked,
in a not so sexual
almost always sexual
way and when she
lays on my bed after
I make her come,
she stares up at not
the ceiling
and I know
I made her
less sad,
and that’s enough
I think.
I want to go home
but I’m still deciding
where that is.
She wants to go anywhere
as long as it is not where
she’s been before.
I frown and collect her
pages upon pages
of poetry from floor;
she moans for me
to come back to bed.
She gets along with my cat
and if that’s not true love
I don’t know what is.
I prefer her with her back
to me, in a not so vulnerable,
almost entirely vulnerable way.
I want to fuck her symmetry.
Her spine is something an artist
created when he wasn’t looking;
her ribs are like the ocean
and I want to die
in the undertow
like a scared child.
I am a scared child,
and she is
everything.
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Literature
Daisies
I burned the tips of your toes,
and you didn't know
that I lined my walls with images
of daisies and monsters;
monsters with horns and black eyes,
and black lips. I find it
comforting as you lie asleep
in my bed that I am not what you
dream. I am no one’s dream.
Only my own nightmare.
And as I stare across
the barrier between my side
and yours, I see everything
in your expression and you see
nothing in mine.
I froze when you asked me,
my back turned to you as I braid
my hair; you ask, am I the one.
One what? There is never just one;
history repeats itself
in a very ugly way.
If I had not experienced it before,
I would never have guessed your
fragile face could accumulate such
animosity. I watch you kiss
my cheek, and I watch myself retreat
farther into my thoughts.
I don’t mean to be so harsh,
with your fresh smile and cold hands.
I just want for your pretty eyes
to see me and not what I tell you
to see.
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Literature
ove
I’m not going to tell you how much I love her.
More than I did you. My L key keeps sticking
like a sign from God. Love is not to be discussed.
You already know anyways; always love
the new one more than the last,
maybe not more, but better.
You read my poetry the same way
you read my face, slightly out of focus,
the way I like, the way it’s meant to be read.
I want you to read my words
as if every line is about you, even when
it’s not. I am a heart breaker.
You knew that, don’t act surprised.
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Literature
First
I may be a top bunk kind of girl
but that’s just because the rope
is too long to do any damage
on the bottom; we all need
a quick escape, don’t we pretty.
She’s scared and when she’s scared,  
she’s a better fuck. She holds onto me
like I can protect her. I am what
she’s running from, but she runs right
into my arms. I suck on her neck
until she comes and she loves me for it.
She leaves naked, the way she came.
Sometimes while I twist my fingers
into her hair as she’s coming down,
I hope I’m not ruining her too soon,
that she will still be able to walk out of here
without me on her mind. She catches
me staring and thinks it is sweet,
I’m memorizing, mesmerized
more than I thought, than I wanted.
She holds this against me
as she straddles my hips.
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Literature
Snakes
When I washed my hands
of her, my arms came back
bloody, but I already have a dirty
reputation so I don’t know
what she was trying to prove.
I look younger without her too,
like a small angel; I even smell
angelic. My tongue is more saintly,
but still tastes like a snake.
My baby girls love the way it
slithers, and how I only wear black
or nothing at all.
I may be heartless, but I still
have twice as much heart as her;
and I may be scarred, but that’s
nothing a new love can’t fix,
one with a wrong name and
a beautiful face. The rosary
swings from her neck,
right below my bitemarks.
We like to pretend we
will get into heaven,
but the thrill is that we know
we won’t.
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Literature
Rust Locks
1.
Everyone I know says
that I have beautiful hair,
the dirty blonde,
dishwater gold,
the not pure pale
strawberry brunette.
I hate its indecisiveness
though, a tattoo
across my skull
of my non-self,
a wobbly identity
like my mind
physically cannot decide
what to dress it in,
what color gown is best
for this life occasion.
I have been hesitant
to touch it since it has
an agenda of its own.
But tonight the hair dye
is mixed and ready
resting on the corner of
my sink.
2.
The black brunette
universe star kissed,
star cemetery echoed
on the soft river
of my damp, shadow hair;
there is no golden light,
there is no red hues.
I run my fingers through
the night frontier, umber
from the wilderness
and onyx
because it is concealed
out there. The locks
curl along my shoulders
and down my back
in a way that cannot
be decided by others.
It calls out its own name.
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Literature
Royalty
He was sick of me tiptoeing around him,
so he hacked the toes off with a single blow,
but the blood just made him more ill
and I flick off the dried spots of vomit
from my skin. We still haven’t discussed it.
He used to take me to fancy parties
And elegant jamborees with high
life ball gowns buying pot from me
in the velvet bathrooms. One goes down,
kissing my thighs while the hubby
waits outside. Not mine but someone’s.
I’m caught up in the royal affair,
the one where I am the queen
and I don’t need the prescription pads
to keep me warm in the heart winter;
he doesn’t take me out because I
have formed habits, he has cut ties
the ones that help me breathe.
He asks me to stay aligned; me casing
my stubs in his designer sports jacket fabric,
it smells expensive and cuts the stench
of sour pools. I ask him to finish up
quickly so I can be on my way, but no
place to go. I am like a serial killer,
a ruler, a long list of descriptions.
The list is his but I was
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Literature
Seagirt Meadow
‘Did you know…’
       her blameless skin between her burnt skin,
       the yellow streaks in her eyes, tide rises
     I didn’t know much of her languages and tendencies and migrations.
Like a little boy, I watched her crowd the sky
and break against the skin of the sun.
The ocean is a homecoming.
‘that we are drawn to the sea,
a bone from it, born by it –
here we belong most.”

       her skirts flutter before the facade of God
       the body of a traveler, but the soul of a wanderer
    I come to her sea side thinking I can be who she wants.
The history in the sand, the fortresses,
the empires drown in the promising night.
The ocean is a promise she hides.
‘Salt in the sea is the same salt
within my sweat,
my tears and
my blood.’

       she has feet and hands that stomp in the sand,
       the discontent drips from her hair, dampens and dries
    I do not exist to the one who only looks out.
When she asks i
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Literature
Acid of the Bird Kind
The birds thrashed
catching their wings
in my ribs
contagious squawking,
then stillness
then me
then memorial services
for the feathers I coughed
up
The hang time of
my weakness
could have challenged
champions
and slaughtered
millions
because
when an offense
dyes your lips
black,
the birds dried blood
is bubbling up
like a potion
a tonic.
I’m the witch,
stir poison stir.
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Literature
The Suicide Summit
There is a dead energy,
a fog over the shore
when the loom of the light
house was more from me
than any dead object;
and that dead object,
and the summit
where the sun was born
and the ocean where
no one was born.
I rush into the muse
        – a water star,
seraph reincarnation.
The Lighthouse
and I were lovers
before he fell in love
with the language,
and I too star infused,
we were both
too similar to be anything
extraordinary.
There is a dead energy,
a sigh of the once love,
or regard let die;
and that regard
was between the ocean
and I. I want more
of the salt.
I want more of nothing,
the Light
house crumbles.
Not reborn.
The deadness is heavy
and the yearning,
I cannot decide
if it is for the world
or flee from.
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Literature
Lichtenberg Figure
Pastel lace set on fire,
tattooed onto the skin
with god light.
Hawthorne buds bloom
in full sun, a swallowed
seed from the pit
of her chest,
but the branches
were bare, and nothing
beautiful flourished.
Honeyed hollow of her neck
and coast across the
collar bones,
vein mountain ridges,
angrily pale,
aged in a blink
or a swig of firewater.
She calls herself light
because that’s all she wears,
the scars of its attack.
The god light,
the stain,
the lightning
flower.
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Literature
This Poem Is Not For You
Orwell never returns my calls.
I think he owes me that much at least
and when he stood me up in Berkshire,
the groundskeeper told me he’s been
dead for years, but I’m sure he paid
him off. The grave face had no face,
and spoke no words of his actual own.
He was tattooed.
“Eric Blair”
was not a man but a low doorway,
one of too much metal and stone.
My Alice hands couldn’t manage
the doorknob, so I slipped my letter
under the crack. The groundskeeper
read it after I left I saw; it probably
just sounded like madness to him.
Nonsense poetry is the language
I am most articulate in. George
would understand I’m sure.
We were both altered by an era
neither of us lived to see, the day
he passed on the disease
to me; and when I read
101, I screamed. He never
told me that it wasn’t just
an invention of his mind.
It exists in my mind too.
There was never a footnote
for phobia affliction.
On my first date with Margaret,
I told her my love affairs with dead
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Literature
Fragment 1
She was one of those poems
and I was one of those writers.
I.
Her religion is hers alone,
but she shares it with heaven.
A gust rushes up to her
from the grave face and
bathes her in some divinity
that looks like saturated
starlight. Heaven died
in 2005, but she still reads
to her on the anniversary
of her last journey home.
She has been to too many funerals
and not enough birthdays;
her eyes are huddled
and wary of people now,
maybe not of people,
but of how quickly they go away
and don’t return.
She wore black too many times,
and things like that just
sort of stick.
That’s the nice thing about
loving heaven though: you realize
that someone is on your side
up there. When she drives
the two hours to her university,
her prayer beads swing from
the rearview mirror like
they are waving goodbye.
II.
She still has her religion,
but she spells it differently now.
Her dreams are holy, and she
obeys them like a young creed she
carved into the mud in her
backyard after a seaside sto
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allofmyconfusion
Lo (Erin)
Artist | Literature
United States
Someday, somewhere - anywhere, you will find yourself. And that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.
- Pablo Neruda

Publications:
Muse Arts Online Magazine: March 2013
University New Forum Magazine: Fall 2012
Muse Arts Online Magazine: November 2012
University New Forum Magazine: Winter 2011
University New Forum Magazine: Fall 2011
Ponderosa Arts Magazine: 2009

Favourite genre of music: 60's folk, singer-songerwriter contemporary, country, 90's alternative
Personal Quote: "I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched." ~ Poe
Interests
Does anyone have any experience published poetry either as a collection or single entry in a magazine?

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RiseandBe Featured By Owner Sep 23, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
:iconcometogetherproject:

Welcome to The #ComeTogetherProject!

We are so happy to have you with us. If you are excited to get involved, but don't know where to start browse through our journal, for some ideas. There, you can find ways to spread the love, get featured yourself, and many informative "How To" breakdowns on everything from leaving constructive comments to running a group or community project! First and foremost, we are here to serve the community, so if you have any questions, let us know!

If you have already been involved, have done collaborative art, or are excited to start, be sure to stop by our Gallery to submit your work and journals, or get ideas.

We can't wait to see what you have to contribute. :nod:

- Mo (*RiseandBe)
#ComeTogetherProject admin
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Aerode Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Congratulations, you've been nominated for 1 category for our awards. Find out more here: [link].
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Demosthenes-H Featured By Owner Feb 25, 2013  Student Writer
Hey there ;D

not going to lie; your DD has to be 6985345 times better than mine

'virtual high five' you're awesome

have a great day <3
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MsPippa Featured By Owner Feb 17, 2013  Student Writer
Hi there, and welcome to #ArtistsLittleCorner! We're super glad to have you aoard and truly hope that you stay with us for a while and make yourself at home. Pleas feel free to contact either myself or :iconhater12: with questions, or note the group and someone will be more than happy to help you. Also remember to check out our newest contest if you haven't already, because there are plenty of prizes to be won!

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glossolalias Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2013
thank you for the :+fav:!
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TheWritingDragon Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Hello! :wave: Welcome to :iconpencountshuttercount: :D We're very glad to have you and hope you feel welcome here. :hug: If you ever have a problem, just let me know! I want this group to become something big, so if you would, please, can you maybe advertise the group’s icon in your journal or on your profile page? Thank you in advance if you take the time to do this, and don’t feel obligated to!!!

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As U may know I am a co-founder of :iconpassionforpoetry:
and I wanted to welcome U to the group :boogie:
I believe to stop the flow of imagination in writing is like
stopping the Earth from spinning so we as writers
should all share the passion....
The #PassionforPoetry

A Big Welcome From
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Welcome to WantMoreWatchers!
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Thank you for adding my art to your favorites. I appreciate your support! :iconfavbounceplz:
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allofmyconfusion Featured By Owner Dec 22, 2012   Writer
youre welcome :)
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