i figure if you're such an amazing poet, you should probably publish your own stuff instead of selling it to someone else to perform.
but that's just my opinion.
anyone may tell themselves whatever stories they want until they begin to unravel someone else's life and when confronted, ignore their requests to stop. which is when it becomes a situation.
yes i am much thinner these days because the fatness was fabricated in the first place by the same ones who benefit from me "looking svelt". delusional.
i am not a black woman either. obviously.
nothing new: an abuser of human woman and child shields for a pathetic white man who hides his writing from his wife, and has zero interest in being honest or just. white men love to stand behind their daughters and allow them to take the hits, then fuck other women.
i knew exactly what was happening when i turned on my phone. ian buy nothin. 
the whitest whites you know say they believe in equality in real life, but are ashamed of their whiteness in the shadow - so they cosplay melanation and cause racism in reality. nostr:note1h302fnf8g3cp5dl7pxgtcv79jcdj0pfwpu80acnjp76wnt4dnwnswwa67r
the search continues for the halfland
maps of the greatest courts - sentient and grey
mattering to the masses
for some reason. inexplicable.
to think, behest to grow in comfort and stability,
we ache to be fine. like a woman's corset
in ribbons and bone, straight against the onslaught
of interaction. interim. betwixt. my teeth born
in fang over porcelain and petit four
and she flashes her diamonds in a photograph
bitchy at being bested.
growl at me.
but saviour of self: do you deny
the grip of the hand which preserves
jams and jellies?
indeed.
my cunt so full of you i swell into life,
yet it is not you, per se - your girth irrelevant
just my ears hearing
the fastidious winds, blowing.
not him or he or they. just me, and my dragons.
spine steel, and whip cracked.
where is it. in a tower or an actress.
a rapper raps but a writer.
a writer's heart pumps ink: recycled through the heart
a purifier of the toxins.
i died at the bite of the snake, a silver tongue,
and slept until my system charcoal poemmed
you out. again and again. a helix of hate and copy.
i am unsaved except in the dust.
β΄².
or just don't worry. the simplest form of originality is to evolve in your own space and mindset at your own pace - which is impossible to recreate. because it is based on original decisiveness. indecisive behaviour is the instant tell of immaturity.
debatable.
i am sorry i did not get to play here today. fucking bonkers news day. hopefully tomorrow will have more room for the creative preferences. π§£βοΈ
for daylight opens in form
drawn out of accolades
half mast in grief
summoning the forever of a mountain.
crag, diatomaceous in rustic force
pushing away from the eloquence
of sea level, my heart balanced.
when i find that grappling,
once again i sit empty.
trust carved out of my meat again
i become a brisket
ready to be served.
every 8-10 months, robins pluck my worms
and feast, plump.
i explained but there is no reason
in the platter at the banquet table.
frosting and grapes overflowing,
dining like hounds.
nothing. remains.
so i grow limbs and clatter
into the lane, until i lay flat
resetting on the marble foyer
of the cove house - damp, the unlit side.
staring at the crown moulding.
adding detail.
listening to the waves.
again. crash.
so they could say. alright. say.
and the white of my eyes dries into shards
to cut the exo tic husks
again. strawberry tarts for tea will fix it.
β΄².