Mabel Mora Only Murders in the Building Jigsaw Puzzle by Thought To Art -  Fine Art America

He Loves me to Life

Through a Cross Road of Love

Leaves Vacancies

A diagnosed Disorder

Makes me Doubled Minded

And I began Sculpting Tears

That proclaims me Beautiful

That was Restitution

To The Man on the Bus

He saw my Haunted House

And read my Braille

Sunday November 3rd at 1am I will not forget

He Was

Like and Icicle

Melted into me

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You touch me in places

Foreign to lingering lust

Where blood flows heavy

And veins pump deeper than an oceans rush

You take me over mountains

You make waters flow from some of the driest, emptiest of fountains

Hidden in a dream

You gave me babies to love me and called them queens

You sunk me into life

Long before I became your wife

You pumped love into my veins

And quoted scripture to repair my broken brain

What a tedious job picking locks and whispering through rusted chains

With nothing to gain

You

Loved

Me

You

Loved me

To

Life

         Play me a tear as salty as the sea

Look into my spirit

And give back all that belongs to me

What used to be

Thrust me a kiss

Puckered insidious upon my lips

Pay me restitution

Giving back all of this

Democracy

Blue seas

And red knees

Hypocrisy

Paint my canvas

Madness!

It was his prolonged rhyme

And his clock like broken hand

But still made time against me

Perizzites lay babies in my brain

Forcing poetic germs from these mythological veins

I write and put my random thoughts in mind carved frames

And I bask in my glory playing this poetic game

My passion has no mercy

It has no senseless shame

I’m sworn to secrecy

I have no poetic gain

And if I don’t write

I fear my brain will not regain

Tryna’ master the art of

Poetry.
Memory.
Listen.
Retain.

I am desperate to repeat what my mind has heard

I hide and take refuge from behind these poetic words

I savoir every image

I don’t want to waste it

Running from the anti-Christ

Because I know he will hate it

Using this poetry to sooth my poetic nerves

But the truth is I’m lost without these prophetic verbs

Words!

I write until my fingers bleed

Making verb babies to add to this poetic breed

And my garden is where I plant these poetic seeds 

For all who roam my pastures to meditate and read

 

So I scribe and plant poetic seeds

I’m addicted to these words

This is my pathetic need

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Light lily’s breeze through his building

Turning his mouth cotton candy

Was a moon to me that exhaled my essence?

With laughter

From embarrassment

Or

From an hour glass

Timeless image

Faded photograph

That blew butterflies thru my frame

And sat me on pipes thrusting pulsed between my brains

Not even the roughest twister

Can tame

His hurricane

That paints

A picture

Of Her

Sitting between my branches

I am waiting for the wind to gather my leaves

And bereave broken limbs dead on my tree

I am something this broken

I can smell your memories

Translucent energies

I am still something this broken

Coffee at my kitchen table still brings mourning

 

I will always be

Something

This broken

 

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