on the cusp of 18

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a liminal space;

under clocks that have been swallowed,
there is passion in the burn of never ending night
in the oozing cracks of
what's to be and what has been
she's wedged,
paralyzed in the grip of uncertain claws
she begged to be brought from one point to the next,
but she seeps into cracks of lost, bittersweet honey
between hardwood tears of her unclear visage.

a caged bird;

i told my forefathers to bring this day a peace of mind
in switch the seasons change but a heart does not
every day i soak in a tub of who i've become,
the water becomes concrete.
i am not free here nor there,
with one foot in quick sand, the other basking in sunlight,
i scrape at sober giggles at 4am and cigarettes on parted lips
on the cusp of eighteen, i'm striped with stagnancy

a dead weight;

to their horror, a heartbeat flatlined
in the sense of peace and loving eyes.
when they stare at the mountain from its base,
foreboding the climb of what it takes to reach a summit,
to yell into the vastness a call only the wanders understand,
to not feel the tugging at your weighted chest,
only bliss, bliss, bliss.

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