I love my mom but I don't wanna see her right now
'Cause she's gonna take one look at me
And worry about my lifestyle
Don't Worry about my lifestyle.
You know your son, your son's got a goal
I got this whole thing under control
Yes, I'm losing weight and my eyes are red
Maybe 'cause I'm a man that lies in bed
Racking my brain for answers
'Cause I've been out here running my mouth.
Chatting about progress.
They say it's a process
But I want it right now
So I gotta Live this way
Because to play the boss you gotta pay the cost
And that cost might come as a major loss
And that's Just the life I chose.
I don't trust no one, I get no peace.
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okay so from what I gather in the notes of the other post I think a lot of yall don't realize that I actually AM a poet.
As in, there's a sideblog for the poetry (@genericpoetryblog with the tag for my writing under "mia writes poetry")
As in, I DO have published work in an anthology n everything. some of the poems are even prints you can buy in the shop!
here
are
a
few
examples
though i haven't written anything new in months, i got real busy with the whole job thing. i should pull something from my phone notes and flesh it out more.
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When George Orwell said,
"Perhaps one didn't want to be loved so much as to be understood."
and when George MacDonald said,
"To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved."
I realised there are greater things in life than love too
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George Abraham
Gender: Non binary (they/he)
Sexuality: Queer
DOB: N/A
Ethnicity: Palestinian
Nationality: American
Occupation: Poet, writer
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EROS OBJECT
Kiss me with graces, and glances, and gay arrangements.
I hole up in my relief for you. For you i remove just my sex, and become it-- betraying my hands, my eyes, i become your compulsion.
I stretch the small opening of myself like a hide to your metal bed with freezing wire, lillylike it sheds new, new, new, dew with leopard like confessions and poppy-patterned delights.
You and I are face to face yet you recognize I am without expression, teeth, ears.
When you finish I do not regain myself, my arms- no- I am waiting in that state for your skin again, strung tight and single watching your body like a hawk. Meanwhile, that shape that is muscling into a beg is my body, begging is all of my adoration for us two at once. All of me is located at the treacherous split of my thighs, i swallow you up in a soaring heat, whistling up your spine, nuzzling into nothing.
As soon as I entirely become an object, I excel and surpass myself. I double into the choking yo-yo, the kinetic pistol. Then again, the hand holding the pistol, again- the darting eyes steadying the hand, again- the spared blood. In your hands I feel like a toy, but in the backside of our joy is my sunken and concealed ammunition, the fluid of my drive. I bring you inside out, I raise your heart, your breath.
I gain freedom when this farce of me is still, and cut and spread on a bed of fallacies. This strange organ I devolve into, is one that is inside and out, for even when I am passive, even in my degradation, i am angelic in complexity, and just as unfathomably beautiful, because in me is the hidden source of your completion, idle.
These secrets do not derive from an interior place or are corporeal through flemish words. Violence will not dispell the sacred bond of my unknown capacity into the hands of blind lust. For you to even bring my inside out, what once was not seen that is then exposed, you will not have me then, for that unknown piece will jump to each place you cannot reach until it is your very self you must disembowel. Even then. I surpass every object, finding myself in the atomic ransack of our parts, finding my trace in the debris of immanence interrupted. sitting like a seed in your chemical memory, your ejaculation is mine.
But I am just a hole.
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There will come a poet
Whose weapon is His word
He will slay you with His tongue
Oh lei, oh lai, oh, Lord
(the soldier, the poet, the ruler 2/3)
find the others here: one, three.
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Ok, so I'm not typically a 19th-century poets girl, but I tutored a wonderful kid who was a huge Edgar Allan Poe fan, and I don't think it's possible not to like Oscar Wilde, so here we go. I think based on the categories here, I'm probably a George Eliot, but nothing is a perfect fit. Sound off in the tags where y'all fall on this one!
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