Laura Thomas, 21 years old, has been writing for as long as she can remember. Her poetic mood see-saws frequently due to an ever-shifting life saga. She hasn't been published significantly before, and has never really made the attempt. Between tripping to class and work, her feet have not yet found a free moment to step on that bus. Aside from writing, she enjoys playing the drums in her Richmond appartment, reading up on astrology, running miles at a time, and spending time with her beautiful boyfriend.
Save Chance
The robots on the ceiling are looking down on you and me.
And all the time you're lying and I'm buying it for a sticky penny
And I'm building for this, and I'm thinking of Love!
You've felt me out with the days and I'm a lamb short wool. .
And you lick it off your spoon like honey, and the night
pines for both of us to be its gravest miscarriage this season.
Your carrier, such a terrific trick to the eyes, such blasphemy
to the soul, so well guided, so inviting.
Close to kill, your words perspire on my face, you trace on me
temptation, just a taste, and ask me from the inside
if it feels good to die. My eyes recline, but you feel the yes my
fingers sketch on your shell. I have the chalkscratch of you
pinning me into submission, but God, there's something wrong,
there's something, everything, that I'm unable to see, unable to sort.
I disgust you.
I am the epitome of everything you'd burn and torch
in white-hooded terror if you had the guts.
I paint your hatred in livid colors on the angled hours we share
and my repugnant beauty
tears the wings off the butterflies in your stomach.
You'd wring the pretty words and light play of my days
right out of my soft little throat if you could.
But your demons are as meek as they come, and
you left me for dead the only way you knew how,
Siphoning every trickle of trust from a tank that was brimming with optimism.
My body was colder than the underbelly of an icecap,
and warmth waited a weary while to touch me again,
but I was alive, I AM alive.
I hear you haven't changed, and why would you?
It goes so well for you to ween and waste the hours of love
with invisible anger, to spread the joys of a spirit where no
grass grows, where nothing can be mistaken but the mistake itself.
I was ready to fold for you, ready to make love to your sins,
your past, your impossibilities.
I was there, and I was all for you.
But hate and love, though the same entity essentially, are not
friends in this world, allowing only the polar passion
of sticking one's finger into a hungry socket.
A spark of something roudy, something untame
that is neither good or bad, something unnatural to souls made of dust,
Something unevolved and primal, something dangerously safe.
Plastica, USA
Wiled eyes reformed
by the well-mannered coax.
The propriety of the day dances
in the taut corsets of rhetoric.
Her lips shape syllables that
spread like a virus to tantalize.
She swings and dips just so
in the slight clearance between
honesty and exposure,
Grinning perjury cutting into
her waistline like a micro thin wire.
A shear wound that bleeds a bare drop,
but infects with the wrath of a raw bite.