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The Killing Shop
 The Killing Shop rang true in its beginnings. But perhaps it would be telling to know that this particular shop was not a place to earn the sweetest satisfaction of actually killing someone (unfortunately), but considering the planet the shop existed on it might as well be some sort of living death trap.
    With its concaving rooftop withdrawn from age, antiqued stain-glassed windows built well beyond any human’s years, the shop was modestly perched on the edge of a rather unearthly sloped cliff by a long forgotten Earth Colony, against the even more extraordinarily starry backdrop known as Our Universe. 
    And like most colonies started by these primitive ape descendants, it was susceptible—and most definitely not an exception—to all the joys of living in the wonderfulness of the Gamma X-7589 Galaxy (the Milky Way). Which even more unfortunately, joys that included “alien” abduction and being poked and probed and pro
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to bid your heart to an elephant
she practiced the art of dying with heart half open
slipping words full of sleep and nascent of lilies
burdened on a windowsill unlifted. first:
reaching to touch the moon (to all its brittle bones)
she folded inward to a place of pale
and fullness and all what lies between the no other
kinder starlessness blossoming
chaos of flowers.
Cheekbones align to an array of mix-matched things forgotten (makeup, a smile) but 206 pieces come together to a thing of beauty in the void of parabens and laughter. So at 32, 2 kids, and 2 lips that only ever smiled for the lover which, also, was the time when she came to terms with the sticky thing of womanhood (too late.)
I quite like to think that I am something other than human.
Not for the thrill of knowing,
the greater shamefulness and kindred of breathing in (in)differences.
I guess I am odd in that sense, but I would fear those who don’t succumb to the oddities of the human mind.
there is a boy on his body as the fat moon pulled
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the art of mattering
that morning, when her everything was trying to piece itself into somethings; when hours sleepless sizzled into fierce nights of rawness; when there's nothing to ease the pound pounding of shyness against two ribs that couldn't even repel the broken wonders of the human heart; 
she waited to(o) (the temporal rising into steadiness of charcoal lungs and tears and stars and loving and everything between) matter. 
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The first thing he noticed about her was the cigarette balanced between her lips; unlit. The new girl took a deep breath, her bag enveloped into her arms as she shuffled into an unoccupied chair. He’d seen her before at school maybe?—no, not school. But he knew he had to have seen her before, a person like this wasn’t one that could’ve easily shaken from memory.
As she sat nobody would look at her; he tried not to look either—or at least, not for too long. Looked at all that crazy hair she had, bright, and red and curly. God, it was the hair that got him. Those freckles, how obviously nervous she was, or—
He was staring again. Crap. And just as quick as he stole a glance, he looked away again. Closed his eyes, trying to swallow down the stoic of an extra heart back down to his chest where it belonged.
After what happened, he needed to settle his nerves.
But then he noticed her again. She was sitting directly across from him, pulling at the ends of he
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to refine by nature (is to love by night)
it is a fever, a gasoline wet dried and drowned in drunkness
and then, she
a grenade in the process of being pulled
and caught in the perspective of saving but never
quite wanting
there is a tongue-tied mess reeling beneath the cacophony of lover’s sheets.
peeling down the nanoseconds to the first kiss
they drowned in the taste of the ocean cry of never matching collarbones
to the fat of her neck and the hearth of her belly
like she was licked with the moon
with the touch of wine-stained kisses,
a well-mastered disaster
loving and loving
“just tell me what you want.”
lungs shiver into the December nights
their hands folding into each other’s
like papered wings of birds.
she’s never been a musicality,
falling off to the trains of thoughts of her inner mind
but her cheeks are dabbled in sun-flecked freckles
and unfinished dreams
stolen words.
she’s listening with a heart wide open
and ears closed into the shiver of night.

:iconlittlemoonboots:littlemoonboots 24 11
october 6 by littlemoonboots october 6 :iconlittlemoonboots:littlemoonboots 4 15
october poems and cigarette ends
i. where are the metaphorical cigarettes when you need them, augustus?
ii. the poetry fell through the cracked riverbanks of my mind and slid off to elsewhere
iii. so still, i continued to breathe the lovely mindfulness, the unconventional endlessness of consciousness nothing’s.
let’s call them dreamers.
iv. the poetry written on my bones fading with all the sleep i drank (till the drunk of November mornings), the dreams melting off like the stars which ate away at my skin and left me bleeding—dying.
v. so, this is what writer’s block feels like
the eradication of sweeter thoughts and dreams
vi. (i think i finally understood why van houten drank so much.)
vii. “but i think the words you write are beautiful,” he says. “you’re beautiful.”
“i’m not beau—”

viii. still i write with an unsettled heart and
indian ink
as blue as the eyes which fell upon them
the thoughts spilling out onto the pages it met
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paper flower pressed worries
roughed drips of sun in wet light you bathed there for me to find you in the subtle 
of sleep like the press of trumpet shelled lily's arms placed on paper frail & shy of thin as 
your lungs blanket in a shiver of salt water dream for only arms of Galene to keep wilting, 
closing in the breath of winter's cold frame of cypress  blooms stealing every little moment 
we could have caught in the blue limbs of the looking glass "and i'd like to turn back 
time," though this it lapses in a film's negative spectrum the forgotten stem minolata xd-7s 
holding quiet, as the window flowers. unmoving with the thyme of sadness roughed like 
the arbutus flowering in my hands held them in helpless so but the bless of red cypress,
blossoming grace of august spring seems to be the only language of flowers spoken 
you'll ever even k
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what these lovers kept
this love does die
with all sleep
so he saves what love
it is it lacks
as he
seemed to
loved, lost her
loved too close to
love what was
or had did
in the sweet of her
as he
is silent
as he
kept little daisies
in her short hair
so close, he held
close her
at the daisies
with all the little of
sleep with love to die,
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flowers settle
we seen the Else
of softless
for florets sow 
of wetter feet.
seen owls flew
to sell wows for
we owe these
flowers love to set
for lost
well loveless
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the shy of morning's blood and bones
the breeze bowed in the darkness of early morning—
   yawning on the kiss of early leaves
light of morrow's birds aching for the taste of stars
& it is electric
stretching hands like wings, tired feathered glimmering limbs & all for the touch of sun
           the flight of my heart pounding/skipping to the wall of bones—   the rush of a lightning storm who lost all its sound
lessness in the dance of creeping ferocity lifts me from the covers of sunrise
& the itch for my coffee is one i can never scratch leaving eyes burnt with hazel-wretched tired and cupless hands
damn i can still feel sunrise…
& it is endless
clinging by the specks of windows    to my skin
bending the rhythm of the invidious bark of dogs who went sleepless but never slept le   ss
  the bright of birds who    maybe so, not quiet but mounted by the arms of heavens to wake us from our beds
lonely, perhaps to scream a light to how much the one i have only ever loved is not beside me but the a
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in the dim of twilight
sun was pulling silver shape beneath the constellations 
gently somewhere screaming
as it rose to its feet upon the purple mountaintops, 
the wind roared on the horizon with lighter sky
where the moon would rise dying limp with yellow night.
souls splendor of flight in the crumble of
silent smiles 
i have dreamed his heart as mine with
the lie of sleep too 
the silver minute of evening
as my love seemed to
become a building.
a single star
hangs breathless in the rain
your blue eyes
have their silence.
might have i closed myself as fingers
to hide from the rain's small hands
and all those lips of petals tumbling
with the field of I.
flutter of beauty
the strain of lips
breasts(slow supple sweet)
for the dark gold of grass
giving another kiss
in the little of your voice.
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i reach my hands for the skylight by littlemoonboots i reach my hands for the skylight :iconlittlemoonboots:littlemoonboots 14 1 this place by littlemoonboots this place :iconlittlemoonboots:littlemoonboots 16 4
when i had seasons in little hands
to dance without the patter of rain
was the summer within its sun to hold
crept in a song of stars
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little yellow lover
   yellow lover
my m oo n
        i love         you
like         flowers
of may
purling     azalea
the Him
            who wants
         nothing more      nothing less(than
                    so soft
                and the
             breasts so    fat
    with blue sea)
sinking    in
             curves     limbs    & all
    (& i like this    my    body
on yours
                gentle lungs heavy breaths
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littlemoonboots's Profile Picture
Ooh, I have not written a journal entry in... god, since October. Really? I'm nervous at the thought of getting college applications in, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed I'll get accepted into New York University or Wesleyan University. Er, I hope. 

Starting this fall, I'm going to starting a literary journal called The Metro for high school students as my Capstone Project for high school (since I'm doing studies on literacy rates in children and teens). I have *everything* planned out for it and chances are it'll be published biannually (winter and spring) in an e-zine format and print edition (although I'm still in crossroads whether or not it should be a chapbook or regular 'letter' size). I'm hoping I'll have the website finalized by fall and a larger editorial staff as well (or possibly note me if you're interested in becoming staff?), but if you have any entries that correspond to the submission guidelines here:… feel free to send me a note. However, only electronic submissions are accepted.
Orrrr you should really check out Polyphony HS, too ( I've been currently training to become an editorial staff member there and it's published only once a year.

Other things:
  • For this summer, I was accepted as an writing apprentice at the Mark Twain Museum. 
  • Read 1984 and loved it.
  • Submitted to at least 5 literary journals-- published in one (which I believe was printed recently? Not sure)
  • Became really headstrong about moving to New York. 
  • Retaking the SAT arughhh.
  • Fell in love with Game of Thrones
  • Even happier that Looking for Alaska was going to be a movie yesssss  c

I seriously need to become more active on here :noes:


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Artbot5000 Featured By Owner Aug 31, 2017
Happy birthday!
Artbot5000 Featured By Owner Aug 31, 2016
Happy birthday!
brokenfragilethings Featured By Owner Aug 29, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
hi! i know it's been a while. i don't think you come on, anymore, but i thought about you and your writing the other day. i just wanted to drop by and say i hope you're well! 
Artbot5000 Featured By Owner Aug 31, 2015
Happy birthday!
ithaswhatitisnt Featured By Owner Nov 21, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so very much for the favorite!! :iconglomplz: :heart:
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