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The latest comments that SlipThruCracks has written.

The Beech Tree


This is so different and refreshing and beautiful and sad.

"You talk to trees?"
"Well... no."



Seven Reasons Why I Loved You.


[I always have trouble spelling that.]

Forget. Me. Not.

Hey. I hope this didn't really happen. I hope you don't think it's going to happen.

I hope that someone's last words are never "you're such a little girl"--- because. Well. It hurts.

...And Three Hot Guys Who Like To Burn Stuff (aka why chocolate and marshmallows are bad for you)

Oh dear. Sounds quite infinite.

[Gets better if you do it around four in the morning....]

Pineapples Dipped in Cool Whip


Don't worry; for my school project I did basically EVERY SINGLE ONE of the like 15 poems about the stars. Or comets. Or some celestial body. And occasionally I threw in the moon.

And my friends all said that I could call it an anthology. So I think you can write an anthology, too.

Salvia and Columbine

This really, really makes me want to cry.

Perhaps I am just in a sort of crying mood anyway today.

But it does.


So this is an interesting concept. [Ha, I said 'in.'] I like how [though I'm going to bet you didn't mean to do this] it sort of starts out really flowery and in-check [I said 'in' again!], but then as you go along, it sort of... this word has a negative connotation, but I don't mean it negative, but, as it goes along, it sort of degenerates. In a good way. And you can tell that you're trying to be all good at the start but by the end he's just pulled you in so much that he's totally unravelled all your self-resolve and you're just like oh snap I'm not holding back.

And sometimes, not holding back is the most beautiful thing in the world.

More Random Four-Line Poems

I love love love the last one the most. And the first, second, fourth, fifth, and third.

So basically all of them. But most especially the last.

Freedom By The Ocean

I love this. It seems to tell three separate stories, or perhaps three separate chapters of the same story. I especially love the middle. But actually I love it all.


Wow. This is like 8 canvasses all lined up on a wall that has your name up at the very top. Or something.

Extremely and vividly beautiful.

Oh God, Please--

Or perhaps Poetic is thinking along the lines of, "you can't save someone who's already gone."

Oh God, Please--

She must be an adrenaline junkie.


Okok, here it goes. You left out brown, by the way... I felt the need to add it into mine, because brown is actually a really important color to me. I don't know. Am I lame for doing this? [Yeah I'm pretty sure I am. But I wanted to...]



airplane landing strips
a lazy summer day filled with first-love's apprehension
cuidado, cuidado -- caution
a loud, sweet girl, small and pretty


a moonlight halo in the shadows of his face as he whispers secrets in the night
hot pavement under bare summer feet
old bruises given out of love
madonna and child, a perfect gold crucifix


a rose with one dying petel
the sunset through a viewfinder
your cheeks in flirtation
hair flying loose, wearing her guy-friend's aromatic shirt


playing with passionatly hot fire
a man too old, haphazard breezes
his eyes all over me -- my 8th deadly sin
losing control never looked so good


the assurance that everything will be okay
the sunrise with three cups of coffee
a shaking hand writing an even shakier letter
kings in crisis


his eyes so smooth into mine
the sky so hot and beautiful
oceans of regrets that drown you in numbness
fleeting touchings submerged in dishwater rituals


dancing to music so loud your bones hurt
driving so fast down a deserted backroad too late at night
the smell of woodsmoke and moonlight and adreneline not letting you be scared
climbing the alps and letting clean, thin air fill your lungs


something missing, a void
eraser crumbs on the edge of your desk
crisp paper bearing the worst words ever
a crime scene all cleaned up


eyes that slide right past
"let's just be friends"
being too tired to cry anymore
the ultimate fear for the future


chocolate eyes filled with love that have no end
safe, hot spices that have no beginning
a beat in the background and a hope in your heart
thirteen restful hours of sleep without nightmares


Hmm. I like ittt.

I sort of want to write my ownnn. Maybe I will, in a little.

Remember once upon a time when we talked about how certain people always remind me of certain colors? And we talked about that for like... 3 hours?

[Ha, we have nooooo life. But that's ok.]

The Secret Life of Sundays.


Speaking Braille.

Silver and chocolate -- perfect combination.

2669 - B

My favorite was always Jupiter. It's so out-there, just screaming, "Come look at me in all my flaming glory!" But then... it's all just gas and fire and it suffocates you. It is one of those things like tornados that are beautiful and terrible.

I think you can fix this. Really.

But my favorite part of this whole thing... he½s. I know there's some deeper subliminal thing there.


Absolutely lovely.

I love the idea of the candy-apple smile.

W a l l f l o w e r

Favorite book of all time.


I love the couplets in the middle of the long stanzas. [That is, the groups of two lines.] They are so different from all the rest of this, and yet they fit so nicely.

And I love how you always manage to make everything rhyme and not sound stupid. It takes quite a bit of skill to make rhyming poetry sound totally natural, and you've got it.

This is a Message in a Bottle.

It has never been safe to breathe.

Our Love is a Painting

This makes an amazing picture in my mind.

Like woah.

I just... keep rereading. And loving.

Questions without answers

Love is...

Always giving him a second chance, no matter how many times he falls through on his plans or promises to protect you; and no matter how many times he gets arrested of does stupid things.

Walking five hallways
out of your way
on crutches
with a broken ankle
just to see him
even though you know he won't see you
and not caring
that he doesn't know
that you just walked
five hallways out of your way
on crutches
with a broken ankle
just to see him.

Praying every night that god doesn't take his life, even though he would probably deserve it with the stupid shit he does... and even though you don't believe in god.

Memorizing his scent.

Trusting that he will be your safety net, though rational thought [and your best friends] tell you he won't.


Or something.

[You have a lovely writing style.]

This Is You.

Woah. This is way cool.

I keep rereading this....


Letting Go

I hate to let go.

I refuse to do it.

But sometimes I do, anyhow.

[On very rare occasions.]

Who needs thoughts like these...

Wow. That's one hell of a punch that that last group of lines packs. One hell indeed.

Well. I think....


You know.

[Actually you probably don't. But neither do I.]

Additionally, the bit in quotations acts as a sort of a hook. It stands out from the rest as something... different from the tone of the rest of everything else here. I find that interesting. And good.

And one last thing before we go------

you are gone and I am going

is so intensely filled with the quality of being empty. Which I would say is bad in general for you, but it really... the work really reflects. You've captured it powerfully and colorfully. And I don't want to say I like it because of my personal attachments to you, but I really do like it.

But that is an odd feeling. To be so full of nothing that you think you are going to burst. Except you can't possibly fathom HOW you would even go about bursting, since you are totally and utterly empty.

I am like that a lot.

And it's strange.

But probably better for those around me than to be brimming with anger. Because that's not nice.

Well, neither is to be empty.

But, you know.


Your smell

Oh, I love that feeling.

When it's gotten to the point that you can walk into a room and instantly pick out his scent; light cologne and sweat and cinnamon and hot peppers and warm tortillas. Even if it's been an hour or more since he was last there.

It hurts, so... beautifully.

And you've captured it perfectly here.

My Life's Tapestry

This makes me think of... a midieval [I think I misspelled that?] tapestry wall-hanging type of thing, big enough that it covers a big brick wall, with brilliant gold and colored threads making picutres of knights and ladies and romance and conquest and nobility and chivalry... old, forgotten, with a few holes made by small mice, covered in dust. No longer the masterpiece it was.

Which is NOT YOU.

Yours just isn't finished yet, son. The ladies are there, but your tapestry's still under construction. For example, you've only just begun to weave the noble knights in...

So don't give up on it. Because you haven't finished yet and it's the worst to give up on something just because you don't like it at that second. There is always space to add more, or to take out a stitch here and there....

Wow, I like how that was a really long extended metaphor that made basically no sense. At all.


Marked For Disappointment

So there's this water fountain in the hallway outside my spanish classroom that usually is pretty good. Today, the water coming out of it was so cloudy that it was WHITE. Not kidding.


I love the idea of a "wick core" -- because it's an expression that I've actually never heard before. what exactly does "wick" mean? [Don't you just love ignorant people like me?]

But secretly I expect out of you and am never disappointed.


Realizing that He...

I think perhaps he would taste like broken promises that are trying to be fixed up with duct tape.

Like disappointment with that little sweet shimmer of hope mixed in.



So there.


Much is the Charm of that Unsaid...

Ah, I love that feeling.

Always happens to me and this guy who rides my schoolbus in the mornings. I've always wanted to say hello to him, but somehow I don't quite want to break the magic of the feeling I get when we happen to glance over at one another...

Excellent putting-into-words of the sensation.


It seems that all I can ever do anymore is think. And think. And think. And think.

Thinking has replaced sleep and meals and schoolwork and... the list goes on.

I think about the past, which decisions I made and shouldn't have and which I didn't make and should have. I think about what is happening right now. I think about what will happen tomorrow and the next day and the next day until the end of the world, running over all the various possibilities until I've thought of every single one.

And I still can't find any answers.

The only answer is just to think more.

So I end up trapped in this viscious cycle of thought.

Sometimes, though, it's actually kind of nice.

Black and white

The rhyme here is almost hypnotizing.

I have this odd mental picture of this, now. The first two lines -- like an old movie. The last two -- like a shadowy, technicolor barfight that doesn't matter, because the world is ending tomorrow, anyway. [It just makes their punches sting that much more.]

Thanks for stimulating my imagination.




So simple.

Yet, so much power behind small words.

The smallest words always hold back the biggest connotations of something great.

Simply wonderful.

Woman Burning Bright!

I must say, I've re-read this... I don't know how many times over the past day or two, trying to come up with something comprehensive to say about it.

You are going to find this statement ghastly, perhaps [because, honestly, it is], but: This is a fascinating subject.

Fascinating in that way that people study the Holocaust, the genocides in the Sudan and elsewhere, the World Wars, the Septembre 11 attacks on America, and even things as simple as a car wreck on the freeway. The list goes on and on and every day it seems that all you hear about is tragedy.

People are naturally drawn to disaster, even those who AREN'T as reflective as I.

I would to like to thank you, also, for bringing this issue to light.

Two things I've learned this year in my beginning journalism class: If it bleeds, it leads; the best weapon against critics is the truth.

People, in every facet of their existance, are simply fascinating. I love to look at them, to listen to them, to read about them, to talk to them, to try to learn their secrets, and what they are thinking, and why, and what they are doing, and why, and what they are feeling, and why.

I am still pondering this issue.

Among many others.

It's things like this, that make me REALLY want to be a journalist. To dig deeper, to discover the WHY behind human existance [beautiful and horrid], and to shed light on the truth.

Which is exactly what you've done here.

I admire this text for its brutal honesty, because it was obviously a hard thing to write. And it's a hard thing to think about.

And I just wanted to let you know that you've made me think.

[I fear that my comment is far longer than it should be... but I didn't want to just say, "How deep and meaningful; I rate it a 5." Because this is more than that.]

Dear Mother:

It may interest you to know that I have moved from scared out of my mind and so worried I couldn't breathe, to extremely angry and highly impatient.


I am an aunt, too.

Three times.

Two boys and a girl.

I must say, there is nothing quite like looking at them and thinking, "Someday you could be something great. And maybe I can help you get there."

It's sort of an infinite feeling, which you've captured here perfectly.

Longing by the Mountain Stream

Mmm. The essence of the danger and the thrill and the certain infinity of the realization of love. The stream is beautiful, but the journey is hard and you never know if you're going to slip and fall to your rocky doom -- though you think you won't, because you think he/she is going to protect you, never let anything hurt you. So you put the bad out of your mind, thinking only of the good.

Then, later, when you go tumbling and they can't do anything about it, you think to yourself, "Why was I so blind?"

But the answer is plain: The stream was so beautiful and the moment was so perfect.

Then you wonder if it was all worth it, but that is a question that can never be answered.

Lovely work.

Too fast, too Fast.

You know I absolutely love this.

It is so... intense.

Remember that time we went walking in the woods at 4 in the morning and the moon made us infinite?

I Often Wonder...

The most troubling part is that there can never be an answer.

Though, while that is troubling... it is constant. There is never an answer, and so when everything is changing around you, you can always go back to those old un-answerable questions.

You know, I think I have said this before, but your writing always reminds me of the author Kahlil Gibran. Just the way you use words, phrases, and the delicate, pained grace that rests over your poetry like a tissue-paper veil.

I was reading him today, actually.

In a Chain of Flowers

This one is another oldie but goodie.

Remember the photo that went with it? [Poinsettias, handcuffs.]

I Will Regret When Tomorrow...

Ah, good lord.

An oldie but a goodie.

One of my FAVORITES from last year.


...Gather Dust.

Time may forget, but I won't.

Tonight a certain person named Michael informed me that you are his best friend. "She tells me everything," he said with a faint smile.

So there is someone else to brush the dust from your shoulders.


What an excellent poem. You eloquently echo the question that everyone has asked themselves thousands of times. And every time there still isn't an answer...

Incidentally, Kahlil Gibran is one of my favorite authors of all time. The prefacing lines from him really made your text all that much more enjoyable. You did the quote justice.

Lipstick's Conclusion.

This makes me think of Casablanca. Have you ever seen Casablanca? Personally, it is the best movie that Humphrey Bogart ever did. I watch it lots.

Which movie inspired this? I would like to know, and then to watch it. Old movies are the coolest.

She Tallies her Pounds with Broken Glass.

As soon as I am actually thin, I will probably still be fat.

It is horrible.

Your words make me ache inside like guilt, maybe.

Blood Drips off the Town, Now.

This makes such a scary, spooky, halloween mood. It's crazy.

[And a scary, spooky, Hispanic boy mood.]


Steel and Spiderweb [love him till he hurts.]



[But onoes.]

This has a sense of ohgodi'mgonnagetrapedandit'sgoingtobemyownfuckingfault,too.


Please don't get raped.

The Geography of Him.

Oddly I am learning topography also.

Like right now.

[Of a somewhat different landscape...perhaps.]