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Julie May 2016
If beauty is pain why must pain be beautiful?
Are we to sin for our hairless upper lips?
Cloud the skies for our favorite lipstick?
Carve meaningless words into our hearts for our perfectly trimmed eyebrows?
You say you'll be alright in your mask. You say: "beauty makes me happy."
But still I wonder, how much pain have you suffered?
I face myself in the mirror, a battle in my eyes.
I am not beautiful and I still feel pain.
Beauty is pain, pain is everything.
  May 2016 Julie
Walter W Hoelbling
this poem
is not about you

even though
your spirit is in every word
your voice sounds strong
in the halls of my mind
telling me things
I am now sure
I want to know

this poem is
about me

trying to understand
you
Julie May 2016
If I lived to be a hundred,
Would my existence be already dead?
For living a year
Is but to exist for a hundred.
Julie May 2016
Unable to hear, I lay lifeless in my bed,
Poetry had distinguished like a flame in my head.
I tried to sing myself a lullaby to keep me company,
Yet the verses and notes dropped my hand and tried to flee.

I couldn't hear their music anymore,
I was trapped in an unlocked door.
The handle was free, awaiting my plea,
A victim whose escape was but a tortured sea.

Swimming in water, I couldn't see the bottom.
The depths were hard to picture, their ground lonesome.
I couldn't even imagine the silly creatures or rainbow snakes,
Unable to see anything, I lived in a soundless lake.

Unable to hear, I lay lifeless in my bed,
Imagination nothing but a loose thread.
I found myself crying in my pillow
Hitting a writer's block, bricks hiding my meadow.

Flowers were blooming in a beautiful garden,
Sea creatures dancing in their underwater garden.
I was in my room, tears dripping down my cheeks,
For an imagination I tried so hard to keep.

I am soundless in a busy world,
Echoless in rolling mountains,
I am hitched at the throat by the point of a sword,
I am no longer a poet.

I see my room,
Not a castle.
I see the sidewalks,
Not yellow brick roads.

I see the world,
Not the dream.

Soundless.
It came for me.
When I felt useless... Poems were at my finger tips yet the ink never dried.
  Apr 2016 Julie
Ronney
At the core of every secret

Is the truth*

A truth we are unwilling to divulge

Yet through time we evolved

To learn truth is the best solve
~ for a time the truth may rain havoc but lies will lead to certain death

~ moral of the story - as difficult as it is its best to always tell the truth even if its ugly
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