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Nothing I can say is gonna fix things,
No use begging and pleading.
Ill be right there when the phone rings,
Without you, my heart is bleeding.

I'm just a pathetic cry baby to you anyway,
Weakest at the times I'm meant to be strong.
Not going to just sit there and cry like you say,
I'll bite my tongue just to prove you wrong.

If ever there were a monster, it is me,
For the way I've treated you, it's true.
I'm the worst boyfriend there ever was to be,
Those unforgiving words that are stuck like *glue.
Oh man... the longer im awake the more i think... i cant get over it... am I really a cry baby? Am i pathetic? Am i weak? Do you...love me? Or is it still a "meh."?
 Nov 2015 Shyanna Ashcraft
AM
In the end,
and by the end I mean
the day you realize
the moon was never waiting on the sun,
that she was always there,
only then will you know why wildflowers feel the pain you've been carrying silently.

The gentle courage that's found in the solemn nights,
where the wind whispers
"there has to be another way",
always seems to turn the tide faster than any man could

and once the roots of the trees find their way to your knees,
then you'll understand why you went down with his ship.
You must begin early
while it is cool and your head clear
discernment, a sharpened tine
probing the rocky darkness
for all things latent and destructive.

Be aware that the velvet sage
of the leaves belies their power
to take over every space, remember
roots burrow deep, anchoring in
fissures we don’t even know exist.

You must delve as close
to the origin as possible
or the **** you think eradicated
will bide its time, germinating
in the still secret ground

waiting for light
to penetrate the moist earth
waking the sprout
who voraciously pushes up and out
a curled blemish

in your otherwise carefully tended garden.
It's raining it's pouring
oh god this is boring
my mummy had said
if I went straight to bed
we'd go to the park  in the morning

It's thun'dring there's lightning
the whole thing is fright'ning
so im under my bed
with my hands on my head
coz it sounds like giants are fighting

It's windy it's blowing
i think that its snowing
In my mittens and scarf
that i warmed on the hearth
outside with my friends I am going

It's sunny I'm sweating
my mommy is fretting
her gardens a fright
her flowers a sight
because they all  need a good wetting
And with that she
began nursing her child again, singing a sort of
lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a vio­
lent shake at the end of every line: -- --
"Speak roughly to your little boy,
And beat him when he sneezes;
He only does it to annoy,
Because he knows it teases."CHORUS
(in which the cook and the baby joined): -- -- "Wow! wow! wow!"While the Duchess sang the second verse of
the song, she kept tossing the baby violently up
and down, and the poor little thing howled so,
that Alice could hardly hear the words: -- --
"I speak severely to my boy,
I beat him when he sneezes;
For he can thoroughly enjoy
The pepper when he pleases!" CHORUS"Wow! wow! wow!"
I painted her a gushing thing,
With years about a score;
I little thought to find they were
A least a dozen more;
My fancy gave her eyes of blue,
A curly auburn head:
I came to find the blue a green,
The auburn turned to red.

She boxed my ears this morning,
They tingled very much;
I own that I could wish her
A somewhat lighter touch;
And if you ask me how
Her charms might be improved,
I would not have them added to,
But just a few removed!

She has the bear's ethereal grace,
The bland hyaena's laugh,
The footstep of the elephant,
The neck of a giraffe;
I love her still, believe me,
Though my heart its passion hides;
"She's all my fancy painted her,"
But oh! how much besides!
Five little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One:
Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.

Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six:
Sitting down to lessons - no more time for tricks.

Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven:
Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!

Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen:
Each young man that calls, I say "Now tell me which you MEAN!"

Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one:
But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?

Five showy girls - but Thirty is an age
When girls may be ENGAGING, but they somehow don't ENGAGE.

Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more:
So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!

Five PASSE girls - Their age? Well, never mind!
We jog along together, like the rest of human kind:
But the quondam "careless bachelor" begins to think he knows
The answer to that ancient problem "how the money goes"!
How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!
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