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 Mar 2021 Sara Mlady-Allison
When many aeons turning stones
Did find you muddied silt

The rivers coursing from your veins
On highway sides
Of Grecian ilk

What coils must I shuffle from
To find the fatted milk

And taste the salt which binds to you
In hiding places built

Before the turning of the spheres were
locked inside your gaze

Here, so many ages past
And still to seek a name
It's my only friend,
when the others leave,
I never sleep,
for the water never ends,
My friend is crying,
So I try and clean his eternal sorrow,
I sit and listen,
There is no other way,
No other place,
but here,
by the river.
Part 1. The only one I could turn to when it was just me.
Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.
Get to know me like I do you; inside and out.
I opened my heart

To someone who would

Never even open his

Eyes To see me.

You were all

But it was

So easy for you

To watch me fall

I refuse to let you

Carry the pieces of me

Even if I break

I will build myself

From the ground up

with everything you

Fail to Take

My heart is open

My eyes they can see

As long as I keep

Striving and Growing

There will be far more left

Than just mere pieces of me!*

Descovia & Rein
It's 11:11
and for the first time
after a very long time
I'm wishing for myself
and not for you
 Feb 2021 Sara Mlady-Allison
She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."
What's the difference?
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
The man
who kept
his emotions
at bay
in them
I am a poet,
or I like to call myself one.
My heartaches and heartbreaks give life to empty pages;
I rarely compose from glorious days.
I’m inspired by the world, by people around me
but mostly by my pain.
I consider myself an introvert
for you will rarely hear me speak,
but on the other hand, I have much to say
just not with my lips
but with a pen.
I hide behind ink and paper
ready to write my feelings away.

I am the poetry that I write.
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