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The book of life,
we all write ours.
Some gently and some with a rush,
familiar is melancholy and joyous flowers.

Your book of life,
no one realizes its truth.
They will get addled and wonder,
until they read in between the lines.

Beautiful sadness will pour,
Don't let it ruin your book.
Shelter it with unbiased happiness,
and smile for not to be drenched.

I have yet to finish it,
Everyone does someday.
But till that day,
write, write and remember,
your precious book of life.
Life is a miracle
Life is sweet.
Keep it long.
Keep it neat.

Life is magic,
So I write this report.
Life is special.
Please don't cut it short.
The lily has a smooth stalk,
  Will never hurt your hand;
But the rose upon her brier
  Is lady of the land.

There's sweetness in an apple tree,
  And profit in the corn;
But lady of all beauty
  Is a rose upon a thorn.

When with moss and honey
  She tips her bending brier,
And half unfolds her glowing heart,
  She sets the world on fire.
Roses,
Highlight my bruises.
Sunflowers,
Illuminate Hidden confessions;

Softly,
Like petals;
I roam from wonder to another
Yet Swiftly
I vanish.
you are a flower
so tender and dear
as i clutch you next to my still, beating heart

you are a flower
so tender and dear
even as your petals fall apart

you are a flower
so tender and dear
dripping honey into my sincere soul

you are a flower
so tender and dear
and your beauty is vibrant, as your life fades

you are a flower
so tender and dear
beloved by many, and feared by some,

you are a flower
so tender and dear
and, your beauty eternal, as it is ephemeral,

you are a flower
so tender and dear
as my last wish is to be enveloped in your finite love

as you lay, your words i cherished are etched in stone,
you were a flower
so tender and dear


musing about
the beauty & finiteness
of flowers & life

( & a rough practice of
repetition & imagery ! )
You light up my cloudiest days and my darkest nights
My evening star, you shine so bright.

You warm up my coldest mornings and the windiest days. You make my fears go away.

You fill up my heart with love, laughter and light. You make my soul soar, let’s take flight.
Een zwarte roos van het is uit.
En dan die traan die uit je oog spuit.
Die traan van liefde en rust.
We draaien om elkaar heen als ying and yang.
Ik ben dapper en zij is bang.
Een rode traan van liefde of van bloed.
Die je hart bonzen doet.
Last night I had
the strangest dreams.
I dreamed I had
three daughters (in reality I have two.)
They were all
babies, and of
Spanish descent.
My daughter's mom is
English, and long gone;
like the Beatles
and the Jam.
I remember two of the
girls names, Amelia and Alhena,
I can't recall the third one.

So there I was with these
beautiful olive skinned babies.
And it was wonderful.
I was full of joy.
The babies cried,
so I cooked for them.
When the Polenta had cooled,
I said, "It's suppertime angels."
They lined up and sat down.
I fed them; each in their turn.
they made soft
cooing sounds.
I turned around
to pour some milk.
And out of the corner of
my eye, I saw dark
shadows on the wall, and
heard the flutter of wings.
I turned back around.
They had turned into
doves, and one by one,
they flew away.

I woke up with an
ache worse than
hunger pains.
It was like the
dreams That I had
when I was a child.
I dreamed that
I had a puppy,
a girlfriend
or some candy,
and then woke up
to none of it.
Nothing but a longing
and a pain in my gut
that never went
away.
What difference does it make?
I'm already condemned.
There isn't a person in
this God-forsaken town
that hasn't tried me in
their mind and found me guilty.
Step mothers aren't real
mothers anyway.
My mother died when I was little.
Daddy remarried and couldn't have
cared less about me and Emma,
my dear sister, and the ax sharpener.
I was acquitted, and who can
judge me now?
By the way, the weapon was never
found, it's buried by my feeble
attempt at poetry.
Thomas W. Case Historical figure poetry Challenge Lizzie Borden
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