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Do not stand at my grave and weep..
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry..
I am not there. I did not die.
His mind was a very dark place with very thin, occasional streaks of light,
when he managed to think about a future.
It was knots and swirls;
his mind was twistingly bittersweet,
and his smile was too.
He is not perfect and even as much love as my eyes held whenever I looked at him,
I knew this perfectly;
then again,
I'm not perfect either.
The truest person you could meet,
not an ounce hypocritical.
Knew his tricks,
paths, ways and corners of life,
had this talent to get to the darkest corners of your brain without you being aware of the intrusion.
I knew my mind did not have an easy entry,
but with him...
I felt vulnerable,
there was no lock in this universe that would click closed if he were the one to be opening the gates,
let's not talk about my heart.
He's a person you love endlessly or hate passionately,
Could be your best friend or your worse enemy,
could even make you love and hate him at the same time-
but there is no color grey with him.
He was a control freak that couldn't be controlled.
Responsible for a lot of poetry and well-arranged words,
metaphors and similes,
analogies and paradoxes.
He is not forgotten easily,
I also know this perfectly.
His mind is addicting,
his heart is addicting,
his smile is addicting,
he's addicting.
And I was and still am insomnious.
My happiness should not depend on another being,
especially one so dark and emotionally unreliable at times,
someone so reckless yet thoughtful.
I am incredibly guilty.
But then again,
the heart never listens to the brain.
He made an impression on her
Imprinted like a bed of nails
Every barbed comment made to stir
He made an impression on her
it hurt like a cigarette burn
An initially perfect male
He made an impression on her
Now trapped, he won’t let her exhale.
this is my first  attempt at the triolet form of poetry.not sure whether i should keep this right alignment! Its about someone trapped in emotional abuse x
I drifted to the unknown
dream lands of lost cities
and lost, broken Gods.
my dog lies on the concrete patio
pink belly up
the fresh alabama sun cooking the air
draped solid over us like a wet blanket.

he is not part of my reality
he cares not for tardiness
or three-day-leg-stubble
or cleaning the lint trap.

i ache to be a part of his
pink belly up
only stirring to watch the children
play across the street.
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