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 Dec 2016 GaryFairy
Paul Hardwick
You made me believe
we are not the same
I feel for you
I do not see that from you
I do not see that conviction
I think that I loved you then I would
you do not give that back to me
woman please
you do not want me to drop your hand.
But never understand  P@ul.
 Dec 2016 GaryFairy
Molly
Homesick
 Dec 2016 GaryFairy
Molly
You crop up in my dreams so much
that lately
I think I might still be in love with you.

It's been nearly two years
since I've kissed you.
It never worked, it was doomed from the gun.

You drove me *******
crazy. Your hands
were forever blackened with oil.

I'm making things of myself,
discarded home like old receipts.
I haven't been back in a while now.

You must have known that I'd leave.
I love words and you loathe them.
You'll be married soon, I think.

I'm sick for the days in the sun on the beach.
The familiarity of your skin,
your boring bravado, your gentle talk.

I miss kissing you in the dark.
I'm so far removed from the bog—
trekking the streets of Dublin with big dreams.

'Twas far from ambition we were reared.
Big city girl in the smallest pond,
where the fish all slept with eachother.

Slicker. Full of ideas.
All I want is a carvery dinner.
To sit in a souped up car at night

at Ross, off, but the heating on,
old blankets tucked up and
watch the waves lap

over and back
over and back.
I am not blind
I see this for what it is
I am not the one and only
Who upon your bed slips
I know I want to be
I wish you would too
For this I do know
This is no flight of fancy
No rebound goal for me
I am not asking for forever
I just want exclusivity...
Into the wonderment of your autumnal mind.
Where the skin of your grief sheds its leaves.
Is the song of your sea bound into colourful light?
The Shepherd breaches the flock of your dreams,
And the pastures breathe a sigh of relief,
As your tears of morning dew
Glisten the parched landscape.
Does your bouquet of *****
Lay wistfully in the wilderness?
The skies of blue that reside in your eyes
Serenades the coming of the tide,
Harvesting the fruit of our labour of love.
Is this a wind of smile that turns into a voyage of valiancy?
A flock of thoughts liberated with a cry of exclamation
As your fears of autumn blue
Are exiled into the rapacious wind.
 Dec 2016 GaryFairy
Kyra Woods
Y'all tell em' to focus on school, keep ya head the books
and stay out of these streets.
But what is He supposed to do, when the Streets have him tripping over his own feet?

lurking around every corner,
confronted daily with His own eyes,
that's where He is meant to be.

The glamorized life of the Hustle,
You'll never know pain unless you the Struggle.
The same pain that causes them to shoot, but never aim.
what is He supposed to do when the streets are calling His name?

Y'all hold His hand and guide Him in the wrong direction, but then tell Him to do the right thing.
does this even make sense or is He confused by the bullet's sting.

Did you forget that He loves you,
that He wants to be accepted,
Gotta be just like You, even though you never said.
what are you supposed to do when the streets are coming after you?

Hiding in every shadow,
lurking in every crevasse.
Not a single OG could ever prepare us.

3 bullets to the chest. ringing in his ears.
blood gushing out black,
his mama screaming through her tears.

the Streets will watch you your whole life,
****** you up from home.
Do you how they Do you.
til most of You is gone.

Yea, times are tough
and this mentality is rough.
But what are you supposed to do, when the streets are after you?
those looking from the outside looking in.
These young black men aren't choosing a life that'll lead them down the road of despair.
they do not choose these situations, the situations choose them.
The battle between the streets and Young Souls is gruesome.
this is a battle of a nation.
 Dec 2016 GaryFairy
Scar
Standing in a cemetery, East of any Eden.
The sky is frozen, and my bones are still.
There's a rip in my tights & there's a rip in my tights.
And there's a skeleton lying in a wooden box,
Sent from Ireland, all red-headed and bones.
So I'll scream your name from behind tombstones,
the urgency dripping from my tongue,
glowing through the rip in my tights.
We are not dead yet. And yet.
You continue to exist in careful corners,
subjecting yourself to death beds for secret stories -
In tandem to refusing to die for yourself.

You will sing comforting songs to your parents,
willing to cease existence without ever causing a ruckus.
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