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I born.

I live.

I die.

No one.

Cry.
 Apr 2020 Hafsa
JaxSpade
Sittin on the curb
I put my head down
And I saw a few words

They were laying in the dry gutter
Someone must of lost them
When they tried to utter

         You I love

             Love you I

    I love you

These words I found
I arranged them in different arounds

I
  you
     love

No matter which way it comes
Sounds
           Good

I found these words
And I think ima give away some

If you put out your hand
I'll put mine in yours
And we could be love

I found these words
Sittin on the curb
And I was just hoping

You'd like to do one
 Apr 2020 Hafsa
A Thomas Hawkins
One day I awoke, strangely to find
the person I used to be gone, left behind

Somewhere, somehow, I became someone new
Who was much less like me, and a lot more like you

The changes were subtle, I did not even know
Until people asked me, just where did "you" go?

It appears I gave up being me just to please
the person I once proposed to from my knees

But the strangest thing is, I did not even see
the way you genetically, modified me

I looked like the me, that everyone knew
but instead of myself, to you I was true

And now that I see it, and begin to turn back
you're angry and bitter and start to attack

You think that there's someone else I now see
But don't see how that someone else can be me

I don't like the person, with you I became
It's not all your fault though, I'm partly to blame.

And just as I let you make me not the same
it is I that must choose my old self to reclaim

So from now on my dear our ways we must part
There's no place anymore for you in my heart

I'll put myself first, be alone for a while
Until I can look in the mirror and smile

And see there once more who I used to be
the reclaimed original version of me
Follow me on Twitter @athomashawkins
http://twitter.com/athomashawkins
 Apr 2020 Hafsa
MoVitaLuna
I am from vivid dreams.
I am from fire
licking and consuming
the darkness.
I am from a wild imagination
and a logical consciousness.

I am from the Mississippi River,
moonlight glinting off my cat's eyes,
and paint on paper.
I am from the shattered shadows
of leaves rustling in the wind
on a brisk, early July morning.

I am from
BOO! and AHH!
in "****** ******" voices,
the way flashlight beams dim
as we use them for Morse Code
throughout the endless summer nights.

I am from jumping
in the dark
off our houseboat
into the void of black
that you would call Lake Powell
companioned only by the Milky Way.

I am from glow sticks
and silence.
I am from cracked rainbows
and shattered windows.
I am from lifeless wishes
and broken promises.

I am from baby turtles
making their way to the sea.
I am from moths
breaking free of the cocoon
that has held them prisoner
for oh so long.

I am from rippling stars ringing outward
on the surface of a crystal puddle
after a tear has fallen,
not from my eyes,
but from my soul,
eternally lost.

I am from outer space,
galaxies beyond imagination
so drown me in a heavy dose of fantasy.
 Apr 2020 Hafsa
Sin
in the small towns with unknown names, mothers drive vans with grass stains painted across the backseats. in the winters coated with snowfall, mothers make hot chocolate for frozen fingers to grasp and sip, letting it settle on little tongues like some untold secret. in the storms, mothers bring a candle and a story from the past to light the darkness.

and what can a mother do when she does not hear the rain on the rooftops? how does one illuminate pale walls and faded curtains without a guide of light? you could never sense the darkness. you could never hold my hand. mother, my fingertips are poisoned. you weren't going to touch them anyways. you know he says there's a forest in my eyes. but you prefer the city skyline, don't you?

I told father I never wanted to see you again. besides, he doesn't have to. why should I stick to this cracked leather couch when you rest on some beautiful bed down the street? mother, you can only **** a married man for so long. the stones on his ring are brighter than you. I might've kissed you, mother, but there have been too many lips pressed to mine, and you're immune to this sickness, and what is a sign of love without a flicker of pain?

when is the last time I smiled at you? there is a photo somewhere and I am nestled in your arms, and I'm wearing a red dress, and I think I would have slipped away if I knew who you really were. mother, do you want to see the cuts on my wrist? I should've given you that suicide note. remember that day you thought I was sick? I guess you never saw the pills were gone. you shouldn't have kept the matches so far away when you knew I loved the fire. you know, mother, I bet you don't know what a trigger feels like. you know, I was ten when I decided that I did not love you. I am the sliver of moon starving to vanish in the sky and mother, I swear I'll be new.
this ones for you, ma.
 Apr 2020 Hafsa
Edward Coles
I have been singing for forgotten things,
beer bottles hidden in the hedgerows.
The opera singer, the strangled vibrato,
ash-filled cokes cans; the afterparty sunrise.

This recovery has been long, fickle.
Reckless optimism and the science of failure
collide into the colour
of a Daniel Johnston cartoon,
or a songwriter's sense of humour.

Disused pencils stand as monuments
to old dreams of grass-roots art,
the fragility of neurotic *******
drawn with innumerable straight lines
that composite a woman's naked body.

I have been drawing on memories
and hoping for a brand-new image;
dissolution of old borders - a strangled voice
in a room full of opened tongues.

The Hawaiian shirt made light of depression
in darkened hours and wax smiles.
Plastic cocktails, the pending brides;
desperate men - the post-work demise.
I have learned a lie ever since.

This recovery has been imperfect, a fraud.
Swollen truths to satisfy the concerned,
only myself left to fool.
I have found the early morning
but cannot reach a sober conclusion.

Redundant habits mildew my mind
with the backwater of yesterday,
familiar street names to mourn
those who became strangers,
the negative bias of my mind's eye.

I have been writing words of action
from the safety of my desk;
all that the desk-lamp can illuminate,
all of which words can make sense.

This half-lived recovery is bunk, irretrievable.
Working poverty and untied knots
are co-morbid in meaninglessness;
chains to hold me in Plato's Cave
whilst her skin freckles in the sun.

Disused and living outside of love,
morning curtains open to a sheet of light
that obliterates loneliness
in the presence of shared heat,
only for it to return again, come night.
C
 Apr 2020 Hafsa
Heather Mirassou
Wonder amorously
Blood brimming
Wilderness vessel
Every droplet wet
Chaste with soul
Hips become fierce
Thighs become fiery
Thrusting,pumping and springing
Chasms burst
Your glorious spring cascades
 Apr 2020 Hafsa
Heather Mirassou
Take me to the ocean

Bring the leaping sun

Daybreak is full of diamonds

Dancing swelling tides

Make me want to write
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