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She dyed her hair pink & green.
Most people want her not to be heard or seen.
A girl too ignored to be a normal teen.
A syringe has collapsed the
creativity in her soul.
Everyone criticizes this rebel Queen.
Yet they all wonder why she can't behave.
They don't see her trying to be brave.
The taunting has made tradition seem foolish.

She shouldn't find peace in cutting.
God needs to heal the scars in her soul.
Everyone should pray for her and not
give her sour advice.
People give her warm stares that turn into ice.
This could freeze her dreams.
She stands in blue jeans with ripped up seams.
Hardships muffle her screams.
An Orphan needs a home without
moving boards or beams.
Everythings make believe in her
mind because no one ever takes the time.


Will God give someone the courage
to look at her ignored heart.
She doesnt want to be on a statistics chart.
Her appearance begs for filial love to start.
Change her but don't tear her apart.
Her creativity shouldn't be choked
like kudzu in a flower garden.
Tattooing is her preferred art.
She needs to learn to use it
in other ways besides tearing
out the car breaks.
Love turns into tragedy because
everyone leaves.


Shes been ignored.
Her feelings have been stored.
Tears have not been answered.
Smiles are forced.
Permanent homes are highly priced.
God needs to change their hearts.
Please don't judge her
by the rebal Facade.
Someday she will be loved because
theres more to her than just pink and
green dye.
Written in 2013 by me of course
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

               “Now, therefore, write for yourselves this song.”


          -Deuteronomy 31:19 per Talmud at My Jewish Learning
           <community@mail.myjewishlearning.com>


                       “Nunc itaque scribite vobis canticum istud.”

                                             -Douay-Rheims


What song will you write for the people of God?
Something from the Prophets or the Laws
A hymn for Mary, dancing in the spring
Or maybe praise for patient and protective Joseph

What song will you write for your own true love?
Gentle rhyming for the music of her gentle laugh
Iambics and meters her intellect to please
Birdsong sweet to limn her holiness

What song will you write for the world God made?
Matins for mist and mountain and flowered glade
So far away, yet oh, so near,
are we fooling ourselves with this?
All we know is what we feel,
for when we meet, it's always bliss.

We've connected upon the spiritual highway,
we've flown all around the universe,
we've made sweet love beneath a rowan tree,
we've quenched each other's thirst.

But alas, we've never held each other's hand,
or woken side by side.
I've never had the chance to say,
"Will you be my bride?"

Oh Lord above, please grant us grace.
Together on earth, we long to be.
Until then, we'll fly above the skies,
lost in perpetual ecstasy.
Wings linger
in the breath of chaos,

A universe
kissed by timeless loss.
We're all trapped,
inside a simulation -
a busy train
that never leaves
the station.
'Twas dark in the woods, and all was still.
A faint noise in the distance
pricked Agent Shepherd's ears.
Crouching, his head in his hands,
hidden behind a giant oak tree,
Shepherd knew he must put aside any fears
and proceed with his mission.

He had been sent to seek out and rescue
a fellow poet from the shadows of hell.
Ill-prepared and on the verge of madness,
Shepherd rose to his feet.

"I must protect... I must protect,"
muttered the reluctant hero as he made his way
blindly through the blackness.

Approaching closer, the noise became clear:
gentle sobbing.

Branches bowed down, blocking Agent Shepherd's path.
He cleared the way, continuing doggedly to
reach the cries.

And there she was.

Sat upright, huddled,
hands clutching her arms
tightly around her knees,
weeping.

"Mrs. Willow?"

The distressed poet's head lifted.

"Who's there?"

Agent Shepherd slowly knelt down
and softly spoke:
"Hey there, Mrs. Willow."

"Richard?"

"Yes, it is I. Everything will be okay, I promise.
Hold my hand and let me take you home."

She nodded her head and clasped his outstretched
hand.


---

Sunbeams shone radiantly through the bedroom curtains.
As the weary poet awoke,
a feeling of wonderment and fresh energy
surged within her.
Laughing gently,
a small, then larger, smile filled her face.


---

"Agent Shepherd, you have completed your mission. Well done."

"Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure."

"We at the Poetic Justice Bureau want you to know that the mission was not only for Mrs. Willow.
It was also for you.
Do you feel a sense of self-worth now?"

"I do, sir."

"Good. Now, rest up, because soon enough, your services will be
called upon again."

"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir."
Another repost, rewritten. Dedicated to a certain poet ..
Shaking, hesitating, I held out a hand.

"Would you allow me the honour of accompanying you on a country walk?"

Jessica lived a few houses down the street from my home. She had moved there with her mum and dad, maybe four years prior. We had never spoken before.

She was a diminutive figure with a sad but pretty, freckled face. Her long red hair was pulled back tight into a ponytail, which accentuated her striking features. And yet, she seemed to have no friends and rarely, if ever, held her head aloft to say hello in passing.

I, too, was an outsider - a timid, shy boy, with no inclination to fall in line and become just another kid from the estate.

Pausing mid-stride, her head bowed above the cracked, damaged paving stones, her arm motioned towards mine. My heart was racing - a mixture of fear and excitement.

"I'd like that very much," she softly whispered.

We joined hands and made our way to the entrance of a small, unmade road that led to green fields and woodland beyond.

"My name is Richard, and..."

Jessica cut in.

"I know who you are, Richard. I was hoping one day to do this."

Smiling, we cast bashful glances.

Soon enough, this unlikely pair were chatting and laughing, like we had always been pals. Jessica even initiated a half-skip of a walk, swinging our arms back and forth.

We picked buttercups that day, made daisy chains, placing them around each other's wrists. Wildlife was out in full force: squirrels, sheep with their young, birds singing sweet, tuneful songs...

All at once, the two children, so ill at ease with the world for so long, were set free.

"Hey, Richard!" my new companion shouted. "Let's pretend we're rabbits!"

I duly obliged.

Dropping to our knees, smiling and giggling, we became rabbits indeed - bouncing about, pretending to dig for carrots, running from an angry farmer with his gun.

Until it was time for us to return to our homes for tea.

"Bye-bye, Jessica. I've had ever so much fun. Thank you for a wonderful afternoon."

Dropping her sweet face to one side, smiling broadly, she leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on my cheek.

I blushed.

After walking home and saying our goodbyes, the evening drew in. Sweet dreams of a special day filled the sleep-time hours.

I awoke to hear my parents in deep discussion. From what I could make out, there had been a fire on the estate during the night. A family had perished.

I made my way downstairs.

"Richard," Father looked anxious. "It was Jessica's house. You knew her, right?"

I couldn't speak.

I knew her.

We picked buttercups.
Reposted and rewritten for the umpteenth time! I'm never happy with longer pieces as they are not my forte.
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