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 Mar 2018 Livia Rose
Mike Hauser
The world sometimes to me
Seems like a kitchen sink
With problem dishes piled high to the rim

Clogging up the drain
In the name of placing blame
With no one willing to wash them

Where soon enough we find
We've left the crust to dry
With the ***** secrets that our dishes have

With no way to rinse
And even if we did
There still would be the lingering stench

Leaving them there
Year after year
No one willing to roll up their sleeves

And lend a helping hand
To clean up the mess of man
We've all made in the world's kitchen sink
 Feb 2018 Livia Rose
Lior Gavra
Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.


She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.


Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.


A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.


Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.


Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That **** mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”


The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.
This is one of the sample stories in my new book, "BitterSweet," which has become a #1 New Release on Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/BitterSweet-Lior-Gavra/dp/0999497103/
It's an old question.
Pilate asked.
Keats told us.
It's what we believe.
A lie is truth.
Some lies may coincide
With my truth,
But never quite the same.
There's always a bit of truth
In every line.
 Aug 2017 Livia Rose
Ash
Lately I've been homesick
For the girl I used to be
Im in the same place with the same people
But the loneliness lays in me
I'm a hopeless romantic who's found love
Yet my heart has been ripped from my sleeve
Deep down, all the things I used to cherish have been shoved
The crazy, tea-drinking, book-reading girl is who I grieve
I'm a mere skeleton of the free spirit I was
I've been chasing a warm cozy feeling but it was never retrieved
For the home I've been feeling for is inside of me
My life may be onto better things but still I reminisce
For the girl who would so simply find bliss
My problems have been solved
So why does it hurt?
Maybe it's time
I put my heart back out onto my shirt
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