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She does this thing
a subtle imperfection.

She puts her hair up,
and lets it spill out
along the edges.

Framing her face in sunlight,
diffused just right,
through locks of gold.

Her eyes smile in unison
with the curve of her lips.

Her blue eyes pierce my soul.

And then she laughs,
the sweetest little laugh.

And my heart is no longer my own.
It's her subtle imperfections that make her perfect to me.
I love it while
it sleeps--smiling,
wet with tea;
dreaming dormouse dreams.
I tickle its downy fur.
And it laughs and
moans softly.
I want to put it in
my pocket and
carry it everywhere;
take it out on
lonely autumn nights and
play with her until
she's exhausted,
relaxed and rested,
content and lost in my
fingers and in my heart.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOGBCY2FM_c
Here is a link to my YouTube channel. I just put up a new poetry reading from my book, Sleep Always Calls, available on Amazon.com
(This is a repost poem.)
www.thomaswcase.com
 May 21 Lizzie Bevis
Nicole
Write it down now or else
It will never be the same
Put it down now before
Another one comes up
Secure it somewhere
So it won't come back
To haunt you in every
Thought that circles
A poem for the ghosts that could’ve been poems
The tides of destination
have invaded my beloved estuary
Rising fast in deliberation
Washing away the righteousness that I once held dearly deep within

Seeking to bend the reeds of  resistance
the muddy waters of disdain come rushing in

They are lunatically overpowering
Driven to dominate the spirit that I
once held sacred free of sin
I used to think blue eyes were pretty,
his were not.
his were not cornflower, sapphire, baby, indigo, azure,
or cloudy sky blue.
His were midnight where the light pollution from the city blocks the stars.
Iceberg, squall, hypothermia, eventual death
I'm almost positive I heard them talking

Talking in their protective, yet complaining manner

They say, they only get to interact with the weak

They say, they're all too often held responsible for the bond between others

What's the matter with them?

They're the ones full of chemistry

They're the ones who can escape scott free

While I have to stay inside and act positive about it

Just once I'd like to not be in the middle of everything
If I were a cost
would it be worth
the effort to lay it down on paper ?

The woods would be
full of rotting timber
not fit to burn on page

The rivers would be
contaminated
with foul thoughts
from all the words
of poison that they spray

The clean up costs
would be prohibitive
The emotional cost
devastating

So trying to be
cost effective
leaves little to
be me

Then why do I continue to write poetry ? 😠
You promised
A lifetime of poetry
Just to leave without
A single line
So I search for them in stollen verses...
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