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  Nov 2014 MahoganyPumpkin
Lazy summer afternoon,
Screened in porch and nothin' to do,
I just kicked off my tennis shoe.
Slouchin' in a plastic chair,
Rakin' my fingers through my hair.
I close my eyes and I leave them there,
And I yawn, and sigh, and slowly fade away

Awakened by a familiar sound,
A clumsy fly is buzzin' around,
He bumps the screen and he tumbles down.
He gathers about his wits and pride,
And tries again for the hundredth time,  
'Cause freedom calls from the other side,
And I smile and nod, and slowly drift away

Another sound chimes through my ear,
A robin singing with his peer,
A simple song that just so dear.
They find a tree so they can rest,
And then begin to build a nest,
One to suit their babies best.
And I grin in awe and slowly drift away
  Nov 2014 MahoganyPumpkin
If laughter be the currency of the soul
I do not have enough to buy
a lamp to chase the
shadow from my
  Nov 2014 MahoganyPumpkin
Stick me together with plasticine
Fill in the cracks of my broken dreams
Stitch my skin tighter and sow my heart shut
Let my hair loose and my nails uncut
Glue my eyes open and stretch out my frown
Dress up my fear in an ebony gown
Sketch in my strings and take hold of the thread
Wrap me in cling film, then leave me for dead.
  Nov 2014 MahoganyPumpkin
What I found really ironic
Was that my head teacher stood up in front of us and said
“I know what you’re thinking and why you’re thinking it;
Because you’re teenagers and therefore you think you know everything.”

And I wonder if he ‘knows’
That every day I question
The conversations
Between constellations
And the persistence
Of my selfish existence
And I wonder if he ‘knows’
That every day I question
What colours we choose for crying
And what I gain from lying
And the age at which it became OK to play pretend games again
Or whether we even ever gave them up.

And I wonder if he ‘knows’
That what he’s said is ironic
Or if he really thinks he made a good point.
  Nov 2014 MahoganyPumpkin
Moon Humor
I mailed you a letter because you said
the art of writing is dead but I know
how to twist words into sculptures still small
enough to fit in the post box. I hope
you read what I wrote. I opened my heart
and sent you a poem. Someday when you’re old
you will show your grand kids the written art
some hopeless romantic girl undersold,
prefaced with ‘it isn't anything great but
maybe it will lead you to understand.’
I never claimed to be the best but my
head is full of cosmos and volcanoes
begging to explode black holes on paper as
relics pressed between pages like a dried rose.
A relaxed sonnet. Somewhat of a rhyme scheme, 10 syllables per line until the couplet, then 11 syllable lines. 14 lines long. NOT iambic, thank god.

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