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 Apr 2018 Me Díaz
Mary-Eliz
I want to be subtle
adroit
mysterious
instead my thoughts
thrash about
for all the world to see
like worn sheets
blowing
in the wind
clumsy and drab

what I write sounds insipid
no mystique
no complexity

I call to my Muse
she does not come

what would it take to bribe her
I'll sell my soul to her
does she not know this

I'll give her my heart
doesn't she know
it's already hers

others have steadfast muses
who walk with them
who dream for them
then
guiding their hands
recall those dreams

my muse doesn't dream anymore
not at night
not in the day

my mind is dull and bare
a dust-bowl farm
nothing grows
winds removing
layer
          after
                     layer

my heart and soul arid
like parched
white
desert bones
lying lonely
on expanse
of
graveyard

where nothing moves
save tumbleweed
brittle
and empty

where barbed
sentinels
hoard
the moisture
within
tough
impenetrable
skin


will there come
a rainy season

will there?

will springs refill
the well?
Not knowing how deep a "well" goes:
I grew up in the country. We had well water from an ancient deep well. My father always worried it would dry up...give up for good. It never did.
I thought of this after I wrote.
 Apr 2018 Me Díaz
andi
mother.
 Apr 2018 Me Díaz
andi
pray,
and hope you are forgiven
by a figure of imagination.

pray,
and forget the rest of the world
too, exists.
 Apr 2018 Me Díaz
Orchid
So the story goes,
The girl who left
Had a heart of gold.
Her soul was precious,
And she was kind.
She always just seemed fine.

And so the story goes,
She left the world
With a pain in her chest.
Her life was short,
They say and repeat.
Forgetting all reasons why.

But so the story goes,
Ten years after her glow,
Changed and twisted
To fit a dream
That speaks of untrue times,
Covered by well said rhymes.
They are undeniably lies.

And so the real tale goes,
She didn’t want to be seen,
And she found a way to hide,
To be gone from all sight.
And she didn’t want them to talk,
But all they do now is talk;
Her name remains.

The real tale shows.
That words picture her
With unrealistic strokes.
That their stories make a lesson,
That was never really learned.
Falsifying her as a winner,
When all she did was lose.

And the real tale knows,
That the people talking now,
Wouldn’t talk if she didn’t hide.
And when joining her
They’ll walk past,
Forgetting that her name
Ever passed their lips.
 Apr 2018 Me Díaz
Dess Ander
She strutted on the street
with heels the colour of blood
that came from broken hearts
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