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 May 2016 Meg
Anne Faye
The musician cries
As he sings a sweet song
He feels the same way
As he has for so long
The feeling of love and
The feeling of worth
Has all been crumbled
And put in the dirt
After a show he gets peace of mind
Finding room to breath
But still not all are kind

That night they caused him to crack
Pushed him to the limit
And that was that
He wrote one last song
Recorded it there, played it outloud
In case someone cared
Noose made from the strings of a guitar
He walked off the staff
And stopped his metronome heart
 May 2016 Meg
Sombro
Noose
 May 2016 Meg
Sombro
And as he learnt much more he said
No noose shall hang quite like my head.
 May 2016 Meg
Mark Ball
That
Self-Made
Noose
Is
Living proof
Of our
Existence.
Something different
 May 2016 Meg
Morgan
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
people drink coffee and stare at
from studio apartment windows
and under pretty white gazebos ,

I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that falls soft at first,
and then harder,
and then soft again,

I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that smells sweet
and makes flowers grow
in the spring time,

I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that collects in pretty puddles
in the pavement
so that toddlers in rubber boots
can jump in and splash
their parents,

I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that lulls crying teenagers
to sleep in their warm beds
or makes lovers miss one an other,

I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
people watch and listen to
with gentle acceptance,

I'm the kind of rain
that falls fast and hard,

the kind of rain that is cold
and hurts sun burnt shoulders
when it hits them,

the kind of rain that washes
pretty chalk paintings off of
drive ways in suburbs
without a second thought,

the kind of rain that
seeps through ceiling tiles
turning cozy little homes into
chaotic whirlwinds of
anxiety and destruction,

the kind of rain that
makes your joints ache
and your eyes red,

the kind of rain that
gets the kids out of the pool
and sprinting inside,
cold, wet, and uncomfortable,

the kind of rain that
washes leafs into
your gutters,

you curse it all week long,

the kind of rain that
only wanted to touch the earth,

to feel some semblance of warmth,

but the kind of rain that
doesn't know how to
leave the thunder at home,

the kind of rain who
breaks the things
it loves,
no matter how
hard it tries to be
gentle...
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