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Some people say every poem has to rhyme
but who has the time
to make all words make sense
hence
now all these words sound alike
while I hope you don't dislike
my rhyming chime
this poem is now a dime
that poetry & rhyming is just commonsense
No one can come up with a good defence
for nonpoets on strike
for this rhyming *spike
"in the English language Lead and Read rhyme and Read and Lead rhyme, but Lead and Read don't rhyme and neither to Read and Lead"
Poet for hire:
has a year-and-a-half’s full-on experience
likes metaphors
and similes that don’t make sense.
Will probably write poems about
weird things like grass, glasses
and corn.
Can write rhyming or non-rhyming
structured or not structured.
Will happily spend hours writing
and work overtime.

For more information, please call,
or send a note by
carrier pigeon.

(chocolate will suffice as payment)
 May 2014 Meggghanq1
Camz Kho
Read me like an open book

Run your fingers through my pages like an avid reader would.

Gaze upon the story laid before you,

As if all your inquiries can be answered,

Like the end of a mystery novel.

Ask me questions about the dog-eared pages,

the missing chapters, the folds that others have made and left behind.

Read between my lines,

Piece through the story within my story,

Unlock my secrets as you turn page after page after page.

Where I am marked,

Graze your fingers across that chapter, feel the scar,

And maybe, if you ask nicely,

I will open that chapter to you and you can read it aloud to me.

Read me like you would your favorite novel,

Lose yourself in the ink and the words, and the plot twists.

Decipher my hidden messages,

Find the meanings behind my poems, the truth behind my sighs.

Then, with your permission,

I may lose myself in the multitude of letters and thoughts

That make up your story.

I will read you so thoroughly, that I will lose my breath within your pages.

I will feel your pages turning, turning,

Your story will unravel before me like mine before you.

I will read you like an open book, and caress your dog-eared, worn pages,

Hold you close to my heart like the only story that helps me get through the days.

Then we will be two books,

So differently bound,

So differently written,

But so lost and entwined in each other’s covers

That no one will be able to tell

Where your pages end,

And mine begin.
this poem was inspired by my being a bookworm, and how the thought of falling in love with a bookworm who would understand this would be nice.
We grow up being told to read then we wonder why love hurts to bad.
My first love novel gave me a paper cut on heart and I've never been the same
sad
Its hard
To think of myself as beautiful
When all i can see
Are the flaws that surround my body
Its hard
To think of myself as affectionate
When all i can see
Is the emptiness holding me down
Its hard
To think of myself as happy
When all i can see
Is the sadness inside of me
 May 2014 Meggghanq1
r
Intoxicating
 May 2014 Meggghanq1
r
Lovers whisper-laughing,
stumbling home in the rain.
O, to be so drunk again.

r ~ 5/3/14
 May 2014 Meggghanq1
r
Throwback
 May 2014 Meggghanq1
r
If I could sing
You'd throw me back
Say I'm not a keeper
Cuz I can't sing
Your song anyhow.

But if I could
I'd be singing
Something sweeter
To make you cling
To me...all day long.

If I could sing
You'd throw me away
Call me a dreamer
And there's not a thing
I could say to say you're wrong.

When I sing
Toss me into your river
Cuz I'm a dreaming swimmer
I could swim in your water
All night long.

r ~ 5/4/14
\•/\
   |   I can't sing a lick, but I dream big  
  / \
 May 2014 Meggghanq1
r
Last Poem
 May 2014 Meggghanq1
r
Searching for a book of matches,
I came across one of your poems
from 1993. It wasn't written on a
matchbook; no.  It was written on
a page torn right from my heart.

The line about how a blind man
helped you to see that words hold
more love than truth still burns my
eyes.  Seems you were right; and
you were wrong, too. The ink was
no longer as blue as your eyes
that day when we last held hands.
That day you penned these words
to my heart. That very day; our last.

Your poetry used to make me smile,
or laugh, or curse your soul for writing
words that I could never seem to find.
This poem was your best; your last.

The ink has faded and ran  in places
from all these years of tears shed and
long dried. More tears would do no good. 
I can hardly read these faded lines. You still
would not be here to kiss them away,
to tell me that everything is going to be
alright; no.

r ~ 5/8/14
\•/\
   |
  /\
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