These hands that tremor,
Can’t hold your fragile demeanor.
For they only know doubt and suspicion.
They do not understand the anger and sadness boiling up.
Only the instinct to drop anything that might burn these cautious hands.
•  •  •
These hands that tremor,
Can’t fix the shards that they broke.
For the pieces are too fine and sharp.
They bleed and cut at the attempt to change.
Only when these hands are lost and gone, you can build yourself up again.

Emotions run dry.
The water runs dry.
And I am no longer the perfect flower you wanted on that Christmas night.
My petals are torn and wilted. The color faded.
I’m afraid I can’t stay longer for where I’m headed.
So throw me, toss me in the pile of compost.
And just maybe I’ll be the flower of your dreams once again.

Will the days
All fall away
Or is it
Just this one
Here to stay?

It’s getting loud—
Can barely hear
I’ve been drowning
In all my tears
Words convincing
They cut like a knife
I’m barely wincing
Another: girl vs. life
It’s my head that’s the problem
It knows what it’s done
I’ve hit rock bottom
And it’s no longer fun
I tried to drown it out
But it’s tattooed in my brain
And it’s making me doubt
And now I’m in pain—
It’s getting loud in here
And I want it to stop

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                  Bring Me the Head of Peter Rabbit

My little dog has gotten into the habit
Of dining at dusk on delicious rabbit

Last night she blitzed past me as I opened the door
And left me a gift on the bedroom floor

I blinked when I saw at the foot of the bed
With its eyes still open – a poor rabbit’s head

Luna-Dog looked up and pawed at my knee
As if to ask, “Aren’t you proud of me?”

I reminded her gently (no need to fume)
That we take our meals the dining room