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What does it mean to cry
When feelings stay locked from the
Surface
Emotions I fear
Crammed into small tears
The tears that I make myself
Forfeit

What does it mean to hurt
When the scars are from those
Who don’t know you
They’ve watched you grow up
And you feel their love
But they don’t know the real you

When I’m asleep I run
Down a path in a gold
And green
Meadow
And someone’s out there
With true love to share
Then I wake in the real world
Feeling alone

Alone
I’m home
That shouldn’t be so
Where’s the log to my fire?
Because I’m working for me
And I’ll never retire

Bring on the thunder!
Bring on the rain!!
There’s no true life
Without some small pain
So I’ll be the thunder!
And I’ll be the rain!!
I know how to cry now
So I’ll work through the pain

If I’m coming alive
I acknowledge I hurt inside
My tribulation brought me to salvation
I had to suffer to write
I don’t need you to understand my plight
Just know that I’m coming alive
I had to suffer to write
Hey, Mister Man
Tell me why
You chose to steal concentration
Because of you,
I am in perdition
Vengeance is mine
Says the old and wise
But I can’t discern
When love fogs my eyes
So, coming down
The man in the Blue-Haired robes
Because of His brutal choke
Tonight, the choir sings
Of your deception
And my depression
So, coming down
Say something
Coming down
Do nothing
I can’t sleep while my soul
Cries at night
Hey, Mister Man
You’re coming down
The good die Young, but the wicked have it worse because they live long enough to someday realize that karma is coming for them
 Jul 2018 Danial John
Nigel Finn
No more poems, thank you;
I think that I'm done.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.

Please turn off the music;
My songs are all sung.
I think the night's over,
Although it's still young.

No more words, I beg you;
Just slice off my tongue!
They're just wasted air,
From a withering lung.

I've no more left to say;
Time to blot out the sun.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.
This space to be left blank
 Jul 2018 Danial John
Jackie Mead
I wonder if I  truly am a poet?
I put pen to paper and write some verse.
Whatever comes into my headfirst.

Does that make me a Poet, I ponder?

I consider what i write and what does it mean?
Am i truly any good i wonder, is that still to be seen?

I write about things I see, try to capture it well, if possible a little story I tell.
I write about my feelings for my loved ones present and past.
About my marriage, children and grandchildren and how we have a blast.

Does this make me a Poet I wonder?

I write about daily happenings in the news, some horrific stories, some written to amuse.

Am I truly a Poet?

What makes a Poet good?

Is it clarity of verse
Putting others not you first
Is it being able to write short burts, Haiku style
Long stories that make people forget for a while

I guess what i am trying to say
Is, do you put pen to paper to have your say?
Write some lines in a journal every day?
Write some verse, no matter how short?
Do the lines rhyme, of a sort?

Then welcome my friend

You are a Poet

You should celebrate and let everyone know it.
A question i have been pondering for a while, as i struggle to write anything good.
 Jul 2018 Danial John
Graff1980
Summertime
drive to work,
car running,
hot engine gunning,
I keep moving
making sweat
roll down my neck.

All this heat
seems to sharpen
my senses,
intensifying
once dormant
emotions,
that make me cry.

Cinnamon and raison
memories resurface,
tasty pastry affections
from my grandmother
who made such delightful
treats,
and tucked them away
in her Tupperware tray.

A blue and white
small plastic pool
we used to stay cool
punctured by twigs
draining into
cracks of
the sidewalk
that worked its way
from our back door
to small the side streets
in the public housing.

Baby brother
on the back of my bike
as we ride
to the library,
baby brother and me
going to the movies.
Time keeps moving
at an uncomfortable
accelerated pace.
Moments are replaced
then changed
or erased by times
cruel intent.

The loss of pets,
the loss of grandpa,
the loss of grandma,
the loss of my presumed
innocence
is scorching.

Until, the season’s
rambunctiousness
slowly softens
to more bearable temperatures.
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