i have these voices in my head

with me when i’m awake or in bed
when i’m smiling and happy
they come and break my peace
telling me weird things
that make me lose my ease

they tell me i won’t get better
they tell me i don’t matter
they tell me one day ill be dead
so why not get it over with instead

the voices are evil and cold
but they comfort me when i’m all alone
they tell me to do things to myself
and be sure that no one knows

oh the voices in my head
they walk me to my death

dream or potential nightmare
the dice roll
you enter on in
and the show begins

winged assassin Mr Hawk
beautiful and deadly

another Dove bites the dust
feathers plucked, no more flying

another poet for 'peace'
voice fading

all the children starving to death
their storytime ended.

Here at our rooftop, collegiate, ‘resort of the mind,’
an early heatwave has struck - we’ve been advised.
Like we needed it. It’s 94°f and climbing - we’re not insensitive.
We’re aware that the sun is bright and the air is crisp and hot.
It was Friday morning, until the sun pointed to noon.

Nothing’s going to stop the summer swelter except thunder storms - which are on their way - we’ve been advised.
A seasonable tempest is being piped-up from the sea.
Like we needed it. We can see the far horizon’s shadowed billows and curtains of rain - we feel the changing wind.

But we have every reason to be cheery, forewarned as we are,
here at the pool, in the still needed shade, armed with margaritas.
The weather may change, the season alter, but we will, unaltered, remain.

We seem to have captured a moment of buz. People are swinging-by, dropping-in, bringing drinks and party snacks then lurking by the pool.

Fridays are 'sui generis'—magical—because they play tricks with time. Dreary weekday landscapes seem to transform, as the old week wanes and ‘the pert and nimble spirit of mirth awakens.’
(A purposeful Shakespeare misquote).
.
.
Songs for this:
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Heatwave by Bronski Beat
Heat wave - Bing Crosby

you call me petal,
suddenly im blushing
like a rose in the morning
before the sun knows to look away

your fingers brush against mine
and something blooms --
not loudly,
but like orchids
deciding its time.

you always smell like wild lavender
and stolen hours,
like the kind of spring
you never see coming
until it's already
wrapped around your ribs.

i used to hate snowdrops.
they're too open, too soft.
now i plant them into poems
because they remind me of you --
brave
enough
to bloom anyway.

this thing between us
isn't fireworks.
it's passion,
it's roots,
and patience
it feels like sunlight shared on a park bench
where your head finds my shoulder
and stays.

Always been a female Charlie Brown and Linus with Marcie thrown in for good measure
There are Lucys in my life, but they still scare me
Been a victim and now a survivor with flashbacks
Don't go there, please
Loner but not lonely
Having to accept that things change won't dare come for an answer
Sometimes, I'm too kind and good for my own good
Harder for teachers to learn lessons
Yet, they do
Moving on to the right direction and journey
Nearing Gravitas