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  Jan 2015 Abby S
yasmine
this world can be so cold
ugly and mean for a girl like you
your fresh eyes don't see what
all they've expected as a young girl

but think about the sun that shone
down on you in the morning
think about the boy you have laying
next to you as happy as can be

think your way to a happy world
you're a fresh girl with a fresh mind
a girl who's time is not too late to be
happy
  Jan 2015 Abby S
Evan McClellan
After one month together
You came up with an idea
“Let’s test our love for each other”
I thought, “Why not?”

It started with whimsical ways
You loved the way I laughed in the morning
I loved when you held me tighter when we cuddle
Then we went onto appearances

Oh I love the colors of your irises
Blue and green like the aura borealis
But they were dancing along to a somber song
Rather than a happy one

I brought it up
But you said literally nothing
Which says more than “nothing”
We got into a fight

The snow seemed to melt
From our heated discussion
I left
To let things cool

You stopped responding
To my messages
So I drove back
And opened the door

To the sound of our dog barking
I followed him
To the sunroom
With the vast windows

And there I saw you
Hanging lifeless
From the elegant maple
“What have I done?”

I dashed to you
A layer of fresh snow
Settled on your head
Under you was a note

Carved into the trunk
“I LOVED YOU THE MOST”
To this day
I’m still haunted

In that moment, I realized
That’s what happens
When you assign values
To something that cannot be measured
  Jan 2015 Abby S
Peter Davies
They say to have a writer
Fall in love with you
So you will never die.
But I say
Seize the love of a musician.
Someone to write you
Into colors in the air
And star-****** behind the eyelids
Of any who will listen
To the tale of you that they wrote.

Musicians, like writers,
Bring light through a fog
With their love-speak and poems.
But music-makers
Can create flowers in winter
And warmth without fire.
Their melodies dance
Over the swish of grass blades
And between the tooth-gaps of children
Whose fingers are sticky
With sweet popsicle juice
While an oil-painted scene
Is painted in your mind.

So be cherished my a musician
And hear yourself forever;
Be sung by a hundred different voices,
Danced by fairies and pretty young girls,
Costumed in dissonance,
Etched into souls.
For you can never really die
When you echo forever in the cavern
Of a good song.

— The End —