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they pass each other on the paths
histories trailing behind them like
smoke from their cigarettes, which
most gave up eons ago

some wield two sticks, to stave
off the inevitability of their demise;
arms, legs, zig-zagging like
cross country skiers

others have the blessed cane of age
a teetering tether to this world, their
backs bent forever making a question
mark, a parenthesis at best

yet others have staffs, shepherds
of invisible flocks, ones they tend to
now in a world only they inhabit, looking
backwards at grazing apparitions:

lambs of their lives they
long ago sacrificed, sheep they
sheared--wool woven into coats
for other old men with sticks

who have their own histories, their
own fleeting flocks, their own encounters
with stick toting strangers, their own
walks on well worn paths
my demons whisper to me
as i lie awake at night.
they tell me to put them
into words, immortalize
them between the pages
of a book.

but i am afraid that someone
will find them, that someone
will end up with them
in their own head, and i can't
imagine putting someone else
through that.
sleep is becoming scarce again. i'm becoming scarce again.
Is it wrong to want to revoke privileges handed to me by birth? The glamour and sparkle is a temptation few can resist. Who wouldn’t? After all, it is given at will on silver-plate. There is no need to exude any semblance of an effort. Oh, the delight, a dream come true!

Is it wrong to want to reclaim that which is forgotten? The exhaustion and struggle is a journey few are willing to take. Then again, walking a desert of a muddy swamp is never easy. There is every need to be weary and suspicious of what lays beneath. Oh, the horror, a contemptuous nightmare!

What a fool I am, for treading the dirt. Much more of a fool for the glee I have in my heart. For I have met you and lost you all the same; my memory of comfort, my all reflections and my reasons to love.

A place to belong, a haven for an otherwise yearning soul.
Some of you might think this poem is a longing for a homeland, but I wrote this poem after a friend disappeared from my life; a friend I met unconventionally. I came to the realization that nothing remains the same; that the people who matter come and go in our lives; that the crossing of our paths take different turns, breaking, thus, a bond of friendship and belonging.
Despite the sadness that is felt by the separation, I chose to cherish all the good memories and delight in the fact that I have found, at some point in my life, a place where I felt I belonged. And hope, that one day, I'll find it again elsewhere for there is always a yearning for more!
Midnight, A cold night in November. 
Mama braiding my hair with her hands so tender. 
Hearing moans of fright in the air, she said, 
That's just your daddy and he's having nightmares again. 
Mama why you puttin' up all them knives? 
I need to protect you, your brother and I. 
Then she cries, he wants to take us with him when he pulls the trigger. 
I won't allow a ******-suicide. 
When I sleep and hear a creek I open my eyes. 
'Cuz he just ain't in his right mind. 
But mama told me, mama told me, 
Don't be afraid of daddy, he's a good man. 
He's seen a lot of things that others couldn't withstand. 
He loves you more than you'll ever know, 
But he's falling prey to his demons, 
So who knows how long till he goes. 
-FBS
 May 2017 Amethyst Fyre
b
teenager
 May 2017 Amethyst Fyre
b
a little girl who was once
thin grew up
and turned to this
thick teenager.

scared to wear clothes that
reveals too much skin
that reveals how thick
she is.

complimenting herself
everyday because she knows
no one will,
yet they all think she's
over the hill.

now she's growing up
full of questions
no one can answer,
as they left her
no options but
to stay silent.

© 7:35 pm 05/ 26/2017
Yours is the only voice
That can change my heart to match its rhythm.
The only voice in which I lose the words
Focusing on the way you say them.
I think you reading a grocery list
Would still somehow give me butterflies
And turn me on.
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