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 Jun 2016 Annie
Luna Lynn
P.C.O.S.
 Jun 2016 Annie
Luna Lynn
A hammer to the gut
A bludgeon to the brain
Cut the innards into pieces
Before I go insane!
Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome
(C) Maxwell 2014
 Jun 2016 Annie
Luna Lynn
Haiku #9
 Jun 2016 Annie
Luna Lynn
I should just give up
The doctors don't have a clue
It seems they're done too
(C) Maxwell 2014
 Jun 2016 Annie
Luna Lynn
maybe you'll have kids
but you'll suffer a great deal
hmm, maybe you won't
(C) Maxwell 2015
Discussion ends, and we talk on:
to clarify lecture, thereon
concerning life - the rules by which we play
as clumsy wise with books and blades,
chemists cutting to remake
the human form, and change, reshape
their lives with information, application
of our minds, the drugs concocted
via our thoughts. This the power -
and its light we cannot help but hope to wield,
for who declines the hands that look for aid,
to bring the flush to lives that fade?

Discussion ends, and we talk on:
I with slow mind, I ask thereon
for I am slow, but eager so
he answers, words like hands that move
competent in their purpose, and kind
to funnel knowledge to an empty mind.

Discussion ends, and we talk on
Still spoke of drugs and blood, thereon:
Influx flow in, efflux flow out,
the drug, first raw, march'd through a route
of enzymes who transform its love
for water -- made it dissolve
like salt in *****, strained away
with all your waste. Their hands are good,
those of your doctor, liver, blood.

The mathematics predict efflux
flow out -- flow in
influx dictate that concentration drug in blood
will rise - molarity
increased - at rate unchanged if not
that substrate concentration guides
the liver's rate:
a second order interaction,
see, reaction rate increases
until the speed
flow in/the rate
flow out is one, the same, and thus the blood's
molarity will change no more
-- this he taught me, as we spoke,
and if my mind wandered too far,
as it sometimes does, his hands
reached out - the type
articulate in words or digits,
which, touching, reawakened mine
to further sculpt my hands refined.
This poem concerns both the nature of teaching and the nature of the term "steady state," used in pharmacokinetics.
 Apr 2016 Annie
Gul e Dawoodi
Poet
 Apr 2016 Annie
Gul e Dawoodi
Words floating on a piece of paper
And thoughts stuck in my head
Can not find a way out
As if the poet in me is dead

Lacking all the vision and wisdom  
How can I claim to have this skill?
Losing myself now and then
Creates a hole that's not being filled

Just to get better at this
I keep wasting papers and ink
But maybe that's not who I am
As being a poet is a beautiful gift
I'm not a poet.
 Feb 2016 Annie
katie
twilight
 Feb 2016 Annie
katie
You & me
     are entwined,
       a vine wrapped
    around your
rib; my spine,
your death
   does not sever it,
       I feel the pull
          at night in my
       bed where I
hang off your
every word,
    so much I have
      learnt to dread
        the cursed
   dawn; the way
it silences your
tongue, but this
   light is not for
       long, I wait
          out the day
     to hear your
twilight song
 Feb 2016 Annie
Melissa Fayard
Mom doesn't me. I do not mean me physically because I am there but emotionally mom does not see me. She doesn't see the tears that form a puddle at the end of my pillow. She does not see the hair pulled from my head because of stress.
Mom doesn't see me. I do not mean emotionally I mean mentally. She doesn't understand the discomfort I feel when everything is bottled up but I can not speak to her about it.  She doesn't see how far apart we actually are, even though we live in the same house.
Mom doesn’t see that no matter how hard I try the bed pulls me closer. My blankets have covered me and kept me warm at night more than she ever has. She doesn’t realize my pillow is the shoulder I lean on when I need someone.  
Mom doesn’t see that I'm depressed. She doesn’t see the emotional pain I go through because I have 7 smiles locked away in my dresser. One for every day of the week.  
Mom doesn't see I'm suicidal. Although I have never told her most parents know already. She doesn’t know that I've tried killing myself more than once.  
Mom doesn’t see my eagerness to leave. She doesn’t see that my mind is going crazy trying to figure out a way to stay here and not be miserable. She doesn’t see the bag I've packed away just incase I run away.  
Mom doesn’t see me. The real me. The one who is eager to explore, the one who writes and sings. She doesn’t see that I can be loving. She doesn't see who I want to be. Instead she believes I'm trying to be someone I am not.  
Mom doesn’t see me. Maybe I don’t see me either.
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