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 May 2018 Carl Webb II
ardnaxela
April 24, 12:52 pm.

She looked so pretty in the sunlight..
What happened when it rained?
Something happened to her spirit.
The pep in her step was actually a limp;
Her glitter traded for mud
And she'd wear those ***** boots all day
And an empty smile
To match her empty thoughts.
And where was hope?
Where had her faith gone?
Her attitude reeked of the sewers;
Another washed out heap of waste
On these days she hurts.
She lets her soul slip
Down the drain.
Her heart bleeds the most,
For with her sadness
She also weeps hate..
To know more days like this
Soon come and no sponge..

I offered her an umbrella one day
I could stand a drop or two..
But day after day,
Sit still I could no longer -
An effort I had to make
To shield her pain and heal mine.
She declined on the same beat.
What good is a cover-up?
I'll hide today.
Tomorrow I'll get wet.
The next I'll be soaked.
My world will be flooded..
My life gone afloat and
I'd have no time to respect
All these sad memories
I'd be forced to forget.
 May 2018 Carl Webb II
Carolina
The mind of that girl is a pain sanctuary
whose aching decreases due to a world that's imaginary.

From home she goes out to get away,
and all those nights in stranges she relies.

The soft morning breeze
tenderly dries the tears in her cheeks,
and childishly it peeks
through her bloodshot eyes looking for a trace of peace.

Nobody could really tell
if she, bones and flesh, is still alive
or if she's just a wanderer ghost.
Probably the only one of her kind.

The dark circles under her eyes
are a proof of the restless crying nights.

The tangled auburn messed up hair
tells she didn't sleep at home, but no one cares.

Picking up flowers on the way back home,
humming songs that once made her feel whole.
She rests for a few hours and once awake she grabs a pen,
she writes down a poem before she gets drunk again.

Somehow she finds calm
in the simple things of life,
and she tries not to think
about the coldness in her eyes.

Barely getting through, day by day,
trying not to be absorbed by all the grey.

Amassing countless heartbeats
to the final point where life she quits.
 Apr 2016 Carl Webb II
Cheyenne
If God had to go back
to work on Monday
Bet he would have invented, then rested,
More days than just Sunday.

I'm cursing my alarm--
Using, in vain, the name of his son.
Wishing that God would have rested
More days than just one.

— The End —