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Atop the barn
a plump flicker
on two legs,

almost rusted
but for a monochrome
wing, a reversing

arrow. As it hops
along the felt,
a glimpse of its

taupe cap,
a sort of chain mail hood,
then a piercing

chirrup, a ripple
of giggles into the air
before the flight departs.
Written: August 2021.
Explanation: A simple poem written in my own time for display at my local library and also (partly) for the annual Summer Reading Challenge that takes place at English libraries every year. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Feelings don't drip from my lips like honey
Its hard for me to talk
Id rather be stung a hundred times
Then tell you my deepest thoughts
I'm a hive of negative mindsets
pain trapped in a hundred unbreakable locks
When I try to take them off even I can get lost
So I keep them hidden
I'm just not in the mood
Feelings don't drip like honey but stay in my throat like glue
it burns like the scorching sun
His hand against my waist
a brand seared upon my skin
Intense, satisfying
come to me
soul split open; vulnerable
a freshly opened flower
delicate sense
all sensibility gone
ravished, torn
tucked in a pocket
still burning with desire
at the edges of
~chaos~
Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.


She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.


Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.


A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.


Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.


Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That **** mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”


The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.
This is one of the sample stories in my new book, "BitterSweet," which has become a #1 New Release on Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/BitterSweet-Lior-Gavra/dp/0999497103/
It was 2.36am in the morning and
the thought of you came suffocating
my mind.

It was 6.36am in the morning and
a text from you came by,
it was simple and sweet.

It was truly unexpected,
it was absolutely unplanned,
to meet you again,
to see your smile again.
It was something to die for,
at least of my existence.

Hearing you laughter,
listening to your cherry-blossom stories
brought back the colors of my life
as it was plain and dull these past few months.

It was truly unexpected,
it was absolutely unplanned,
to fall for you again;
even after everything
even after the 'day'.
To be honest, I hope you wont be reading this.
the ***** of your chin is
gentle
nothing will numb you more
than the epitome of nothingness
soft collared shirts and grey-scale jeans
I feel music in you
like water
abounding with reluctance
here I stand
gently begging you to
be deafening.

chanting silently
we are here we were here
HERE WE ARE

with pale long dancing fingers I am
certain that the end is not near
nor will it ever be
for you
this is not what ur thinking
I have this friend across the pond
As bright as clear-night stars
Intelligent and talented
And faster than souped up cars

But she has her flaws, alas
As all the best poets do
I know this to be a fact, of course
Who hasn't got one or two?

After all, it has to be said
Perfection is lack of character to me
So I'm keeping my eye on my talented friend
And watch as her mind flies free

                                                By Phil Roberts
If you were a poet
and I the words,
would you wrap me in metaphors
to keep me warm?
Would you sprinkle my edges
with hope and love?
Would you warn me when judgment
comes far too strong?
Would you claim my existence
to those who abhor?
Would you flaunt me in cultures
all over the world?
Would you edit my errors
to hide my faults?
Would you give me syllables
of beautiful awe?

Would you twist me to fragments
of vengeful lust?
Would you scribble my ink
to darkened blood?
Would you tear through my home
and throw me away?
Would you burn my stanzas
to ash and ****?
Would you strip me naked
to bare my soul?
Would you forget the stories
you lost in my hold?
Would you laugh at the lines
between which you see?
Would you shadow the shivers
so eloquently?


Would you care for the letters
you etched into me?
Erase me?
Erase
Era
E
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