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These words are here because no one listens.
When I speak out loud the words in my heart,
they fall on deaf ears.
Some may wonder why I’m quiet most of the time,
but truth is
I find it easier when I don’t say a thing.
It hurts less than realizing no one was ever really paying attention.
 Dec 2019 Christian Bixler
c
I spent last night
Crunching numbers

10
Times you led me on

9
Nights we stayed up talking

8
Weeks since you decided I wasn’t worth it

7
Crushed up poems on the floor of my room

6
Outfits thrown aside to make sure I look my best

5
Days I spent trying to get over you

4
Friends that know what we did

3
3 a.m FaceTime calls

2
Coats of mascara

1
Big regret
They said every sun that set will surely raise,
And in-between is but time.
What if I rest and never raise,
But you awoke to the sunshine,
Will you bring me the sun where I lie?
Will you hug yourself to comfort me with your smile?

If tomorrow comes, o friend
And you awoke before I do,
Will you wake me up
And give me from your meal?
Will you be my friend still
Or you will unveil what I feel to be real?
If it rains on your farm before mine,
Dear friend, do not forget
That we first watered the soil with our sweat
And through the thick and thin of life,
We dared nature with a smile.

Tell me, o friend. Tell me.
If things never get right and fine,
Will you still be by my side?

By Abdulmalik Jibril
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
Billy Collins is a former Poet Laureate of the United States and author of this poem. "Aimless Love" is also the title of his recently released book, a collection of new and selected poems.
Numbing comfort bubbles (are),
tools of a privileged struggle,
like staring, lost, into the flames.
They keep me warm,
so; throw on the bodies, the trees,
it's all the same.



There's one flowing stream
that never dries up,
babbling drugs sports desire.
If I don't douse myself
from this stream, babbling bubbles,
I'll catch on fire.

But then, eventually,
we all burn on His pyre.
Cold comfort,
keeping others warm.
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