I know he believes
in God, heaven and hell.

I know God is real!
Science doesn't explain all.

I know heaven is real
because God is merciful.

I know hell is also real
because God is just.

I just don't understand
why he wrote that poem.

If only I could see beyond
the future but only God can.

Napowrimo 2017 Day 26
 1d Twilight
Petal 

She saw the blood this morning,
as she was making the bed
She sat down in the rocking chair,
and sadly, dropped her head
Remembering what he did last night,
the awful things he said
Shame came creeping over her,
turning her bruised face bright red
All the years they'd been together,
seven, since they'd wed
She had hoped for love and kindness,
but got misery instead
She heard his boot heels on the walk,
her heart sank, filled with dread
The monster hit her too hard that time,
now
she sleeps with Angels, in heavens bed

Once, in the future
I was a dragon lady
In an emerald green dress
wearing a bejeweled turban
Surveying all around
watching beings wander on a different plane
unable to see or hear me

-Alone-

but terrifyingly strong
I smile and weep for them
and for my former self
a mere mortal among monsters

This is from a dream I had about meeting my future self in a hotel elevator.

Haunted for decades by
Ghosts in the shape of
My own broken parts.

At my most vulnerable, I
Am torn and spilling.
Some girls have knives

For fingernails; broadsword
Words swung by own
Insecurities-

To chop down a man
Renders many young women  
Giants in the eyes of their egos.  

Enter exorsist. Enter patient,
Slender hands around
Work worn, worried ones.

Take your time, you man
Of open, ancient wounds.
Rain your lust upon me,

Unveil fantasies and wants.  
I'll be sand; white beaches;
Welcoming your every wave.

He has been taking
the same lunch box to
work since I was born.

Some how it was just
as magical as my music
box because of his love.

It's about the size of
a dictionary but it has
a sticker on its shoulder.

I always ask him to tell
me the definitions of
words I do not know.

I use to tape pictures
of me and the family
dog in it's darkness.

I often hoped he
looked at the pictures
after he gave thanks.

I always waved to
him good bye from
a window in the house.

I long to curl up
his lunch box just like
his newspaper.

He always put the
TV dinners in it which
was a mystery to me.

He always honks
from his jeep in
response to my wave.

I saw that he always
treated his lunch box
like it was a passenger.

Now I make him
salads that don't even
fit in his lunch box.

I truly do hope that
his lunch box never
ever falls apart.

And now for our daily prompt (optional, as always). In 1958, the philosopher/critic Gaston Bachelard wrote a book called The Poetics of Space, about the emotional relationship that people have with particular kinds of spaces – the insides of sea shells, drawers, nooks, and all the various parts of houses. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that explores a small, defined space – it could be your childhood bedroom, or the box where you keep old photos. It could be the inside of a coin purse or the recesses of an umbrella stand. Any space will do – so long as it is small, definite, and meaningful to you.

Happy writing!

http://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-five-3/

Napowrimo 2017   prompt 25
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