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 Mar 2019
Lora Lee
The river in me
                     exists.  
Its outflow of pour
drenches the gullies
makes moist
the sand that
graces your toes
I flow into your roots
strengthen your
                   capillaries
pump liquid gold
inside your veins
loving your flaws like
kintsukuroi
you piece me together
adorn my cracks
with powdered metals,
still loving them for
being broken
a longing
              quenched
I want you dripping
down my chin,
my thighs
when you rush through
me just like that,
the soothing aqua tempest
I have always
wished for
kintsukuroi-(“golden mend”) is the Japanese art of mending broken pottery using lacquer resin laced with gold or silver. As well as a nifty form of repair, kintsukuroi has a deeper philosophical significance. An embracing of the flawed or imperfect. Rebirth.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lIrDCot0K_o
You Might not Realize this but Someone really needs  You.
Someone seen everything that You have went through here.
They see all that You have overcome here and really need You.
For if You end it, what about them , they shall soon follow.
I know that Life can destroy You, but for them stay strong please.
That One Person that to them , You are like a giant oak tree.
They need You staying Strong , it might even be a family member.
A brother, a sister, mother, child, Father that needs you.
To be strong, so that They see Hope through You for themselves.
 Mar 2019
Erian Rose
We fall
Not wanting to let go
Remembering the moments
Where nothing meant forever

We fell
Helping our broken hearts mend
In the silence of the day
Before we dreamed back under again

We're falling
We're always falling
 Mar 2019
Genevieve
dark grey tiles
expanding out forever
and ever into the woods.

dusk shadows fall
onto the trees
which encompass all
traces of night breeze.

from where i sit,
on my blanket,
on the roof,
the skyline- dark and blue-
a wave flooding over my moon.

dark grey tiles
gritty with soot
scratch at my skin
as they pass underfoot.
 Mar 2019
Francie Lynch
We have seen the magic bullet
Cure all disease.
Cows won't go extinct.
Lush, green pastures run to the waters' edges.
Twisted ankles in gopher holes are passe.
Trees are well-placed for shade beneath a relentless sky.
The lands are full, plush and crowded
With work-a-day leather. Wool is everywhere.
The barren creeks are clear of poison.
The grunts and runts of the stead
Blissfully graze, munching towards our tables.
Brown eggs thrive in computerized out buildings.
We are idle. No wars, disease or poverty.
It is either life or death by choice.
We implant, are implanted, removeable,
And sustainable as any Victorian.
In place of the Immaculate Heart,
I hang a picture of my old pet, Sophie,
Walking on a balance beam,
With a strange black V high in the sky.
And with all this, we grow fat.
870 species go extinct each year. That would wipe out everything in 10 000 years.
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