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Dawn-Hunter May 2014
Darling,
tell me of the times
you've watched the moon slip into the pavement.
Tell me how you cry every time spring rolls around.
Help me up this hill,
For I am tired of this teenage angsty poetry.
Something different
  May 2014 Dawn-Hunter
Maya Angelou
A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.
  May 2014 Dawn-Hunter
Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Dawn-Hunter May 2014
Downstairs
next to the
                   unprotected paintings
and stacked books

he kept
a pair of              reading glasses
              in case of
hard times.
Dawn-Hunter May 2014
"They keep calling him lucky" my mama
says
reading about a boy so desperate as to
climb
into the wheel well of an airplane
and fly to Hawaii.

They keep callin him lucky.

Temperatures of -80 degrees, almost completely depressurized.
Says only 18 people have ever survived.

They keep callin him lucky and I can't help but wonder if he passed out from lack of air, or simply lack of life.

Says he ran away from his family yet people keep callin him lucky.

I think of ever time I lift off
how many boys got their eyes on my plane
wishing they could be me?

He was desperate enough to
crawl into what he must have known to be
certain death.

Yet they keep callin him lucky.
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