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The treeline almost resembles mountains,
reflected in the calm waters below....no wind
not even a breeze.

The pink, turning purple and blue clouds
resemble cotton candy.
And a smile comes over me
remembering childhood.

The array of color with this sunset..
and the moon hanging above,
not yet revealing the constellations.

The frogs sing to me here,
I lay back onto the warm ground.
The blades of bright green grass tickle my neck.
Even the crickets laughter rings.

I close my eyes...
Feel the wetness brimming.
I hear the waterfall behind..
Such steady rhythm.

The whole world revealing a lullaby.
Never-ending, and breath-taking.
When I'm in my house
near to the lake,
I love to watch
the blue rain drops
swirling in quiet circles
on the lake surface,

As if your fingers
touching my skin,
provoking feelings
and colorful spin
in my stomach...

When I'm in my house
near to the lake,
I watch the little stones
in my zen garden
imagining the silence
of the high Planets
listening the cooper bells
gentle voice singing,
somewhere a sudden
noise of bird moving
the green leaves with her wings

As if with you on the grass
relaxing, with closed eyes,
your silence is melody which
melts my heart inside...

-nour-
June-013
When we decided on ice cream
I suggested caramel
sticky sweet
dripping down the sides
I wanted to lick it up and
feel the sucrose explode on my tastebuds
a minefield of pleasure.

When we decided on ice cream
you promised whipped topping
and hot fudge
rich luscious chocolate
oozing toward the edges
swirls of dark intensity
intermixed with bouts of airy lightness
a most delightful contradiction.

With all the imagery that’s found in words
and pictures bound to play out in my head
It’s fair to say this sundae tempted me at waking hours
(and maybe even crept into my dreams)

… it’s quite a shame that in the end you settled for vanilla.
A word of advice: don't ever tell her she's a daddy's little girl
funny isn't it when she speaks of her dad,
she sounds like every other normal girl
that it would never come across your mind
she would be the one who receives the beating
when he's angry, whether at her or someone else.

She loathes him with all her heart
and I kid you not, this isn't a mere exaggeration
but believe it or not, she is very much like him
though she refuses to believe or admit it, she is.

They say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
she is as hot-tempered and stubborn as he is
her hands are as fast as her mind, once you **** her
she won't think twice about laying her hand on you
bear in mind that her petite figure aches to hurt
the pain she absorbs is greater when released.

"Like father like daughter" they love to claim
but she is nothing like him, like a shadow she resembles
only his physical traits and they're what she's known for
though her heart is ice cold, breathe a little fire to it
it will melt, she likes to think they're stone cold
but you'll be surprised at how sympathetic she can be.

She is bulletproof, her heart heavy on lockdown
nothing can hurt her worst than the tyrant in her house
but she endures and she triumphs and she learns
her fortress stood tall, guarding her from enemies
her mind seems to always be at war;
does she want to grow up to be like her father?

I always feel like I am two different souls in a body
I have the devil's fingerprints but the angel's persona
resides in me as well, and they're always fighting
at times, they get along and I am in peace
though my blood taints of my father,
I am not like him
but let me take you back to the start;
maybe I am a daddy's little girl.
 Jun 2013 Esmé van Aerden
SS
Buddha (may or may noy have-its controversial) once said, “Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”  I am a strong believer in this statement.  For as long as I can remember, I have never been able to hold a grudge.  The longest timeframe that I have ever been upset with a person was twenty hours.  I counted back the hours because at the time, I realized that the anger was not worth it.  Being angered by people’s thoughts and actions is a frustrating thing, and in my opinion is not worth any of the stress. Anger is a poison to the body, and causes more stress and pain to yourself than to the person you are upset with.  As a relatively positive person, I have managed to stay as happy and grateful as I can no matter the circumstance. However, I was not always this way.
As a toddler I would get easily frustrated with the smallest things. When I would get upset I would begin having labored breaths, and my chest would tighten.  Sweat would begin beading down my face, and my little fists would contract and expand periodically.  The smallest things could set me off, such as not being able to listen to my own cassettes in the car on the way home from church, or rainy days when I would want to play outside.  Bed times and naps made me want to pull my hair out.  Controlled and healthy snack alternatives would make me zip my lips tight and had me throwing away the imaginary key to the lock that secured my lips against the unnaturally orange carrots.
On a different note, my grandfather on my mothers’ side was my babysitter/partner in crime/best friend as a child and he could bake the best sugar cookies on the planet.  I kid you not.  I always loved having them, and whenever I spent the day with my grandfather, we had to bake sugar cookies.  Days spent with him were always good days, and I loved listening to his stories he would make up about grand princesses and strong princes in far off lands.  My grandfather had been diagnosed with a severe form of diabetes and had several heart attacks and seizures as I was a child, and he was told to stay away from all unhealthy snacks and things with high sugary content.  My mother soon turned into a mother bear and would carefully watch over my grandfathers’ diet, because she was frightened she would lose her father.  As a child, I did not understand their conversations fully and never realized that my grandfather stopped baking and eating snacks because he was not allowed to eat these things.  I would throw the biggest tantrums for his cookies, and generally he would give into my constant bickering and give in to his cravings for sugar.  We would bake, and in the end my mother was always upset with my grandfather for eating sugar, and I was told that sugar was bad for Poppy (that was my nickname for him).  I did not understand how sugar could be bad at that age, because it tasted so good.  I constantly craved the way that the cookies practically melted in my mouth after being taken out of the oven.  I did not mind a temporarily scorched tongue if it meant getting my grubby hands onto those cookies as soon as I could.
One Sunday evening, Mommy and Daddy had a church meeting to attend to after the main service, so Poppy was in charge of me for the evening.  He took me home, and was asked to take care of me for the day.  I begged, screamed, twisted, and shouted for the heavenly cookies that I had not had in what seemed like ages to my childish mind, but Poppy did not budge.  “The answer was, is, and will forever remain to be no, pumpkin.” He calmly spoke to me. I could not wrap my mind around the fact that my Poppy had said no to the cookies.  I remember my chest beginning to feel tight, the labored breathing, and the light headedness that came afterwards as if it was yesterday.  Hot tears streamed down my chubby face, my bottom chin popped out, and my lower lip accentuated until I had a full on pout formed.  ‘No’ just was not in my vocabulary, at least not for that day.  I became so upset with my Poppy and my chest began to hurt so badly that I could not bear to see his face any longer.  I shouted at the top of my lungs, “I HATE YOU!”  I ran up my stairs and locked myself in my room for the remainder of the day and did not bother to come out until the next morning. That next morning my mom received a phone call at 7 AM.  My poppy had gotten a heart attack at about 6:20 that morning and was pronounced dead at the hospital at 6:54 AM.  Help was not reached in time to heal him.
The last thing I said to my poppy was that I hated him.  I will always remember that.  The fury I felt over something as trivial as cookies makes me so frustrated with myself, because in the end I only upset myself more.  Being angry with people does not hurt them nearly as much as it hurts you.  People are not always out looking for intentional ways to upset you, and in fact most humans nowadays only seek acceptance from others.  Whenever I am upset with someone, I always try and look through their eyes to see where they are coming from and what made them do such a thing to upset me.  The girl who called me a mean name? She had been abused at home and the only way she could uplift herself was by putting others down.  The boy who did not like me in the seventh grade?  His mother walked out on him as a child, and he has not trusted women since.  People constantly think that the only opinion that is right is their own, and if someone upsets them that person should disappear forever and feel incredibly horrible about upsetting you.  In reality, we should try to realize why they are thinking the way that they do.  Being upset with a person does you no good.  Forgiveness is always the answer, because you may not realize it at the time, but people generally get upset over the most trivial things that they will not remember anything about twenty years from now.  The anger you feel for a person is not nearly as strong as the anger they had for you when they did whatever it is they did to upset you.  
Anger poisons your body and never makes the other person feel any less sympathetic about what they did.  It only makes you worry more about the past things that you can do nothing about.   “Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”  It has been twelve years since my Poppy passed away, and no matter who actually said it, I am still a strong believer in that statement.
This isn't really a poem.  I just needed to let this out somewhere.  Thank you for reading, who ever you are.
Buttercups Diversify!
Posted by Olivia Kent on June 19, 2013 at 11:46am
View Blog
Buttercups Diversify!

In peach tinted temple of time,
Painted in poetry's dreams,
We kiss, we talk, we ,
Writing leisure through pleasure and pain,

I laid on your bed,
You bathed my shoulders so sore,
Left me smouldering with desires for you,
You donated to me, while we played in daylights sweet kiss,
A sweet single bright buttercup,
Dressed in waxen yellow,
Precious petals sparkling, shining ,
Glowing in the afternoon, after laying on the the spiky dry grass,
After dancing had passed,

A garden full of dreamers dressed in pink and white, blessed with fragrance, pure.
Collected from a century of rose tree,
The tree had seen much over the years about a century I was told,
Witnessed bombings in the blitz,
Watched mother's father's children's kiss,

Flowers of such beauty, dressed with a drizzle of love's sensation tickles,
As the dance goes on!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
i lost my colors to fate..
i lost my colors to sin..
they faded away in one day..
it was as if i lost hope..
lost belief..

this was a feeling like no other..
a sort of sad gray that washes everything away..
a sea of shades..
sad shades and shadows..
to lose belief..

but all at once it can be remembered..
the colors in this plain of gray..
a song heard from the memory of me..
played by you under the gray sun..
i can feel the tones paint me..

its like a chill..
that travels in waves across the body..
where every cell remembers the feeling..
that true feeling of belief..
because you have always done that for me..
you have always believed in me..
 Jun 2013 Esmé van Aerden
Leila
This house doesn't need ghosts to scare anyone
The walls take sanity for fun
They'll hex you with whispers in tongue
Arrive with confidence - leave with none
The longer you stay, the further undone
The air stifles, it thickens and numbs
It weighs down on you like tons
Constricting every cell, it stuns
Skeletons in these closets tote guns
Heat comes at you like fire from the mouth of dragons
I mean heat like blaze of a million suns
All the while, your mind weakens and maddens
This house kills souls like it's a soul assassin
A suffering only the wicked can fathom
second rewrite
 Jun 2013 Esmé van Aerden
chels
S
 Jun 2013 Esmé van Aerden
chels
S
T
U
P
I
D
For it is the same every time; trapped in my mind with all fours on the ground, ***** to the wall,
I'm sorry I can't handle touching and feeling the way children can.
I was not born into a broken family.
My father did not drink excessively
and my mother had kind words to say.
I did not learn to yell from hearing them yell,
and I never saw him lay a finger on her.

Instead,
I sat in trees turned church pews
with a passive being just out of reach.
Desire to be not me,
fiending a response
from a man mother and father spoke so highly of.

Instead,
I sat in blue bathroom stalls
with stained tiles and permanent explicits for company.
Passing lunch period for it was something to pass,
eating because although you stole my tongue and taste-
you left my stomach to waste.

Instead,
I sat beneath holy hands reaching-
that painting on sunflower walls haunting.
Each thought,
sin,
mistake
would be admitted to guilty air.
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