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 Jun 2015 Gabriel
Lauren Leal
My hand shakes gripping the quill
Shaping and warping words at will
The ink is the blood of my heart
for it is where the fire for my poems start

I cut and carve my life in rhyme
blotched on the paper trapped in time
Life Death Loss and Love
Spilling and splashing to the paper, all of the above

The heart dances as the fire rages
The quill scratches and drips as words come alive off the pages
Throwing you into the realm of my mind
You will exit leaving nothing behind

For poetry is a passion
I am not of any fashion
I merely feed the fire
That my heart will forever desire.

For every poem you read
Is what my heart is willing to bleed
Passion
 Jun 2015 Gabriel
Marge Redelicia
I.
cold knees.
my thoughts got tangled on your fingertips.
i've been tucking you in the dark creases of my mind.
II.
i'm stuck gazing upon you,
or at least what is left of you. at least.
III.
every sigh you breathe out joins the cold air.
IV.
your eyes holds an ocean of regrets.
your war cry is music to me.
V.
my love for your is a logical fallacy.
and I
put the "art" in breaking hearts.
knotting heartstrings into pretty bows:
bows for the locks of my hair
but possibly also for arrows.
VI.
be the cure that is contagious.
i think my sickness
is just over-diagnosing myself.
when your mind comes up with random poetic lines but you don't really know which poem to include them in.
 Jun 2015 Gabriel
Vivian
Don't become too proud of the work that you display.
Overfeeding your ego will cause your merit to decay.
You mustn't starve your modesty or **** self criticism.
It's only when you're humble that your work is worth the listen.
True beauty comes from the sharing of feelings, not the seeking of praise. We're all struggling together; none of us are perfect. A big head will keep you from embedding grace in your work and appreciating it in others.

— The End —