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Lorraine Sep 2017
Where does inspiration come from?
A bubble waiting to burst,
thirsting for a host,
making the most of this splendor,
turning one thought into many...
creating something worth sharing.
Do we allow these thoughts to come to us only when we're ready?
What if they never come?
It's been a dry spell.
When will it rain again?
Is it a crime to be this happy?
Something is bound to go wrong.
Where does inspiration come from?
It's been a dry spell.
Somewhere deep inside I want a storm.
Is it a crime to be this happy?
The self-indulgent reckoner in my mind,
give me chaos.  
You want the perfect dream...
But you could never possibly imagine,
or believe that everyday is already the perfect dream.
Give me chaos over a happy ending,
again, again, again...
Lorraine Apr 2017
You ask me why I don't write as much nowadays,
but have you read my last two poems about you?

You give me a love that's different.
"You say it's effortless, easy - for me I'm speechless."  

I've told you before,
we're conditioned -
To love the way we're taught to.
How we've fought,
for love in the past
and how we continue to.

We are conditioned.
By our first love, and every single love after that.

I don't mean to place the blame on anyone else, but...

the words we have to communicate sometimes fall short...

the fights make you think you love more...
more feelings involved.

Doing everything necessary in your power,
protecting my feelings,
fixing the situation the best you know how.
You've been giving.

These fights are selfish.
I'm sorry.
Lorraine Jan 2017
I've shown passion by
an exhibition of raw emotions -- silk screen tapestries
bleeding, overlapping into conflicting patterns,
the inconsistencies seen as flaws.

I've given love through
disagreements, pain, serenity,
vehement disdain.

You showed me passion by
courageously fighting everyday,
making the chaos united
displaying one single masterpiece.

You gave me love through
beautifully woven-words coupled with your soulful eyes.

I'll show you passion by
enjoying your zest for life,
as you talk with perfect strangers --
forming connections,
creating laughter wherever you go,
your wisdom will show.

I'll willingly give you all my love, as you have loved me
Lorraine Dec 2016
These thoughts consume me,
Like the moon, swallowed up by clouds -
I think of nothing else.

It is the greatest deceit when we compel ourselves,
us pretenders, we smile;
start forgetting it's all an act
we've mastered the art of distraction.
Lorraine Nov 2016
Te adoro
the way you adore me.

Sweep me off my feet
even though it's quite the feat -
to convince me
with sweet sentiments
have me reeling, writhing -
with both pleasure and acceptance.
You say it's effortless, easy -
for me.. I'm speechless.

I've seen lust in a man's eyes
far too many times
but you - you look at me like I'm gold treasure.
Not left bemused, but you call me your muse.

spun around tactlessly,
plucked indelicately,
abused, subdued, misused.
Abandon all hope.

Sometimes I think,
I don't know how to speak, feel or write about love anymore.
Familiarity with the fear - but you allow me to feel.

Te adoro.
  Sep 2016 Lorraine
b e mccomb
i was broken

i don't even know what
i was before
maybe a vase or a
common water glass
a ceramic mug or a glowing
stained glass window.

i don't know how
it happened maybe i
got dropped or cracked through
contact or the temperature
changed too quickly for
my fragile self to handle.

and i don't know who or
what cracked me like my
twelve year old cd cases
or if it was a slow stress
fracture brought on
by myself.

but the signs are
that i was broken

yes, i was
and i am still
in my darkest places.

but i make a
**** good mosaic.
Copyright 12/9/15 by B. E. McComb
  Sep 2016 Lorraine
Kit Mattern
i drive past twenty-seven churches before i realize
that i am looking for someone
to save me. you will not want to know this,
but i think about telling you anyway,

think about calling
you up on the phone and saying, “hey, do you
remember me? i’m the girl who sat in your
passenger seat like it was stitched to fit the curve of her waist.
you loved my broken poetry. you loved the stain
of my teeth against your collarbone.
you looked into my eyes and thought about oceans and blackberries.
you thought about what it would be like to love me,
to carry me over the fire and deliver me from the floods.
but tonight

i am not your cross to bear.
you are miles away and i am still here, rubbing
over old scars that still ache when it rains and writing
poetry in the same stupid stilted stanzas you used to love.
i guess i haven’t gotten the hang of letting go yet.
i was kind of hoping you could give me some pointers.

i know it sounds crazy,
but sometimes when i get too distant, i imagine
all the cities you have been to since the last time we kissed.
i hope they have loved you kinder and more gently than
i ever did. i am sorry about the wreckage and the wine
and the cigarettes and the sins. i just—

i just need you to know that i think about you often,
okay, and nothing has been the same since you left,
but i would never forgive you if you came back. please,
keep your feet towards the horizon. please forget
my name. please do not call back.”
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