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I like it
when the world is

as nature is

with direction and purpose
no confusion
in the air
every day
on my way
to work
smile and say hi
like you still reside
in that magical space

I see your face
all the time
in my mind's reel
etched in 24 karat
I still feel
your hands on my skin
the fire within

those amber brown eyes
the depth
our breath
bodies collide
and you think we're just passersby
but I will find you
in the next life
you relearn coming home


You find out how it tastes different
From when you were a little girl
(It’s far less rust tinged these days)

You name everything inside of you
anger or shame
So you never have to look to closely at the hurt
(It's mostly pretending you are something other than empty)

You relearn steady in chaos
you can still patch up
****** gaping holes with shaking hands
Lies leave your mouth faster
Than anyone has time to get the safety off

You relearn two faced
that one you never really let go of
it feels the same as it always did
Like a party trick you could never stop preforming
because it isn’t one
You know liar
The game is you are almost always
Telling a truth

-  What does learning to come home mean; why is it the first place you learn to run from
I sip joy from the tiny crevices
Of a colorless existence.
I search out small pockets
Of contentment in the dolor, and
I patch together ragged moments
Of almost fulfillment
To create an existance
That might resemble happiness.

I wear the smile that says I am OK
And speak the words of fabrication.
I do the things that ape a life worthwhile
And go to the places that back up the lie.
I tear the pages from my calendar
And wonder that there are so many more.
Still able to lift a heavy load,
I guess there’s nothing else for me
To do but carry on, so that is what I must.
Some days you just wonder what it's all for.  Then the sun comes out and life is good. But the weatherman predicts rain tomorrow.
I wish I had
a vein.
the highways are
under reconstruction.
It ***** like a
***** on 3-inch skids.
I did my time,
I'm part of the rhyme.
I'll stay lonely only
because of you..
Me and my friend Mike Rupe wrote this together. It's just one of those days
Me and my friends have been putting poetry to music on bandlab. Please check it out. I send my love to you all.  . .
He chopped my head off.
He wanted a son and I gave him a girl
I miscarried twice and one was a boy
It was an unforgivable sin.
So desperate for an heir was he
He evicted the Pope from England
And created his own kind of church
So he could get rid of Catherine,
The mother of his daughter,
And have me, against my own will.
My sister was not enough for him-
A mistress can not be a queen -
And the successor he so keenly longed for
Must be the issue of a queen.

With 2 daughters, Henry needed a son.
Catherine gave him Mary
And I bore him Elizabeth.
He didn’t know - nobody could know
How that rivalry would one day end.
When Henry looked to Jane Seymour,
Something told me I would die.
Hoping for kindness, it was brutality instead,
And Henry fell into a chain of desperation.
With seven murdered wives as links.

He chopped off my head to clear the way
For marriage number three
And buried me in a leaden box
In his ongoing quest for sons.
He thought that was the end of me
But my daughter was made of my same stuff
And through her battles over time
She claimed the throne that once was mine
And the Elizabethan era came to be.
Another BLT and Thomas W Case challenge.  Best I could do on short notice.
 Nov 20 Graff1980
brick mansions surrounded by shacks,
all sheltered by autumnal trees.
dogs with pups in the yard without a leash
nowhere to run, no desire to be free.

backroads approaching, picking up speed.
sipping home brewed iced tea.
cows in their pasture, lounging calmly,
just like the rest of us, they’re enjoying the breeze.

“don’t touch the spanish moss”
and “go check on the peach tree”
phrases spoken continuously,
my entire life, they were said to me. 

down south, you can watch the night sky.  
the lights all falter,  just so you can see.
and during the day, if you go out in time;
all you can hear is the chirping of the birds, the buzzing of the bees.

and when the sun finally sets on a hot day,
the cicadas come out, and sing, so free,
that you open your windows to the summer air,
just so you can hear them share their music so kindly.

i think pride in origin is a foolish belief,
and regardless of whether you agree,
there is a charm found in the america’s southern states
somewhere under the rest of the nations careless debris
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