Streetlights passing by reflected
In her storm of mixed
Emotions render her tears
Falling stars.

Makes a wish with every salty  
Drop on her lips.
Lips one man would touch briefly
With the tip of an adoring thumb, and

By that satisfaction alone
Die fulfilled,
While others see her as a tool, tossed
Back into the box when dull and

Exhausted.
Fit for a throne, yet only every odd evening
Finds her way to bed from the sofa
Before sleep finds her fading with fatigue.

Shoulders, neck, back, wrists, all
Aching in unison; a choir of
Discontentment, yet still driven by the
Love for her teenage

Kings.
I always hope she's laughing. I
Always hope she sleeps.
In my mind I rest a hand upon her

Belly when she dreams; the
Only way she'll accept a touch
Without shying away
With a faint, forced smile.

Beams of full moon finding their
Ways through bedroom curtains to her
Nearly closed eyes. She yawns a tear or
Three and turns towards the pale

Warmth; moonlight again rendering
Them falling stars.
No wishes for now.
Rest is her only lover.

I always hope she sleeps.

People power people, and pick their equals.
Ideas, decisions, and what becomes real.
Whether we stand in a line, elections.
Decide who continues on, selection.

The rich become rich only from people’s contributions.
Using their products, services, or through admiration.
Social media, likes, comments, a way to get attention.
Striving to break from conformity, this world’s automation.

Scream, shout, acting strange in public.
Shoot, attack, people turn on each other, frantic.
People become desperate, run out of options.
Detectives try to figure out motives, using caution.

Joker said it best, why so serious?
Wasting time on the small things, getting furious.
When you can turn it around, hear how they feel.
Truly care and help them heal.
Be a friendlier face, selfless.
To those hiding in their shells, helpless.

Maybe everything seems right for a while.
But this world is in chaos, and in need of smiles.

Why so serious?
Smile

Things get broken
Hearts
Minds
It's no-one's fault
It never is
Not really
Butter fingers and distraction
Without malice or forethought
Things
Like hearts and minds
Slip
And shatter on hard contact with reality

                                                  By Phil Roberts

Dropping to my knees in prayer to a god
who might or might not be listening--
hoping somehow the ache in my heart
will reverberate far enough along
as my tears are streaming, glistening
and find their way through
the silent waves of grief and worry
that envelop and grip my heart
to find god's undivided attention
for just a moment or two--
"dear god, I beg of you--
stop all the pain that has its clutches
upon many of our throats in this land
and swipe away all tears
with your mighty hand
and please, please if you can see through
to the core of me now
do the magic that they say you can do
and heal not just myself
but the many many others too
who are in pain, bereft and alone,
who are in dire need of your love, in need of You."
Amen.

I woke up sick.
And I feel awful.

But not for the reason you think.

I can assure you that I am fine, I just need some time to lucid dream and wish my worries away. But that might never happen. And honestly, that's okay with me.

I'm wearing the same infected clothes, and wrapping up in the same infected blanket hoping to get better.

I've gotten the rest of my family sick, so good for me.
Because my family is made up of some of the strongest people I know. We never get sick.

And yet, here we are. Bound to our beds and eating soup like it's the elixir of life.

But we will get better. Physically...

As for everything else... we can leave that until tomorrow.

But I'm still in these infected, sick clothes. But I'm too tired to do anything about it. So I'll sleep.

It's the best thing I can do right now.

Don't you think?

I want it to be summer,
And I want to be in love,

But I can't just skip to that part,
And it's starting to depress me.

I imagine you
in the slot canyons of valhalla
among rattlesnakes and bighorns
at twilight

I imagine you
running through knee-deep snowdrifts
with icecicles forming on your beard
under a full moon

I imagine you
living after dying,
and it's so hard
to imagine anything else

But you can't move anymore
and if there is a valhalla
no one ever deserved a place in it
like you did-
but that's a fiction

it's my imagination

it's my cowardice
and my inability to accept that anyone
as alive as you could be dead.

You're a nothing now
and the truth is I imagine you alive
because it is so much better
to be a something than a nothing-

which I think you knew all along.