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 Aug 2014 Helen
JM
Again
 Aug 2014 Helen
JM
Sick, mean little boy
Spitting her venomous words
I knew we were doomed
 Aug 2014 Helen
Mad Dog
I guess I'm growing to old for the game .
Neon lights worn lines it all just reads the same.
My hearts upon the sleeve the bottle forever in hand.
The times have changed no longer are my words in demand.

You ask for forgiveness I know it's not within the cards my dear.
Played the scenarios out now it's just another victim of ego I fear.

We ask of other what we can never ask of ourselves.
Broken lies and ******* common are the half truths.
Collecting dust like books on long forgotten shelves.

Take this in vain and shoot it as you will.
Your misery brings me pleasure together this innocence we will ****.
Maybe we destroy only to rebuild maybe we destroy for the sake of seeing it burn.

All I know is tomorrows a burden when only for what was do you
continually yearn.
 Jul 2014 Helen
betterdays
karma
 Jul 2014 Helen
betterdays
somedays

  karma is a *****,
     wearing six inch stillettos

and she's dying to dance...
                                    the tango

so today....

    i choose, to step aside
      and let her have her way.

dance on down
            dance on down...
for those who need no names, deserve not my time
or thought...
my girl karma...
    she's a coming.... nuff said.
 Jul 2014 Helen
Nat Lipstadt
Let us assume,
that in this life
we obtain about
ten thousand different words,
employable and reusable

the exact number matters not

this accumulated list is your
Outer Structure

the how and the why we write,
the compulsion and the illusion
is DNA at the cellular level modified
by every second of our lives,
every word tabulated and stored

this is not an essay,
this is a poem

This is a 2:42 in the mid of night poem

when the the basics rule,
when the questions get asked,
and the answers (for me)
either
don't come or are
not oft to your liking,
but good for you,
good for us,
that the asking of the questions
is our poetry

so let us confess,
so let us address,
the primary screen,
the essential filter
the place where all poems begin
is the me

most of me is given,
but you add words,
you pick and choose the vocabulary,
that refines your me

sometimes your me excels,
you use your me words
so so well,
but sometimes not

this structure
is where we all begin
but should not ded end

move beyond,
translate your me
into us
find the way to comprehend
that you must pass over the line
of me and
excel anew

write a near and new me,
take your own vocabulary,
your own DNA a given
super duper impose your word~life structure
on me in ways that
gasp me into a new seeing

give me your genes, your word cells,
teeming with new connections,

then happily
will I take  
your poems,

delete the Y,

make it
our poems,
add it to my cellular vocabulary,
by doing so,
establish a physical genetic connection

truly then our ink is our blood,
and we are poet brothers and poet sisters,
cousins of the words
for the living poets whose genes and cells teem with words
 Jul 2014 Helen
rained-on parade
Love is an art.

And I can barely
draw you a stick figure.
Funny story. True story.
15/1/14
Noise is not always Music
and Language isn't always Poetry,
but, when it means some thing to you,
Noise becomes Music
and Language becomes Poetry.
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