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This isn't a test, but you have all the answers.
This isn't a dream, but you need to wake up.
This isn't a toy. It's my heart, and it's breaking.
You know that I'm yours, so just tell me you're mine.
This is my last cigarette, and I'm running out of time.
I remember like it was the day before
All those clever, well-crafted barbs thrown in my direction.
I remember the tears of youth unbroken by childish laughter.
The pain knew where to find me at the core of my core.
Left naked in a storm of scorn with no protection,
So long ago, but the hate lingers after.

Fitfully, vainly trying to stop up every hole
Before the hate finds a way to escape
And race down the corridors of my mind.
It will find the center of my soul
And there take on its awful shape
Only to leave a legacy of anger behind.

Trying to hold the darkness at bay
With self-made sunshine and lifted chin
But the memories of anger soak through me like rain.
I look back on memories tinted watercolor gray.
No true sunlight finds its way in
And the darkness of pain and hate swallows me whole once again.
Copyright 2011, William Michael Winegar
This is an older poem I had written and posted on another site.
 Mar 2012 Hunter Miller
Beth C
I fall in love at least once every day
And twice a day on weekends.

I once fell for the sun and the moon
on the same glittering, empty night;
And I was so happy that day that I didn't even care
when you called me strange.

I have loved the delirious grey of the ocean before a storm,
the taste of chocolate on cloudless nights,
the vicious crack of lightning over the roof,
So I didn't care if I wasn't a part of any of your stories.

I loved the neighborhood stray, with all its feral grace and matted fir,
I loved the fields of waving grass even while the sun beat down on me,
I loved that ridiculous tie you wore yesterday,
All so I wouldn't have to love you.

On my darker nights,
I loved the flash of glass as it shattered against the wall,
the shine of the knives in the bottom of the drawer,
the sweet, dim glow of the brown bottle under the sink;
They all tempted me more than you ever did.

Sunsets and sunrises
Bug bites and bee stings
Poetry in the springtime
And the taste of popcorn in darkened theatres.
Rain on the rooftop

And mostly,
you.

You see, I have a problem,
A bad habit, if you will.
I only love things
that cannot love me.
I don't remember, any more,
The exact shape of your hands
As I held them in mine,
Caressed them,
Memorized the length of your fingers,
The depth of your calluses.

I don't remember, any more,
Exactly your height, how much
Taller than me
You were, where
My head rested on your chest
When you held me tightly close.

I don't remember, any more,
Your scent, when we lay together
Creating our own
Magic rhythm,
Matching our heartbeats as we
Touched the sky, together.

I don't remember, any more,
The sound of your voice, calling
My name as though
It were a song
Within itself, a precious treasure
You valued with all your being.

And I don't remember, any more,
The color of your eyes, the shape
Of your lips,
Only...
How your eyes crinkled at the corners
And your laugh, as you told me,

"I love you."
Copyright by Ash L. Bennett, 2011
The throbbing headache and nausea
I can endure; I've had worse.
Right now I could cry,
such a raw hope consumed me
as I thought about you, desperate.
It was still dark for me then,
when I needed you. Now it's day.
It brings a true smirk to my face
to know you are nothing more
than a night of binge drinking:
a foolish part of my youth,
a consequence of boredom.
I could not hold your liquor,
I vomited all that bile you said to me
in the hedges outside. Don't fret,
this is not a bad memory, in fact
you might never be a memory at all.
I am well. I will drink better and
far more dangerous poisons.
I am today, you are only last night.

— The End —