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I sit here singing along to Tim Mcgraw
as the hail tries to crack my window open
between thunderclaps
I need you
I need you
Whoever you are
I need you
Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing
How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead, and how
In the grave all love shall sleep:
Love is aweary now.
 May 2013 Jennifer Freya
Maya
Tell me where your dreams roam
when you close your eyes.
Do they bring you home?
Do you dream of cuddling with me
while my eyes close sleepily?
Because I dream of laying sober with you
sharing whispered secrets until two.
In my best dreams, with my eyes closed,
your arms surround me, our bodies touch from head to toe.
And soon, with my eyes open,
we can do that, or so I'm hoping.
Baby, can you tell me what you dream of?
Even if it's not of me, I hope it makes you smile love.
I hope we can connect our sleeping dreams and mentalities,
from Wisconsin to California some time in reality.
We are weapons of mass destruction.
Our actions serve as declarations of war,
And our words act as missiles that are sent to wreak chaos.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

We leave our destruction to fester more havoc,
And we turn a blind eye to our victims.
We try to cover our created chaos with purposes and goals.
However, the damage has been done.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can hurt me.

Time eventually covers our victim’s wounds.
Ultimately, they are left with scars from the battle.
And in the darkest of nights, in the midst of their dreams, our words create nightmares.
Jerking forward from their unpleasant slumber, our victims realize that this is reality.
They wake up ******, broken, and barren.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words have hurt me.

- J.M.
Hold me tightly against your warmth-
Open your heart to let mine in.
Memories are all we have now,
Everywhere we turn is cold.
Your tilted head
shifted your waterfall hair
to the left.

In a stream of beguiling blonde
ripples,
your chest was met with a dry splash of gold,
real gold.

Technology at your fingertips,
HTML scripts morphing
into long sentences, bouncing in grammar and not stopping
until you take another breath, another
sip from your coffee cup of bitter death- one sugar, no less.

Daunt Books bag beside your chair’s side,
the faithful mute mule carrying
your words and notes and probably an umbrella too,
it’s raining outside and I wish for you not to get wet.
coffeeshoppoems.com
Beauty…
Beauty isn’t thin.
It’s big and bold and it’s thick enough
To shine through the ones who truly possess it.
Beauty doesn’t have perfect skin.
It has zits. It has scars. It has laugh lines.
Beauty isn’t tall or short.
It’s everything in between.
It doesn’t have long, perfect hair.
Beauty probably isn’t a size 0.
And I doubt it works out every day.
I bet beauty really enjoys lunchables.
It might not have a perfect voice.
I don’t think it’s perfect, at all,
In fact, it’s not a lot of things.
That’s the reason that beauty is beautiful, though.
Beauty…
Beauty is *you.
I can't fall in love...
I can't even fall asleep.
I'm working on the title. It doesn't seem to fit. Suggestions?
Her smile holds just a little too much hurt sometimes
And if you look long enough you'll be surprised as to what you can find
years of hurt and pain in hiding
tear ducts over used for crying
too much lying
She's finally done fighting
Her story is already written
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