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He painted me with the faith
Color  to make me as his wish
I was so glad he believe me
I would be real in his sketch

He hold me, croon for me
Dance and smirk with me
He comes close to share his emotion
I feel proud as I shine in his passion

Hey!!!

Where are you going leaving me alone?
I could not be here without your shadow
I feel suffocation in this canvass
I would be scared in this dimness

I am so isolate without your hug
You make me smile blush me up
Now I can't be happy nor can cry
As the tears will take identity of my
The only thing you left for me
The only thing I can carry for you
That makes me feel alive in this canvass
 Dec 2015 Keith W Fletcher
K
Nanny,
Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I have ever done.
As I tread along the barren corridor that night,
I passed the poorest of souls.
Those whose frenzied hands moved without purpose,
Muttering incomprehensible sounds from their shrunken lips,
As they stared absently at the walls, never truly seeing.
With a clenched jaw, I had to divert my gaze,
Wondering who these people were
Before their lives were stolen by Time,
The unquenchable monster slowly sipping at their youth.
A loving mother, brother, daughter, husband, sister?
Their stories I will never know.
I wondered if you would remember yours…
365
The sign on the door read Christina Cook,
Written hastily on the old whiteboard,
Stained black with the names of those who resided here before.
I will never forget the unbearable sorrow I felt as I entered your room.
Nanny, you used to tell me aging was a natural process,
Like the changing autumn leaves.
But you forgot to tell me that after that beautiful,
Final blaze of glory,
They fall.
Littering the ground in their fading shades of brown,
Disintegrating into powder.
Spread by the wind as ashes.
I held your hand, and felt the leathery skin
That bound your delicate bones.
But, it wasn’t you. Gone was the strong woman,
Mother of 8, grandmother of 19
In your small frame, I found a child.
So proud to flaunt your red-painted nails,
It was always your favourite colour.
You drew the bed sheets down
To expose your barren legs and oversized diaper,
So proud to show me “how skinny” you were getting.
I wept inside for your degenerating body.
On the outside, I smiled and said "you are beautiful".
I swallowed heavily as I kissed your cheek and said goodbye.
Took what might be my final glance
At your weathered face that was once so full with joy.
I love you.
I hated myself for leaving you all alone in that desolate room.  
I wished my presence could provide you with comfort,
But I knew I couldn’t.
Fall was fleeting,
Snowflakes were falling,
And you didn’t know me anyways.
Words are harmless, so they say,
That's where the problem starts;
Sticks and stones
May break our bones
But words will break our hearts.



Words are harmless, so they say,
And point you to their charts;
It's harmless fun,
No damage done.
But... Who will mend our hearts?



The x-rays show no damage
Where words have scathed across,
But it still feels hard to manage,
And leaves you at a loss.



Words are harmless, don't complain,
That's where the problem starts.
It's quite absurd-
A single word-
Enough to break our hearts!



But words are harmless, they maintain;
The subject of their parts,
No less or more,
So let them pour
From all our broken hearts
“Sticks and stones may break our bones, but words will break our hearts” is a quote I have stolen directly from Robert Fulghum.
In my defence, he'd already stolen half of that quote himself.
She's very much alive
But she is dead to me
The decision wasn't mine
She wanted to be
A tombstone in my mind
A grave inside my heart
A perpetual funeral
That has no end or start
There is no wreath to set
No flowers to lay
The only place that this exists
Is buried in my wake
 Dec 2015 Keith W Fletcher
niamh
I sit on the step
And draw
The cold around me
Like a blanket,
Savouring the numbness
And the heat
That begins within.
Swallowed by the night
Drunk on wine
And stars.
Hot tears on cold cheeks.
Seasoning for
Chapped lips
Stinging
Bringing fresh tears.
I take refuge
In the silence,
Under the gaze of
Sympathetic eyes.
My friends.
My constant companions.
Drunk on wine
And stars.
Words are the seeds of rebellion
A simple sentence may imprint a design of unrest
On the minds of the oppressed
And when watered by the unending tears
Of the motherless child
Of the widow or widower
These seeds spring eternal as weeds in the gardens of the oppressors
How quickly these starving plants grow
In the perceived beauty of the truly demented souls
Of those who used the corpses of the tormented as the topsoil
For their design of a utopia
The weeds of unrest will rise in the minds of those who have lost all
In a sacrifice for the comfort of those who walk above them
They will choke the oxygen
From the society
Who survives off of them
Those who carry the world on their backs
Words are the seeds of rebellion
And they are those who will stand
When these perverted gardens fall around them
my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines

— The End —