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 Nov 2013 Kendal Anne
Piper
Jealousy
 Nov 2013 Kendal Anne
Piper
I wanted to be a snowflake
Laid to rest
On the roof above your head
But there were others that fell
Pushing down on my ribs
I held my breath but
I’d already lost my luster
Who can compete with
A fille of seventeen
Eyes bejeweled and
Legs long like palm trees
I wanted to be a woolen blanket
Radiate your warmth
Back over you
You had no need for my tenderness
The beams of late morning
Sent me tumbling down
A gutter pipe
Left swirling in a crack
In the pavement
Hand in hand with your enchantress
Carefully stepping over me
You mustn’t get her shoes wet.
Its the life of others that makes me happy.
My Life,My Life-how can I call you to be
only mine!I exist because everyone does.
The eternal chanting of blissful life
pours everyday on my shoulder.

Oh beautiful Stranger! please stay one more minute
before my eyes get used to your innocent soul and
before my eyes get accustomed to the ordinary distractions
that they see all the time.

Lets go from here,from here to there
from there to somewhere else.
The Call is on,can you hear the Call?
Can you answer your soul?
Wrote in a Coffee shop sitting in front of a beautiful lady.
Later I tore the page and gave it to her and before doing that I copied it somewhere.
It was really weird act of mine,but I guess the name of the poem explains my action on behalf of me.
Angelic giggles from thine own bone, and blood
waiting innocently on her father, the leader of men
he was just daddy to she, his greatest accomplishment
a child of privilege not in material desires,
but in the love of her one great pride

Through her life other men will come
some brave warriors of mind, body, and soul
few will come to deceive
however, the one thing in her life guaranteed
is the blessing  from the Lord for his gift to them both

For when her father, of blood, bone, and flesh
draws his final breath
he will have known true victory, that brought peace
she will know the one, and only man
to love her unconditionally

In the warmth of his blood he is a man to worldly life
and the king to his very own seed, he helped conceive
by blood of his brow, upon his death
be it a short, or lengthy process
his greatest contribution to this world is, love

As years pass after this great man's death
be he king, or common man his character is passed on
he may smile as he nears eternal slumber with God
he has left his true mark on this world
through his flesh, and blood

Loving, teaching, caring, in the creation of his own
no regrets as he rest his head on any night
he passes knowing truth, and respect in himself, and she
to be carried on by many generations
after they are both dead, and gone,  resting in everlasting arms
 Nov 2013 Kendal Anne
Hannah McC
Torn between conflict of facing the truth,
and the urge to ignore such predictions.
Outside perspective, an internal sleuth,
will avoid any sudden afflictions.

"But what," says my mind "if wrong is the right-"
"- and you brush off your soul's obligations?"
Should ignorance fail to conquer the fight,
and instinct: that of keen observation.

New, sharpened blade severs guilt between guilt,
bitter shame sitting right in the center .
If you must know me, then know to the hilt,
that my mind is a crevice you'll enter.

Shed light on masquerade, faces of doubt,
Faces of nothing, if light were without.
Red white and blue
cloudy foggy blue can't quite see through, but
cutting through this impossible blue is pure white
blinding white of porcelin skin that's never seen summer time, and-
red, the color and brilliance of blood
slices through the blinding white
and she fades to black.

black, the absence of color, the abundance of relief
I needed relief she excuses, I just... I needed it to bleed
never meant for it to happen this way, she's addicted to the silver
not the silver lining on the clouds,
because storm clouds don't have a silver lining
when they're only black
and she can't differentiate between the colors
when everything is blue
a foggy mist she can't see through

she's just trying to break through, maybe even cut through
but all you see are the scars on your arms,
so stunned by your own assumptions you can't see through
your own fog, to the words on her lips
bandaged cuts can't keep her silent,
her sweet voice slowly seeps through:
this is my story, this is my song,
and if i were you, i'd never sing along.

because her favorite color is red as the relief spills through her veins
and the scars it leaves behind tell the stories
of regret that she can't run from
but she keeps on running,
cant catch her breath, can't catch a break
she paints pictures in colors of crimson,
on her arms she paints her life scene by scene
the pictures always change, but the captions stay the same:
"I, I needed it to bleed."

red relief comes in a line,
you cringe at her scars, but only she can feel them
sweet crimson relief, she can finally breathe
see, the scars on her arms tell a story in red, white and blue.
doesn't want to admit it but shes addicted to this feeling
she runs her fingers over the scars,
this is her 3 dimensional healing
and she, fades to black.
this poem is significantly less, because it was written for a class.
The difference between you and her
(whom I to you did once prefer)
Is clear enough to settle:
She like a diamond shone, but you
Shine like an early drop of dew
Poised on a red rose petal.

The dew-drop carries in its eye
Mountain and forest, sea and sky,
With every change of weather;
Contrariwise, a diamond splits
The prospect into idle bits
That none can piece together
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