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She brushes her hair,
Before going to bed.
Takes the mask,
From upon her face.

She lines her pillows,
Perfectly inline.
Resting her head,
And her aching bones.

She thinks about her day,
Falling asleep.
She buries her head,
Deep in her pillows.

Thunderstorms and rain,
Wind and sun.
And she’s still alive,
All of these years later.

And why is she still alive?
Because the universe is her friend.
Her only friend?
Maybe.
It’s night time again.
Here I sit,
Thinking of the beginning,
The middle and the end.
Where am I going?
What am I doing?
Will I ever get there?
Then realization hits
I know why I take
The highs and the lows.
It’s the passion inside
That drives me on
I have to use my voice
In a poem or a song
To show them all
They have a place
They can belong.
I have to say these words
Hoping it can keep them strong
To give them a reason just to hold on
To show them there is love in this dark world
And so I keep going
No matter how hard
My own journey gets
There’s always work to be done
There’s no time to rest.
 Aug 2013 Kimberly
K Balachandran
Not just a conundrum, as you think,
I am altogether an illusion like everything.
Now my shadow plays its song here,
when I sit at my home in eternity
 Aug 2013 Kimberly
Lexy Garcia
oh mother dearest
please say not another word
i'm not that little girl who was to your heart so nearest
stop being so ignorantly absurd
i try my hardest to make you approve
i really do
all you'll ever do is disapprove
even when to myself i stay true
oh mother
i know you detest my poetry
yet another
may not agree
i'm sorry for being a failure
and also for my irritating behavior
but you cannot choose my life
for this is not your own
your piercing words are like a knife
attacking until the cause of this loneliness becomes vaguely unknown

-l.c.g.
 Aug 2013 Kimberly
Me
The poet stands, bending over a piece of his writing, next to his wife
musing, not writing any longer.

His wife, in both appearance and mind much stronger than him,
shares his glance and dares
to let her eyes dance right across his naked lines.

He feels her breath next to his shoulder, on his skin,
remembers how, when growing older, you start to be
content with less.

So now, she finally adresses him:
Are you writing about me?

He frowns, something he rarely does, takes a deep breath
and, quietly bereft of his most personal emotion, starts to smile.

You know, he anwers, with a slight shiver in his voice,
I'd rather you asked something else. I'd rather-
but he has no choice, is forced to speak, at last.

His wife, slightly intrigued, demands: elaborate!
Two hands are raised to shape the air, create a space
and place an invisible heart
inside its core.

Look here, he speaks, this is my work,
and indicating this he gestures wildly
while his wife remains disquiet, though now
she sees, thus smiling mildly, what he is getting at.

And in the middle, this is you
as if
-
now he does not allow his voice to drift
as if my poetry evolves -
But he stops dead and sees
a clear image inside his spinning head:

He concentrates, takes a step back -
and reaches for his woman's face,
places his palms on her red cheeks, one side each,
and begins to speak anew:

*If I had ever written just a single line about you, dear,
I shall be ******.
I won't let false words touch you!
Let me explain:

It is the other way around!
All pieces and all lines and words have once
belonged to you, and now emerge
from your sweet face!

I am now well prepared just to erase
all of my poetry,
for all of it I will find then again,
anew,
in your kind heart,
in you.
***This is what is left of a two-hour art musem visit this afternoon!
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