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 Mar 2019 JK Casilda
Em MacKenzie
Today I realized I’m responsible
for the destructive crash
that brought me to where I am.
There were quite a few red lights,
but I ignored them completely.
After all, it’s the green lights
that always look so beautiful
when you are out at night.
In a window placed
For all to see,
A candle burns.
My gift to thee.

A guiding light,
A beacon in the dark,
As this flame flickers,
It dances in my heart.

Though you’re not here,
You still burn bright,
Bringing comfort
You lead me through the night.

Rejoicing in this golden glow,
Now I begin to see,
The shimmer of this light
Is your gift to me.
 Mar 2019 JK Casilda
Amy Anderson
Take my hand
And I'll take yours.
The world has tried
To turn us two
Against each other,
To foster a hatred
Of flaming red.
And for a time,
We were monochrome,
A blinding scarlet.
But now, let us change
And fade into blush,
A quiet softness
And gentle love.
-a message to the mirror
 Jan 2019 JK Casilda
I grieve for the poems
Drawing a map of my soul
Failing in the beauty of the form
My body a mirror of this
Carrying me so adequately
Beauty and grace absent to others eyes
 Jan 2019 JK Casilda
you cut a grin
laid a fade-less scar on my hand
branded in our innocent games and  loving tones
this silent scar,
surrounded by sun-worn wrinkled skin
and blue blue veins,

Cane and Abel
regardless of that innocent rock
rolling on moss like boys will
allot; ups and down,
take ins and out
this destined lesson bound
in a slice of dread
and disbelief
now at rest


I intentionally failed to wish you
a happy birthday this year,
though I know significant dates,
hours, moments, people,
by heart.
I still search for you in boys
I mistake for bandages,
the ones with eyes almost
the same shade of your hazels,
lips resounding your laughter,
resembling a wisp of your smile,
But they aren't you.


Sometimes I pretend you're dead,
because it's less painful
to stop reaching out into voids.


My mom still blames you
for everything that preceded that year.
Though you probably had no idea what happened
when we stopped talking altogether.
Can you believe it's almost been three years?


My dad wonders who was my 'one that got away'
Though, I'm pretty sure he knows
it's you.


Remember how I mentioned Sylvia Plath?
How most everything she wrote
brimmed with melancholy?
How I loved every single word?
Especially that piece
where she talked about expectations
and disappointments.
You'll never know that
up to this day I still think
people are selfish enough to
always, eventually turn into the latter.
Even you.


It's sad I never got the chance
to tell you about Ted.
How she loved him so much,
she just had to dive headfirst
into the flames-- burning herself,
what was left of her--
after she found out
he never really loved her
the same way
she loved him
in the first place.


truth is,
some of us
never learn to accept
the love we think we deserve.


I don't know if you still read my poems
or if you still think about me,
about us, sometimes.
Every time you fall asleep past eleven,
a part of me hopes you do.
because I always remember you--
in birthday candles, red ribbons,
off-tune voice records, golden arches,
concrete sidewalks, pedestrian lanes,
the last flickers of city lights
softly fading out of the blue.
I remember you
in everything, in everywhere,
in everyone.
It's useless, no matter how much I try to forget.
No matter how much I just want to forget.
I want to forget.

But, how could I?

When forgetting means forsaking
the very memory of you.
 Dec 2018 JK Casilda
The Non-Poet
life is like
when you're
a little kid
and you
discover that
there is more
than twenty-four
crayons in the box
that there is
the possibility
of forty-eight colors
of sixty-four
of one-hundred and twenty
that there are
so many shades
of love and anger and peace and despair
and absolute bliss
and the ability
to express them all
are now
in the palm
of your hand

life is
and absolutely wonderful

every day is
a new sunrise
a new chance
to transform into
the butterfly you
want to be

go out there
and change the world, kid
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