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Blood running from my veins
Onto the beige old carpet
Rubi red
My lips
My wine
My chicks
The sheets
Laying over my unmade
naked bed.

My body
My soul
In this poem.

In the hallow cave
Between my legs
Since the day you left.

All over my throat
For biting my lips
So hard
So I would not cry.
While listening classical music the muse came to me and gifted us with this poem. Enjoy it. Eva
I don't know why
Nor the exact reason,
I'm sad.

The princels
On my easel are dry
So my eyes.

I scratch the surface.
It's now more bright,
But still blury
Today is sad!

I can't paint
Nor write!
My hands are invisible,
So am I


More sadness.
Today is sad.

Today I'm sad.
The green leaves on my window
Cannot tell me why.
They seem cheerful but not I....

Nor the Eco of the wind,
Playing on the water fountain
At the lake,  can't explain
Nor the ducks or the birds
No one can tell me why
I'm sad

Not even my dog,
Who happily barks,
Not even my fat
sleepy cat.

Maybe you friend
reading this lines
Maybe you can see why
And tell me why I'm this sad.

Why my phone never rings.
Why I'm so lonely
Why I feel like I want to cry
When is so beautiful outside.

Why I'm so moody today.
Why my favorite song that now plays
***** so bad.
Am I getting mad?
Loosing  my marbles?

Why no one seems to care
if my soft heart
is broken into zillion pieces,
Or if by the rain in my eyes
They are becoming blind.

And am I mad?
Someone, anyone, tell me please!

Why, of all days,
I have to be this sad....
Sadness depression rejection loneliness wanting hope fears desires love poetry
Hundreds of thousands of words Shouting
How can I Call you

So deep darkness all around
How can I See you

But Red Sun rises in your sky
How can I See it

Your are in full of dreams
How can I dream your dreams in My eyes

But Still,

The Words
That can say Your say

The Darkness
Forced to see the Light

The Red Sun
May expand my horizons

And your Dream
May birth to another dream in me

Yet I can't bring you

In my known tune
In my own room
In my known rhythm
In my known traverse

Yet I speak your words,
Sing your song
Days Passing to wait
Nights passing through dreams-
My body was trembling
When I felt him near
His feet
Playing footsie
With me
And my foot
Under the table
(As I ate a foot long
And had onion breath)

He liked my  breath
I thought then
Because I felt his lips
Getting closer to me.
I felt it
and my breath stopped
My whole breathing stopped
Making my chest
pounding so hard.
It was my heart.

I turned my head sideways
Avoiding the inevitable.
He reached for a napking
He tried to touch my fingers
Grab my hand.
Yes grab my hand!
But no. He can't
So I took them away
I moved my foot away
And my hungry mouth away,
Away from him.

His body screamed at me.
His eyes asked why?
Hurt was shooting through his eyes.
Nothing new to me
Since I saw the same
in my mirror each day
When a thought of his lips
crossed my mind.
The mouth I want to be forever mine....
This treasure was discovered in a bamboo thicket --
I washed the bowl in a spring and then mended it.
After morning meditation, I take my gruel in it;
At night, it serves me soup or rice.
Cracked, worn, weather-beaten, and misshapen
But still of noble stock!
Set in this stormy Northern sea,
Queen of these restless fields of tide,
England! what shall men say of thee,
Before whose feet the worlds divide?

The earth, a brittle globe of glass,
Lies in the hollow of thy hand,
And through its heart of crystal pass,
Like shadows through a twilight land,

The spears of crimson-suited war,
The long white-crested waves of fight,
And all the deadly fires which are
The torches of the lords of Night.

The yellow leopards, strained and lean,
The treacherous Russian knows so well,
With gaping blackened jaws are seen
Leap through the hail of screaming shell.

The strong sea-lion of England’s wars
Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,
To battle with the storm that mars
The stars of England’s chivalry.

The brazen-throated clarion blows
Across the Pathan’s reedy fen,
And the high steeps of Indian snows
Shake to the tread of armed men.

And many an Afghan chief, who lies
Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,
Clutches his sword in fierce surmise
When on the mountain-side he sees

The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes
To tell how he hath heard afar
The measured roll of English drums
Beat at the gates of Kandahar.

For southern wind and east wind meet
Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,
England with bare and ****** feet
Climbs the steep road of wide empire.

O lonely Himalayan height,
Grey pillar of the Indian sky,
Where saw’st thou last in clanging flight
Our winged dogs of Victory?

The almond-groves of Samarcand,
Bokhara, where red lilies blow,
And Oxus, by whose yellow sand
The grave white-turbaned merchants go:

And on from thence to Ispahan,
The gilded garden of the sun,
Whence the long dusty caravan
Brings cedar wood and vermilion;

And that dread city of Cabool
Set at the mountain’s scarped feet,
Whose marble tanks are ever full
With water for the noonday heat:

Where through the narrow straight Bazaar
A little maid Circassian
Is led, a present from the Czar
Unto some old and bearded khan,—

Here have our wild war-eagles flown,
And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;
But the sad dove, that sits alone
In England—she hath no delight.

In vain the laughing girl will lean
To greet her love with love-lit eyes:
Down in some treacherous black ravine,
Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.

And many a moon and sun will see
The lingering wistful children wait
To climb upon their father’s knee;
And in each house made desolate

Pale women who have lost their lord
Will kiss the relics of the slain—
Some tarnished epaulette—some sword—
Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.

For not in quiet English fields
Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,
Where we might deck their broken shields
With all the flowers the dead love best.

For some are by the Delhi walls,
And many in the Afghan land,
And many where the Ganges falls
Through seven mouths of shifting sand.

And some in Russian waters lie,
And others in the seas which are
The portals to the East, or by
The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.

O wandering graves!  O restless sleep!
O silence of the sunless day!
O still ravine!  O stormy deep!
Give up your prey!  Give up your prey!

And thou whose wounds are never healed,
Whose weary race is never won,
O Cromwell’s England! must thou yield
For every inch of ground a son?

Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,
Change thy glad song to song of pain;
Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,
And will not yield them back again.

Wave and wild wind and foreign shore
Possess the flower of English land—
Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,
Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.

What profit now that we have bound
The whole round world with nets of gold,
If hidden in our heart is found
The care that groweth never old?

What profit that our galleys ride,
Pine-forest-like, on every main?
Ruin and wreck are at our side,
Grim warders of the House of Pain.

Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?
Where is our English chivalry?
Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,
And sobbing waves their threnody.

O loved ones lying far away,
What word of love can dead lips send!
O wasted dust!  O senseless clay!
Is this the end! is this the end!

Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead
To vex their solemn slumber so;
Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,
Up the steep road must England go,

Yet when this fiery web is spun,
Her watchmen shall descry from far
The young Republic like a sun
Rise from these crimson seas of war.
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