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There are times when I see you
Times I see you unexpectedly
It’s then that I feel you squeeze my heart

Maybe you touch me from behind
Gently lay your hands upon me
Stroke my shoulders, thats when I know

Walking in the park when we are alone
Sometimes then when we touch
That’s when my feelings for you grow

When you leave my side I am bereft
I know you have to go but each parting hurts
I wonder will you return and hope you do

Am I so greedy of my time with you
Do others notice how I feel
Does my adoration or pain show within my eyes

When you return I silently cry out to your presence
And yet in reality I make no sound
Treasuring just the slightest touch of your lips

Seasons come around and travel upon their paths
Another year is gone, but I feel always the same
I would wait for your caress even if you had gone

I know within my heart that one day we will part
The pain of love would then render my heart torn
Perhaps it’s selfish but I hope it’s me that’s first

To imagine your demise is inconceivable for me
To dwell on this I know I would die myself
For the future would hold no reason

For the seasons to turn without you
For the holidays to arrive with no twinkle in your eye
This I could not endure and I would have to pass

But for the moments I have left, you are near
For the time we are together I am grateful
And for each and everyday you squeeze my heart
Secrets create,
Enemies and friends.
Can start new trends.
Reveal new tech.
Endanger peace.
Turn blue to red.
Secret whispers.

Secrets welcome.
Extra income.
Conditional love.
Regretful outcomes.
Emotional sin.
The hidden grin.
Secret whispers.

Secret sounds.
Entrapped inside.
Craves to be found.
Results in lies.
Eats till it dies,
Till realized.
Secret whispers, do not hide.
 Sep 2015 Latin Gypsy - Eva
 Sep 2015 Latin Gypsy - Eva
You used to make my heart sing
along with the birds in the
early morning
and i'm not a morning person

You used to sing me sweet lullabies
with your lips
as you kissed my skin

You used to fill my heart with Hope,
and believe me when I say,
I needed hope to carry on.

You were my savior,
my saving Grace,
you saved me a thousand times.

I wonder what happened,
and then I realized,

that when I finally gave myself to you,
you gave up.
People come and they go,
They leave in us full of thoughts,
Stranded in the darkness, with a glimpse of a glow,
My vision of a mirage, to reap and to sow.

Here come, there go,
Days are deep, profound like a hole,
Strikes so hard, no difference with a rod,
Limping on the way, hoping to find the road.

Here come, there go,
Days are flipping out, bouncing like a ball,
Aiming in the box, just like a goal,
It's all so bold, life is a fraud.
I was inspired by m own struggle in life.The is a point in life where you get to see who is really part of your life and those who aren't. And life itself is just a stepping stone to our futures.It's all so bold.
 Sep 2015 Latin Gypsy - Eva
There's a lot of people out there who will tell you that they used to be romantics till they got hurt
And they'll tell you that they still should, and that they're completely aware
It's like a high you once had that you will never again reach
Even if you tried you couldn't feel, even if you cut yourself you couldn't bleed

So what I do when I ask you and you say I do
Am I just another believer who's killing the dream
Should I grab my things and have a way with them
Like you always do, and end up hurting you too
Or should I swallow my pride for a romantic sacrifice

People talk about diamonds like they never lose there value, yet they can be so easily mimicked
Isn't it sentimental, or is it something about mother nature's chemist
But everybody's got something to say
They all like their diamonds laced with *******

Talking to you is like playing a word game
And I'm not doing so hot
What is romance if I've already had a shot
What is a movie if I already know the plot
My script isn't true until it's old and used
Should I keep falsifying truths, or should I find something new
Tortured people tell themselves the past never happened.
They sit and reminisce about memories that they created.

Their hands are brown and worn down,
looking like a sibling of the ground that will eventually be a tomb for their bodies.

The teeth are fake and so are the smiles.
Hair falls off like rusty leaves brushed by a breeze, warning of the death of winter.
Limbs turn into string, ******* hang, and guts grow; like pregnant, stray cats.

Whenever they die, their houses will be eaten by their children, and not even a piece of gristle or a picture frame will be left.

The house will be nothing but a sun-dried ribcage:
a discarded postcard with the address marked out.

The children will sit and talk of their parents, repressing the abuse and the inability to meet expectations.

The children will work in sterile cubicles, thankful that their hands will not be stamped by calluses, yet knowing their fathers would not approve.

The children will open up the dust-blanketed boxes and stare at old family pictures, not able to recognize the people who smile and have perfect posture.

The children will lay in bed with their spouses and say, to no one in particular,
'Why was it never enough?
What did I do?

Was it me?'

The children will be tortured by these words,
by lives that weren't in technicolor,
by the paranoia of being tolerated instead of liked,
by the anxiety that a paid-off house
and nice car couldn't alleviate,
by themselves.

The children will retire and will have realized that they worked their entire lives just to enjoy ten years.
Their hair follicles will let go of strands and locks,
like a dandelion being stripped by the wind.

The enamel on their teeth will corrode and, before long, they will be thankful for the sensitivity of their teeth because the coldness of senior-citizen-discounted ice cream will be one of the few things they will be able to feel, let alone put a genuine smile on their face.

They will sit on their recliners, stare at their keyboard-kissed fingers and tell themselves the past never happened.

Because that's what tortured people do.
Ashland, Wisconsin
Old men fascinated by teen *****
and the hues harnessed by high school hips,
I ask you to look at something corrupted:
yourself, this town, this world.

The town's lumber supplier has died
and daughters fight over dollars.

Greasy haired women, wearing denim,
smoking menthols and bruised with cheap make-up,
stand on fractured sidewalks.

I walk, wearing a Native American-ized fleece,
the Chippewa crush their cigarettes
and blink like lizards at me
because I wear bastardization,
but wash it.

Half the town smokes,
and if you ask the pastor,
the whole town smokes
because everyone's going to hell.

All the girls read John Green
and flip the pages because it's a cheaper escape than a bus ticket.

Plato said that everything changes
and nothing stands still;
these people will suffer,
their bodies will break down,
and they will die --
but what never changes is their hope
in eventual death.

What cannot change is my hope
in something more.
Ashland, Wisconsin
I sit in the middle of the classroom
Because the back is too deceiving
And the front is too noticeable.
I sit in the middle.
I sit in the middle of happiness.
Because depression is too deceiving.
And pure happiness is too noticeable.
I sit in the middle of myself.
Because I'm not deceiving enough.
And I never want to be noticed.
I sit in the middle of life.
Because the past is too deceiving.
And the future is too noticeable
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