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 Nov 2014 Laura Gray
unwritten
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.

but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?


this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)
this is more of a story than a poem but i like how it came out so leave thoughts & comments please
I'm trying to break out
From underneath the leaves
That fall on top of me
From the tree next to where I sleep

But then I remember
You're no longer there
To help me crawl my way back out
So that I can finally sleep

I'll try to pretend
That this isn't the end
And fill my thoughts with memories
Of your heart across my hands

I just wish I would've been more gentle
And not have held it to hard
And too close to my own
Because now I don't feel at home.
A&G
To all the soldiers serving now
To those who served in other wars

Born of your courage, strength and might
The freedom that you sought is ours

Because of you we can but say
A humble prayer of thanks today

— The End —