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  Aug 2018 Lillian May
Hannah Christina
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
Problems only We True Artists face.
Lillian May Aug 2018
They call **** soul ******;
what would soul **** be?
I believe it's when another,
forces you emotionally.
when your heart needs the slow,
but that pace doesn't satisfy,
then they expect your sun to glow,
but inside only clouds can cry.
because you cannot force the clouds to part,
or change the weather with a glance,
nor should you rush a work of art,
or rely on a silly rain-dance.
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountain yields.

There we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
Lillian May Aug 2018
a
funny
fluttering
feeling
in
my
                heart
beats
skipping
and
dancing
and
jumping
                around
I look
and
wonder
where
you've
been
               all my life
I hope one day this will belong to someone
  Aug 2018 Lillian May
Orange Rose
I wrote a poem when I died...
Another at my birth.
A brand-new sonnet when I cried.
And again when there was mirth.

A song for my confession...
A story for my pain...
A painting for depression...
And nursery rhymes for rain.

My creations live inside my heart.
I keep them there in shame.
Yet you looked around and saw my art,
And smiled all the same.
Sometimes
You
Have
To,
Hold your own hand,
Pat your own back,
Blow your own horn..
Not to be selfish,
But to learn to be there for your self when no one else is there for you.
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