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  Feb 2019 Lillian May
Shadow Dragon
We are told to be different.
While we despise different.
This is what I call hypocritical.

Different has big round curves
or slim bone waists.
Different has curly black beautiful hair
or nice strawberry red locks.
Different is expressing everything
or nothing at all.
We don't decide our different
but we can learn to love it.
  Feb 2019 Lillian May
Hunter Mars
A small hand grasped my own as I looked over to meet young, innocent, inquisitive eyes.

“What is love?”

Taken aback, my eyes moved about vacantly as I inwardly searched for a meaning that meant something.

Smiling, I gently squeezed the little fingers intermingled with mine, and softly whispered,

"It is everything."
x.x H. Mars
(I wrote this because of you, my little)
Lillian May Feb 2019
once again you were my stars
every time i saw you i was filled with new wonder
i could stare at you for hours and never be bored
i've written poems about stars before

and once again i was just
well what was i?
what clever metaphor is there for nothing?

i suppose to you i was like a comet.
beautiful, awe-inspiring for a moment.
you couldn't get enough of the sight of me
and then gone from your gaze.

but really im the stars
you just closed your eyes.
  Feb 2019 Lillian May
Eliot
words
They build us up
They break us down
They are everything
They are nothing
They are a splash of paint
They will leave a stain
It can be honey to your ears
Or deafening silence
They make our the worst fears
They are the sound of defiance
They will make you cry
They can give you a reason to sigh
They can soothe the wailing child
Or cause death to come
They can be the reason why he smiled
Or cause agony to some
Words they are everything
They are nothing
Lillian May Feb 2019
when we're so close that our lungs share air
our lips touch and we sink
down into a rhythm
perfectly in time that pentameters weep
  Feb 2019 Lillian May
Ruhani
Love
is a never ending poem
written in erratic lines
which mostly doesn't
but sometimes rhymes.
Lillian May Feb 2019
The
          sometimes
          tremulous
glimpses of surprise,
I think
     what a book it would make.

I hear the late afternoon cheer
         the honest type
somewhere                                                          
                  lurking behind
                                old Sixth Avenue Road.
I suppose
it is not just a phenomenon of nature that goes instinctively on,
not the appalling detail of any large human scheme, eroded by schedules
But I accept it as one of the miracles.
(Which I never see anywhere else)
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