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 Jul 2018 Lillian May
Hannah Marr
i want to write something
simple

why can't anything be
simple?

it seems everyone thinks i'm
simple
since i want life to be
simple
they laugh and say nothing is
simple
not even truth is
simple
how could i write anything
simple?
i'd have to lie, plain and
simple

i just want something to be
simple
anything to be
simple
why can nothing be
simple?

h.f.m.
Beauty lies bereft and bound
it cries for help but utters no sound
mascara kisses fade from your lips
etched by lovers worn fingertips
purple rings around sullen eyes
the broken skin it never lies
fists of thunder make not the man
nor the swift strike of back of hand
a thousand apologies can never repair
the displacement of a single hair
for she is not an object for you to own
she is a Queen that deserves a throne
and if she allows you to enter her chamber
it's also her decision if you should remain there.
her beauty is boundless
and cannot be tamed
all those who try
should be shamed

***** I have shared my poems on this website now since 2015 and this is my first daily, it has been a privilege and I appreciate all the lovely comments <3 *****

https://www.instagram.com/p/BpaxPgdFnQu/
 Jul 2018 Lillian May
Abbigail
break up with him/her
you deserve better
move out
Get a job
smile
everything will be okay
a bad day isn't a bad life
college isn't forever
you can't make people care
you only control you're happiness so make it count
go out and get what you're worth
leave the past in the past, you can't change what happened but you can change the outcome of the future
not everything is meant to be
saying you can't has already defeated you in the beginning
you either get bitter or get better
the choice is not up to fate, It belongs to you
someone needs to see this
 Jul 2018 Lillian May
Polar
He
 Jul 2018 Lillian May
Polar
He
He speaks the language of flowers
Quietly toiling in his garden
Digging, raking and smoothing soil,
Gently coaxing nature to match his vision.
He knows the bees, spiders, beetles, worms and earwigs
Regarding them as friends.
He follows seasons, moon and stars
As others do people
Enthralled at the changes they bring.
He listens as the birds sing
Watching with joy as
Fledgling take wing.
My death will be liberating.

And I do not say that in the sense
that I am going to find a cliff
and take a good jump off.

No.

I am just trying to find a
clever way to tell you

that I do not know what is going
to happen next.

You see,

there is a
fine line
between
dreaming and
mortality

and

I am finding out for myself
that being in love
does not always
involve

being awake.

And for my sake
I fall in love with daydreams,
nightmares,
hazy realities
and

the hung-over idea

of not being enough.

It is all out of my hands.
                 It is all out of time.

And the only thing I have left to do,
now,


is decide.
Thank you to anyone that reads this.
be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit

give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration

so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction

more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying

speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them
Oct. 6, 2015
4:30am
Manhattan Island
 Jun 2018 Lillian May
Demon Grl
The wind blows softly
When faces emerge
From shallow graves;
A cemetary force
Into the pale waves.
Whispers follow the breeze
Out into a woeful sea,
Filled to the brim with refuse.

Gleaming on the surface,
Moon rays bring peace
To a heart forgotten
To bleed, bleed, bleed.
Look out in the field when you drive by
Look to the ditch that your cruising beside
Look to the grass and you will see
Look upon that constellation of trash
That tells the story of how we treat
This street
This neighborhood
This town
This county
This state
This country
This continent
This place
We call home
I can't wait to
Splash into
Unhinged love again
This time my soul will be symmetrical
And I will swim with the strokes of a man
An artist man
And not a boy

I won't stop to measure how unfortunate the water is
But maybe to worship the sun god Ra
All over her body
Her hips are smooth as brushstrokes

It's free summer.

I'm getting ready for a little taste of
Paradise
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