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 Sep 2016 Lisa Pike
Mims
POINT YOUR TOES!
Lift one foot high up In the air!
Sashay left,
Sashay right,
Make sure to keep you legs up high!
SPLIT REASONS LIKE YOUR LEGS,
FOR GODS SAKE LIFT YOUR HEAD,
POINT, HEEL,
TUCK your ribs,
LETS GO ACROSS THE FLOOR,
QUICKER THEN WHEN YOU TRIED TO RUN,
COUNT.
one, two, three,
Hands around me.
Sunken faces,
You weren't drunk,
Just a water,
Was just enough.
LIFT YOU LEG OVER YOUR HEAD,
KICK IT HIGHER!
Try to kick away the pain,
Or set you memories on fire!
Burning hotter then your limbs!
Keep your form tight!
Keep your feet just right!
If only it would have stopped,

Him.
I understand this is out of character but it's been running through my mind all day, the way people keep comparing pain.
That feeling
Like you wrapped your cold hands around
My heart
Squeezing the warmth and love out of it
Until it was empty.
But I never minded,
As my heart loved the feel of your hands
And needed to be cooled down every once in a while
Because every time I looked at you
It warmed up again.
To him: My Heart for you.
 Sep 2016 Lisa Pike
Hadrian Veska
I don't know if I love you
But I'm willing to try
Even though I fall in love
With every passersby

I'm not sure of my person
Whether I'm weak or strong
But when I'm with you
I know I'll get along

And perhaps that's all
I need to get me by
A simple look from you
With that fire in your eyes

I just hope that in the end
I won't turn you away
Maybe this is love
That wants so bad to make you stay
 Sep 2016 Lisa Pike
Akira Chinen
Lift up your shirt
And show me where it hurts
Is it near the middle of your chest
Beneath your skin and flesh
Is it that beating thing inside
That thing that is keeping you alive
Although it feels dead inside
Lift up your skirt
Tell me something new
Reveal a new universe
Do you belive in pleasure
Bloomed from sin
Or is there only pain tangled in the roots
Of the flower that you hide
What do you carry thats beautiful inside
The colors in your eyes
Says your silence tells no lies
But whats the deeper truth
Of the soul lost in the reflection
Of the darkness in thier black
If I share my scars and wounds
The ghosts haunting my living pulse
The dead love buried deep
In the lost sea of beating ocean red
The thing that was once my heart
Nailed to the misery
Of something that was once a dream
What could you do or say
If I show you where it hurts
We both know its just a lie
To say
I'll take your pain away
But I'll still belive you anyway
Its what we are suppose to do
As we grind bones and time to dust
Is it any different
If we just pretend to love
Will it hurt any less
When its just empty motion
And hollow words
The echo of a long ago truth
Spoken years ago
Back when the thing
Keeping us from death
Still made us feel alive
I cry out loud in the darkness,
Alone, I call for her to save me from this dreadful night,
To hold me in her arms and stay there till I fall peacefully into sleep,

'Oh mother! Where are you?'

I can hear my conscience scream in pain,
Horrified of the demons hiding in the shadows of objects,
And the monsters under my bed,

'I need you mother.'

Like an infant I weep,
To be heard in the other room,
But for some reason i feel so distant and unheard,

'Please come and hold me in your arms where i feel secure.'

Not a word is heard,
And just like that the storm comes,
Haunting me more and as i call out in fear,

'Mother!'

I try reaching her,
My voice echoes back,
But still no one appears,

'.'

I say no more,
Just lay back on my bed petrified,
Suddenly remembering i am no more at home, I'm all grown up!
 Sep 2016 Lisa Pike
Joel M Frye
We're talking
put up a hand
to stop a hurricane
futile here,
folks.
Two days past trying
while listening
to Hermine's tails
lashing at the windows,
I reach deep
into a well of emptiness
for a lost bucket
of words
filled with dusted
dried feelings,
the rope frayed
to snapping.
A thirst to heal
will lead me to drill
elsewhere,
thirsting for the tears
commingling with rain,
the tears that burst
from a stone-crag heart
in artesian splendor.
Still drilling.
 Sep 2016 Lisa Pike
Doug Potter
The mailman dropped a letter in our box
for Mrs. Tovia Durkan who has not lived

at our address for forty four years
and is now buried in a small cemetery

surrounded by a black wrought
iron fence and glorious mums,

we are now the caretakers of
a letter sent to a Jewish widow

leaving us to feel responsible
to attend the Bat Mitzvah of

12-year-old Sophie Bravermann;
do we bring a gift?
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