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I could kid myself
and say that you are in me
but really

I am just trying
to force the issue by attempting
to conjure you

as well as delay the inevitable  

waterworks the aching
sickness
and the pain

so with that said
it is time to give you
and me the much needed

punctuation
we deserve
and just

end this!

whit howland © 2021
An abstract word painting. An original.
Lie to me.
Tell me that I am everything I never was.
Tell me that I am beautiful and watch me tremble and shake.
Look into my eyes and lie to my face, will you?

Why did I build my home on such
an unsteady foundation
of lies and insecurity?
Time and time again,
I swallow my grief
just to blink back tears and brush the truth away.
Stay where you are and do not come near.
Don't cause a land slide that will surely destroy me.
I will be crushed under the weight of so many lies
weakly supported by kind intentions.

Hide the truth for me if you love me truly.
Cover my eyes and whisper into my ears: you are beautiful.
Protect me with your lies.
I want to buy you every Forget-Me-Not
so that my name's the only one you remember.

I want to drive down highways, backroads, and forgotten paths, picking those wildflowers that you love.

Lilies and hydrangeas, and all the other fleeting pretty things,
I want to give them all to you.

After collecting every flower, and setting your world into
a wild bouquet, I want to just be there, with you.
Wrote this for an old flame once upon a time, since she lived too far away for me to just give her flowers.
Mountains are folded napkins
laid out on the cloth of the world
remnants of a picnic
that finished long ago
Her feet as light as a feather
At her own pace, moving at her leisure
Her toes making ripples in the water
Gliding over the substance as slow as a saunter
She stares at her reflection as it ripples away
She plunges her hand in and the water will obey
Water trickles through the cracks her cupped hand
Everything about it she can understand
Her only friend, companion, that listens to her every demand
Smiling to herself, she feels grand
~17/3/21
Sometimes I like to imagine I have superpowers, but it's all just a fantasy.
I can’t draw,
but I paint

I still sin,
but a saint

I talk best
when I’m mute

All I’ve lost
in pursuit

I begin
at the middle

And end
at the start

To give back
to the silence

This thing
—we call art

(The New Room: March, 2021)
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