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 Jul 2013 Lydia Ann
Jeremy Duff
~

Remember? Please God, say you do.
My aunt is 40 years old and she was coloring
with crayons on the bathroom floor after a bad spell.
We kept them in the cabinet under the sink
so she could pull them out to calm her down,
or pull her out,
of the dream she was having over glazed eyes that weren't sleeping.
She would talk to us about silly things
that happened to her or how she met
her husband after the war in his pretty,
neat, and navy blue military jacket.

She really met my uncle
on the train to Chicago in 1977,
but we don't tell her that because it doesn't make a difference
and it won't make her feel any better.
The truth never really does that
I've learned.

That's the thing about the rest of your life.
When you're sixteen and beautiful with
a cute brown bob and eyes to match
you think you can do anything
and when you picture
the rest of your life it doesn't include
lying in a bath robe talking to your niece
about something you never did or never had
with spit on your chin and hands that need washed
coloring a picture in a book meant for kids.

You never thought you'd be stuck
being a kid
sometimes.
Out of control,
shaky,
twisted
and a little bit beautiful
through things.
You never thought you'd be missing some parts,
or you'd be spacey
or empty
in bad, bad moments like this.

But that's how it is and that's how it was
for my aunt as she tried to formulate her thoughts
into something she was dying and dying to tell me.

I didn't know what she wanted or how to
fix
all the things I didn't quite understand were happening.
All I know is that she
is a child
and children need attention, to be played with, and to be loved.
So I picked up a crayon and starting coloring
around the edges she had missed
trying to fill her in.
 Jul 2013 Lydia Ann
Ivie
Dancing in the wind, breathing in the spicy and musky cologne, your chest against my breast, bursting into ecstasy, strong hands cupping my face, slowly drawing your lips close to mine and kissing slowly, then  developing  speed, like a trial riff of guitar, short sparks; crackling in to lightening later.

Laughing at the lead singer, who is high, he introduced himself as Mr. Alien, and at nothing at all, pure bliss has finally made a pact with our souls. Lift me up, so I can see them singing gloriously, performing more fitting, bass thumping, electric jolts across my body, fingers electrified, heart stupefied, held, suspended in the perfect beat, captured in that elated moment.

KISS ME, kiss me now ,here comes the perfect line, the stanza inscribed on my lips like you name, sung countless times in the mustang on the way to Ireland, in the candy shop while gulping down all the pumpkin lattes we can consume. You were born a day after Halloween, crooked lights, gleaming against the backdrop-the moonless night, neon signs flashing across the barren land, filling up with iridescent rays, jumping, like the drumbeats seeping through our veins.

Like the sound of that pink Floyd song, you belted out, at karaoke bar last night, lyrics exploding out of your lungs, tearing apart my heart at 3 am:”You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, everything if you want things”: Sky colored red velvet, with stars like sequins hanging from miles above, Polaroid perfect.

Your heart pumping rapidly, against mine, bringing me back from the trance, your lips mould against mine, tongues swimming across the shorelines of my molars, arms tucked around my waist, lowering, caressing my hips.

Notes of piano, gliding through, an intro to another song. I promise, you’ll be the only song, I know word to word. All the beats and spaces in between etched on my heart. Your lips, the desired stanza, taste like cinnamon and pine, reminding of my childhood, a memory of us on the slide, giggling, holding pine cones preciously like Davy Jones locker, our first treasure.

It’s been years, but our love has grown, blossomed in into an everlasting flower never fading but always steady and strong like the chorus of a rock ballad, an intense melody like our promises lighting up the lyrics and us.
can i call this a prose?i hope you enjoy it,let me know what you think,i have never written anything like this before.i really would like constructive criticism.
 Jul 2013 Lydia Ann
Cindy P
She asked if she could give me a hug
And I said sure, go ahead
She told me that if I needed anyone to talk to, she would be there
As if I would bother listening to her instead
You see, I don’t talk to anyone but the voices inside my head
And it’s not because I’m psychopathic
It’s just that I’ve heard it all
And these superficial sayings are as good as broken elastic
And don’t call me over-dramatic
Because I’m pretty sure saying I’m tired is an understatement
For wanting to bash my head against the pavement
‘Til my skull rips and bleeds and lets the parasite crawl out
The one that’s been infecting my brain, driving me insane
They say that if the urge to **** yourself rises, resist them
But something’s been ******* the soul out of my system
Drinking the juices of happiness and spitting it back as the cider of sadness
And I don’t think you could understand the madness
That comes with not being heard
When I let my story slip and people just gloss it over
But I don’t remember my lips as shiny and shimmery
I think they’re more chapped and bleeding
From biting my tongue and saying you didn’t understand me
It’s not just a phase that comes with age
It doesn’t mean that the next time I smile indicates I’m okay
My problems aren’t corpses that can easily decay
These skeletons are living, breathing, in need of healing
But you give me band-aids for my broken bones instead of surgery
Like I’m some little kid who was just in a hurry and fell
If that’s the case I must have slipped up to thinking you could lend me a hand
I must have tripped out of my mind to hoping you could help me stand
So sure, go ahead and give me a long hug
If that makes you feel any better
Just don’t give me your sympathy
Because all you are is a fork in my wall plug.
 Jul 2013 Lydia Ann
Emma S
The sky is empty
Just like my soul

The moon is half
Just like my heart

The stars are gone
Just like my mind

The night is cold
Just like my eyes

Tonight I want to follow Peter Pan
Second star to the right, straight on 'till morning
This frustration is overtaking my ability to function properly,
I'm not depressed, but I do detest that this situation has unbalanced my harmony.

I lost a part of me, or did I let her go?
Was it me that could not see? It was I who closed his eyes and this I know.

I know that in that desperate act I was with good intentions.
I know that i mentioned many times how i planned to present it.

Did I plan too much? Did I put too much effort in the attempt to correct myself?
"Don't fix what isn't broken." That's how she expressed herself.

It was I that was broken not she who pleads with silent screams.
Was it selfish to leave simply to see if i could be the man of my dreams?

I dreamed of a King who would care for his Queen.
Shield her from pain. Dry her from rain, and kiss her so sweet.

I can no longer continue with this poem cause sugar is bitter.
Call me a quitter.

-J.Cruz Hernandez
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