Silly girl, don't cry alone.
Comfort is the soft murmur,
the gentle backrub,
and the cuddling
on a lumpy couch.

Silly girl, you cried alone
all those times
when you didn't have to.
Warm embrace, skin
pressed to yours,
holding you close,
the tears drip onto
covered shoulder
cold tiles a memory

Silly girl, fill yourself with happiness
after you let it all out,
instead of the chilly air
you **** up with desperation,
when you cry alone.

I left so long ago that home
is no longer the hill country of my youth,
or the house on Misty Glen.
The flint covered plains hardened
my heart some time ago,
and the North Eastern shores are too cold
to keep it warm.

If I tried to call a place home
I wouldn’t know what to say.
No house or city or state
could call me back to stay.
Home is where the heart is,
but where does mine truly lay?

Touch me there.
Put me in the mood,
caress my body.
Make it bare.

Dance your lips on my skin.
Be rough or gentle.
Engulf me in sin.

Do what you please.
Run you hands up and down,
Give my body a squeeze.

Get us going. Turn me on.
Lift me up. Flip me over.
No boundaries are drawn.

What is this? Simply lust.
No love involve,
But oh, it's a must!

Pull my golden hair.
Scratch me here,
Or bite me there.

Send my body into ecstasy,
and let me ****** to your energy!

Touch me here.
Touch me there.

What if the world around you was ending? How many hands would you be lending? How would you save yourself and others? How would you stop yourself from breaking before bending?

What if there were things that you couldn't stop? Would you just sit there and watch? Would your pride get in the way? Or would you look away because you don't have the heart?

What if you controlled time and space? Would you put a smile across every face? What if not everyone could be happy? How would you decide which smile should fade?

It's amazing how one moment of weakness can change everything.

behind our mask
are priceless celebrations
and faces we carry
from the past
they mean the world to us
besides who or what
has occurred they mold us
into who we are
shimmering images
with mouths and hair and eyes
that gaze back - pondering
we grasp and resuscitate
them over and over
in open tracks
where they float by
in slow moving trains
expressively staring  
with their hands and the side
of their face pressed against
the glass
uttering something
we pause to lift our head
to catch that special
glimpse again
of their beautiful
subdued expression
that fades away
into the distance
only to return cold still
at another time
and all we can do then
is look down at our hands
and notice the lines
that have become
more intense
each time
the train
goes by.

we spoke softly
on this rainy morning
in a sterile hospital
room,
both wounded
by blood soul
and lymphocytes
not friendly fire,
a soft knock at the door
the physician entered
gallantly - smiling
and shook both
of our hands
with confidence
he provided his forecast,
we were stunned
by the revolver
with the
cocked hammer
and everything
that once was ordinary
and permanent,  
was abruptly transient
and detached
we clutched our
sweaty hands
into nihility
staring at the slugs
in the cylinder  
of love and life
only one pull away
from the white tunnel
and the darkness
near or far-off
she and I
into this
till the end
of our
days.

by: W. A. Marshall

I made the error
of checking the news
I rarely do that - anymore
dying death and attackers flight
court case narratives
Kubler Ross provisions
to lodge suspicious elites
denial and angry bargains
a process where authorities
preach their position
the bulletins remain unchanged
but my stage of hope
dwells there