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 Nov 2016 Margaret
SG Holter
This axe was made from
Oak and
Forged in the fires that
Shaped my cardiac

I'll never surrender to a
Who sees love as war
Ever again.
It's been a long,
Lonely time.

But I've seen peace.
Still sacrifice to the gods,
Praying for brief, cold
Winters; for all other
Seasons to be neither.
They all have room for a

Woman between them,
But my hatred for ego
Is a burning beacon of warning
Even I myself shun.
I just want the silence.
That deep, deep silence,

Whose last word will never be:  
"... ... ..."
That, I can love.

This axe was made from
Oak and
It beats paper; scissors; stone.
Sees me armed. And still
 Apr 2016 Margaret
someone once told me
that writing
is an exorcism.

if that is true,
i can conclude one of two things:

i. i have never truly written before.
ii. my demons know their way back home far too well.

and while i am reluctant to choose either of the two,
i know that the more realistic answer is the latter.

i have known, at times,
what it is like to be clean.
to be pure.
to be holy.

i have known, at times,
what it is like to make my body a one-bedroom apartment
with space solely and deliberately for me.

i have known, at times,
what it is like
to fear no evil.

i have known these things, and i have known them well.
at times.

but i know, too, that these times never last.
there is always a second coming i cannot foresee,
a judgment day that gives no warning,
a demon that yields to no cross.

someone once told me
that writing
is an exorcism.

but i am a church of worn walls,
my pen a faulty crucifix.

i need not look down at my hymnal to sing of false purity.
i have read that one far too many times.

heard from someone today that writing is like an exorcism, and i was really inspired by that analogy. so thus, a poem! i hope you enjoy. i apologize in advance if i offend anyone with this; that would never be my intention **.
 Apr 2016 Margaret
Josie West
 Apr 2016 Margaret
Josie West
when I was a little girl
my mother always said
"a boy is only mean when he likes you"

after all these years
maybe that is why
I cut and burn and bruise

I am loving myself
the only way I know how
in the way my mother taught
Aren't you a big shrike?
Those "*****" are lady-like
And we can talk freely about other women and its not awkward
What's not to like?
Get that pike
Out of your rear
Because it's apparent
That you are not easy to like
By the way you label people nastily
It's not appealing any way.
 Feb 2016 Margaret
Last night I slept next to her,
surely it was a blur,
I didn't even care what she meant,
she kept me safe without consent...
Well that was the night I slept next to Marilyn...

She was smiling all night long,
she wasn't happy but why was she smiling all along?
Coping with that inner sadness,
just like me with all of that madness...
Happiness is subjective, you can look happy and be rotting inside.

Drowning in her tears by morning,
I knew when she was gone... I'd be mourning.
Cause when she  leaves,
she robs you like a million thieves.
**Empty & alone, I realize it's only her visage keeping me company.
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