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 Oct 2016 Megan H
Corvus
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When all artistic, damaged or insomniatic souls
Feel like they're completely alone
Even though we're all awake and feeling the same thing.
12am is still too loud, still too car engines and shouting,
And 6am is too light, too exposing and awake, aware.
It's blackness but for the starlight puncturing holes in the sky,
That's when the magic arises and enchants us.
The way the moon looks at us and begs us to untrouble our weary hearts,
So we do it, and we do it willingly.
She is the most unfaithful lover, and it is beautiful.
How she cherishes each whispered secret so deeply
That it leaves a crater on her being.
How she takes on our pain unflinchingly,
And only needs 28 days to feel whole again.
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When the most trapped souls can feel such freedom.
Not entirely convinced that insomniatic is a word, but it should be.
 Oct 2016 Megan H
Ahmad Cox
Acting
 Oct 2016 Megan H
Ahmad Cox
Acting
by Ahmad ***
I feel like sometimes we are very good at acting
Very good at putting on a show
When we are really feeling something else inside
We teach ourselves
That certain feelings
Certain things are unnacceptable
We are supposed to be civil
We are supposed to put on a good face
We are supposed to hide the negative feelings
The dark feelings that well up inside of us
If we don't accept ourselves for who we are
For better or for worst
We will keep acting
Keep playing the part that everyone else has for us
Afraid to stop acting
And to live our own lives
And to keep us from truly expressing
The uniqueness that everyone has inside
 Oct 2016 Megan H
Akira Chinen
When time and wind and earth
Has stripped away our skin and flesh
And turned our bones to dust and ash
What then will we remember of what we were in life that was beautiful
What do dead eyes dream of when they become ethereal ghosts
Of echo and mist
And the heart has long since flown away to another life
To love and break and scar and love
And watch another cage made of bone
Age and rust and fade away
To time and wind and earth
And slowly forget what in life was beautiful
What then can dead eyes do
but dream
And count the colors of
Time and wind and earth
And see the echo of the mist
Of what makes all things beautiful
And in the vision of this fog
What do dead eyes dream
But the dream of
life and love
And love and life
of all things beautiful
 Sep 2016 Megan H
Michael Smith
I come in bolts and flashes
Humans delight in the terror
I strike into their hearts
The world is in awe of me

Nobody can control me
I go wherever I want
And the things I can do,
Turning sand into glass with my touch

I can tear at the very fabric
Of all your angry skies
I’ll make your night turn into day
On a whim, simply because I can


The mightiest trees will feel me
Burn into their flesh
Leaving them torn and scattered
Like sticks thrown in the grass

Fear me!
To my friend,

I haven't met you yet
You should know that
What you see is what you get
I am not a liar, perhaps just
Brutally honest but
I will sprinkle compassion
On your morning coffee and
Comfort you day and night
In the dark times to come

I don't have anything to give
Except my own company and
A whole lot of love
Hopefully that's good enough
I'll never be perfect but
None of us are, so hopefully
You'll enjoy my company
Better than I do at least

Maybe when we're together
We can go see a movie
Or you could come for a drink
With me and my girlfriend
I just know you're going to love her
She's everything to me and you'll
Get along just fine I know it

Did I mention my family is big?
I have five sisters but it's not
Even half as insufferable as you'd think
They're just like me in a way except
Better suited to girly stuff
My parents are great and my dad
Gets on with near enough everyone

I hope to meet you soon mate
It's lonely without you here
I can be your right hand man
You can be my comfort zone
Here's to the day we meet
Be patient buddy, it can't be long now

Much love from
Your soon to be best friend

Finley x
.
.
Everybody needs someone.
 Sep 2016 Megan H
r
A storm is brewing in the east
and a white bird is flying high,
like the shadow of smoke
from the last fires in the moonlight,
lying crossways over the bed
on her belly in dark *******,
whatever she is dreaming
its meaning she keeps to herself.
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