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I used to flip through my pages
        Scanning
There were some interesting points
  Some high, some low, some kind of just sitting in-between after the good and the bad cancelled each other out, but mostly I
       Skimmed by,

         Until I met you,

                 You can't be summed up, there's too much to you, you're too rich, too deep
Too interesting to be confined to a few measly paragraphs and sped-read through

     You deserve attention, you deserve time,

       And the more I've gotten to know you, the more I realize you're the entire book, the entire story in beautiful, vivid detail.

                *I'm going to take my time getting to the end of you, and I dog-eared the page where you entered my heart, so that if I ever forget how it feels to fall for you, I can go back to the start
I never thought I'd believe in fate
     until I met you
I never thought I'd believe in 'happily everafter'
     until I held you
I never thought I'd believe in true love
     until I kissed you
I never thought I'd believe in 'the one'
     until the day you asked me to marry you
I never really thought I'd believe in anything
     **until you
 Apr 2016 Megan H
erin walts
Hornets and wasps
fly as fairies
in a springtime
green sunlit bloom
They dance around various bright warm colored poppies
like spaceships inspecting stars in the vast dark sky
and at 3p.m.
you may believe
magic is real

as ignorance is truly bliss
 Apr 2016 Megan H
nivek
a geeky poem
 Apr 2016 Megan H
nivek
if I said I like the pheromones emanating from your lips
its me trying to be geeky poet
after a geeky kiss
 Apr 2016 Megan H
Sirenes
Blessed
 Apr 2016 Megan H
Sirenes
All things considered
I can honestly say
That my existance
That is still on going
Is not to be taken for granted

I sat in the bus
As I slowly realised
What the odds were high
That I might no longer be here
That there would be
A gravestone with
My name on it

Not for the things I did to myself
But for the things that were done to me
Despite always fighting back.
I never gave up on myself
On my body
I finally saw my escape route
And took it

All things considered
It's a miracle
That I can gaze
Upon my resume
And say that for my age
I've done exceptionally well
For someone who
Has trouble planning
For future

All things considered
It's a miracle
I still enjoy the touch
Of a man's hands
And that through
A mischevious smile
I can say
"I drive a stick"

All things considered
My heart is exceptionally full
Exceptionally whole
And exceptionally loving
And even though my mind
Sometimes throws in
The towel and pulls the plug
It's exceptionally strong

Some would say
I grew stronger
And they surely must have
But the way I see it
I would rather say
abscence of Divine Presence is impossible

For all the times
I took refuge in Light
As the dark swallowed me whole
And for all the times
My suffering was removed
By a single prayer
Or a short meditation...

We're not lucky
We're blessed.
 Apr 2016 Megan H
Nigel Finn
This is how you write a poem;
First; forget everything
You ever learnt about poems,

                                Such knowledge should be reserved
                                For the minds of critics, and
                                Professors in dusty halls

                                                          ­­           Of universities, where
                                                           ­          They are dissected and re-
                                                             ­        Constructed against their will.

Second; embroil yourself in
Love; it is the only thing
That poetry is born from.

                            Even the saddest songs, and
                            Most bitter lines, are fueled
                            By what we once loved. Loss is

                                                            J­­ust a love that has been lost
                                                            ­­And anger; a love scorned. All
                                                            y­­our words will be born this way.

Thirdly; find a quiet spot;
It doesn't matter much where
As long as it brings comfort,

                             Be it an old desk in a
                             Darkened room, or a field of
                             tall Sunflowers or bluebells,

                                                     ­ ­       Or the last place you saw a
                                                             Loved one, before fate swept them
                                                            ­­ Away to distant valleys.

Next you must make a promise to
Yourself to be brutally
Honest. Only the truth must

                              Be written here. There is no
                              Room for flowery words that
                              Must be thought over to much.

                                                          ­­   If it is true it will be
                                                             Beautiful, and your pen strokes
                                                         ­    Will guide you towards greatness.

Finally, you must hold your
Writing implement of choice
As if it were the most loved

                                 Of possesions, or mighty
                                 Of weapons, or a  child's hand.
                                 I cannot tell you which

                                                          ­­ But you will undoubtedly
                                                     ­      Know which when the time comes. It
                                                           Will strike you as obvious.

Upon following these steps
You will have become a
poet. From now on there

                                Is no turning back. It will
                                Consume you, and thoughts will take
                                You by surprise in lover's

                                                        ­­  Embraces, in sudden deaths,
                                                         ­ Bird songs, and the words of of those
                                                          Y­­ou once thought to be strangers.

Each word will be a gift to
The world, whilst remaining un-
doubtedly yours to own.

                                        Use your power wisely.
                                        Remember; without love
                                        Your poems will start to

                                                             ­        Fall into disrepair
                                                       ­              And, without them you will
                                                            ­­         Lose your capacity to care.

I wish you well.
                                    I wish you poetry.
                                                         ­      ­           I wish you love.
I'm planning on giving this one a rewrite, but I rarely get around to doing such things. I'm posting it mostly as a reminder to myself that I set out to do something. There's a good chance it will remain unfinished though.
 Apr 2016 Megan H
r
Light out
 Apr 2016 Megan H
r
The moon wades the sea
and lifts his curved blade

to cut loose the tide
tied to the shore

and it's high time I listen
for the secret word

that tells me to turn
out the light and go home.
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