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big rat, bigger cat
who eats
who runs

who makes the rules

big rat, bigger cat.

the rat has sharp teeth,
sits on a throne of broken bones,
stares through eyes of shattered glass,
no future
no past.

who s first,
who s last,

the rat's heart
loosely wrapped
barbed wire

who s first
who s fast

big rat, bigger cat

but King Rat has dreams,
wants a kingdom

an alley chat

the cat asks, meow?

snakes in the garden of eden?
wolves in suits?
crows on the telephone wire?

every throne
every king
a reckoning

alley chat, alley cat,
the cat gives, a wink.

deep and wide,
the cat smiles the gate,

"trust me."
stay away
it's time to ****
I'm mentally ill

I'm going to destroy
this place you call home

look me in the eyes
everyone dies
at the end of time
but-
I'm a monster with a soul
I'm already whole

just with another kind of hole
"isn't kindness a weakness?"

you can be speechless

just wait for my tears
you'll know my fears
I just felt this way, had to get it all out, probably lying to myself again, I thought people might relate, but I guess we’re not monsters, just trying to figure things out, maybe
The cherry trees dance while blossoms fall,
as if heavenly angels have come to call-
And willing winds fly through dogwood trees,
their leaves dotting landscapes from the breeze.

Occurring in a dream-filled land,
of poets and prophets in glory's stand-
And gardens overflow with daffodils,
waving yellow flags from giant hills.

The fanciful birds fly off to greet,
in sunburst's skies of colorful treat-
And rainbows carve their way to gold,
a cherished reward for both young and old.

Delicate as these blossoms may be,
their worth is greater than that of the sea-
While continuing to shed fragrant melodies,
and revive the Springtime's reverie.
"Poetry is confession, obsession, reflection.
Empathic minds, valentines, hope divined.
It's a kiss, whispered sweetly" (2)



who needs challenges, commissions.
kicks~in~le butte~
when heaven heaves rains, one downs tall orders in
short shot glass verses, which glossed over at its
first communion(cation,
come back
months later
to subtract - another
poem from where it lay dormant
on the doormat
of my sub~sub~terranes
of my diluted subconscious au natured dry & rugged terrain

a favored poet,
a secretive admirer,
whoa~whose~her truthful name, I've yet to uncover,
but whose one true soul inspires me repeatedly,
ana~lyrically licks me into
dredging from me
un begrudgingly

and yet,
another love poem,
she herself wrote when elixiring (commentating (3))
'pon one of mine,
a long long time ago

Alas!  Alack!
unnaturally immodest,
one concedes,
when obviously a Super~Woman!-cedes,
seeds in three verses, what I  could never unknot
nor uncover

so I requite & requote with
unlabored pleasure
miz patty m's
primary terse verse,
neither secondary & never tertiary,
her absolut perfect mixed drink
defining, summarizing,
the essences of love

"(Love) Poetry is confession, obsession, reflection.
Empathic minds, valentines, hope divined.
It's a kiss, whispered sweetly"


I concede, in deed,
and in writing,
I know nothing,
of writing
of only love poetry
and all the great predecessors,
elsewhere lyricized, named and tabulated,
by yet another women, (1)
I will take my weary words elsewhere,
and if
perhaps,
disguised as a woman,
(Natalie, Natasha, Natali
see note below)

perhaps my verbal herbal insides,
my turgid insights,
will be shorter, sweeter,
but never more completer
than those of,
who can syncopate it
in rhyme
and the naming of my
predilection,
by mid~initial,
will give a measuring
of solace, and
a kiss and hug from my mirrored selfie,
having been unsuccessful at
my one chosen endeavor,
only love poetry,
adieu,
I, due,
utter
Nevermore
                    M>
(1)
see https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5134157/whispers-of-the-romantic-soul/
(2)
patty m
(3)
pompous stupid word; use commenting
(4)
https://www.google.com/search?q=female+names+that+start+with+Nat&sca_esv=dee9b9933ec66180&rlz=1C9BKJA_enUS1169US1169&hl=en-US&sxsrf=AE3TifMLzVbCWkH-hNwziZl2gYN5AIX_dQ%3A1756974288039&ei=0Ey5aPeUAt_Q5NoPjNus8AY&oq=female+names+that+start+with+Nat&gs_lp=EhNtb2JpbGUtZ3dzLXdpei1zZXJwIiBmZW1hbGUgbmFtZXMgdGhhdCBzdGFydCB3aXRoIE5hdDIGEAAYCBgeMgsQABiABBiGAxiKBTILEAAYgAQYhgMYigUyCBAAGIAEGKIESJxFUNQXWI9AcAJ4AJABAZgBZqABqAWqAQM1LjO4AQPIAQD4AQGYAgOgAu0BwgIHECMYsAIYJ8ICBxAAGIAEGA3CAgYQABgNGB7CAggQABgFGA0YHpgDAIgGAZIHATOgB8IYsgcBM7gH7QHCBwUwLjIuMcgHBQ&sclient=mobile-gws-wiz-serp
I am the girl in the spotlight—
but only I know it shines.
No one else sees the light,
not yet.

I am the girl who smiles when they smile,
while hollow echoes live inside me.
When I see my desires
in someone else’s hands,
I whisper, “It’s okay.
Maybe later. Maybe mine will be greater.”
So I wait,
patient, faithful, hopeful,
watching others live
the life I bled for,
while I stand—
empty-handed.

I am the girl who grew up too soon,
never a child,
always an old soul,
forced into adulthood before I could play.
Now I age,
yet the child inside me
still weeps for the childhood
she begged for,
but never knew.

I am the girl who is left alone,
the glue that holds everyone together—
until I am the one left broken apart.
Love cost me love.
I long for it,
having never tasted it.
I know pain,
I know depth,
but only from afar.

I am the girl with a smile stitched on,
everyone’s comfort,
everyone’s healer.
But my own birthday?
Forgotten.
No candle lit,
no song sung.
I sit in silence,
watching others glow
in celebrations I was never given.

I am the girl who questions:
why do my dreams die in my hands,
only to bloom in the palms of those
who never even dreamed them?

I am the girl—hurt, broken,
yet unshaken.
Always the hand that reaches out,
always the hand left hanging.

I forgive,
because I don’t want to wait for heaven.
But forgiveness
has carved me a private hell.

Don’t mistake me
for the soft, ever-giving girl.
I am sharp.
I am “batameez.”
I am simple,
yet too complex to hold.
I am soft,
yet hard as stone.
I am broken,
I am numb.

I am perceived happy—
but I don’t even feel it.
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                      Beowulf Presents Himself for a Job Interview


Their leader answered him, Beowulf unlocking
Words from deep in his breast:
                                        We are Geats.
Men who follow Higlac. My Father
Was a famous soldier, known far and wide…

                               -Beowulf, Burton Raffel translation

Nahhhhhhhhh. Scratch that. Manly language is, like, y’know, old school. Let’s

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Don’t you people know who I AM?! I am a highly motivated people person who enjoys challenging tired old conventions and sourcing creatively from a renewable multiplicity of supply chain resources and a multi-cultural, multi-lingual workforce nourished in a milieu of something or other no one is above the law jaw-dropping when I ax a former employee it’s with a real ax I like scented candles, long walks on the beach, meeting new people and killing them B.O.G.O iconic I’m beyond a people person tell me you’re a Democrat Republican Liberal without telling me you’re a Democrat Republican Liberal ***! transparency so like here are my pronouns Me. My. Mine. Warrior ethos only louder ‘cause I never even made the first day of recruit training Make Geatland Great Again Geatland for the Geats Geatland First no one understands my special needs Grendel and I have a complicated relationship which you wouldn’t understand Hrothgar Is Always Right until I disappear him and take over the chairmanship of Denmark how’d you like to have a funny name like Higlac and I’m proud to be a Geatlander my armor is by Hugo Boss my sandals by Ferragamo Learn. To. Code. cue an allusion to some metaphorical playbook in 3, 2, 1 my Big Beautiful branded Napa Valley wine from my podcast, Love ‘N’ Smackdowns from your Big Beautiful Beowulf shocking jaw-dropping mike drop of biblical proportions detail-oriented, self-motivated results-driven references available upon request team player fast-learning goal-oriented think outside the box track record go-to person win-win dynamic synergy going forward from this point in time servant leader proactive strategic thinker my secret for thinning hair dropped today weaponize crypto authentic empowered seeking closure chatgpt paved the way with the key that unlocks the future glass ceiling lawfair A.I.  like my body art?

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Red rose buds
In a garden of tuberoses
Difference of opinions

Red rose buds
In a vase full of tuberoses
Freshers party

Red rose buds
In a garland of tuberoses
Gleam

Rose buds
In a garland of tuberoses
Overwhelmed

A room full of tuberoses
Two rose buds, budding  
Still

Red rose buds  and tuberoses
In a perfumery
Blend
scavenger bride,
she counted periods
before the children came along,
but never suspected
eyes like bottles
beginning to blue,
a tangle of scars
hermetically sealed,
the new order of
a broken romance,
dead love cassettes
in the glove compartment,

her cold and empty
constellations,
like cold breath
passing through a beam of sunlight,
grid of points, pendulums,
the ratio of freckles to stars,
no subtle countenance,
martinis and bikinis,
soft ******* and ice cream,
slight, elusive things, on a beach
with no more meaning,

the repeating pattern of
her mistakes and reliefs,
a preservation of decay,
sustained by the tiny
human fault line
in that oneiric hinterland,
between dreaming and waking,

she draws around the noise
and the clearings,
she creates within that sightline
the way her sadness can feel
comfortable,
an extension of loss that turns
her ruins into a home.
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