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When I let the ink drip out
of the infinite space
I call mine
it no longer belongs to me

You may read it as you do
if you read it at all
For I am drawing my heart out
and the pictures are all there
Forced it to lie dormant
and non existent
for it crippled me before
that feeling
I had for you
like an addiction though
my heart wasn't in it
not for a second
did that feeling fade
magnificently
fragile as a glass wing
butterfly
Is love.
First we learn our ABC’s
Then we take those letters and form
Words.
Words to sentences,
sentences to stories.
I know you learned the same way I did.
Did you forget?
My wound from your war,
Isn’t as ****** as hers.
You know that.
Still it throbs.
Were you just acting?
Bravo.
You convinced us all.
I thought you were my friend.
You were family.
We laid the welcome mat at your feet,
and your muddy shoes trampled all over it.
You know your ABC’s.
You know how to make those letters words.
Those words into sentences.
And those sentences into stories.
What is your story?
And why didn’t you take seven of those letters
to say,
goodbye?
One puff.
I know I shouldn't be doing this
I'm just going to regret it
I thought I was strong enough to resist
But he makes me feel so good..
This will be the last time.. I promise..
Two puffs.
I don't want to stop
The peak of nirvana is suddenly tangible
I can feel him creeping inside of me
I have to make this one last
This will be the last time..  I promise..
Three puffs.
Can this be real?
I can feel your warmth next to me
My fantasy has become my reality
Is this the happiness that I've been looking for?
I'm happy now.. I  promise..
Four puffs .
Why is everything going back to normal?
What's going on with us?
Weren't we just happy moments ago?
I can feel it slipping away..
Please don't leave.. I'm sorry..
Five puffs.
Where did it all go..
 Nov 2011 Molly Pendleton
Brandon
How can I consider myself a poet?
I do not have a cat for a pet
(Instead I have a dog that thinks I’m her pet)

How can I call myself a poet?
I do not over indulge in alcohol
(Except the rarely occasional beer or whiskey)

How can I be a poet?
I do not consciously write with rhyme or rhythm in mind
(If it comes, it’s usually seldom or unintentional)

How can I be called a poet?
I don’t live in France nor have I ever been
(Though given the chance, I would leave in a heartbeat)

How can I be considered a poet?
I don’t dress in all black clothes and smoke Clove cigarettes
(I love flannel and jeans and smoke Camel or American Spirits)

                                                      ­       *How can I consider myself a poet?

                                                 (
Maybe the fact that I ask this question makes me a poet?*)
Poet stereotypes. if i can think of more stereotypes (or more are offered) i will probably end up adding onto this poem...
Let the people of your past cross your mind
You still remember , that's a sign
You've kept their mark , they've been worth your time
Give them a moment , let your steps rewind .
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