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Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
    If this be error and upon me proved,
    I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
    So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Monica Lara Apr 2016
Yesterday I came to realize my level of unhappiness.
This, of course, knocked the wind out of me.
My throat tightened restricting my breathing.
The more I struggled
The less the air came my way.
I fought and fought
but the air was nowhere to be found
I fought and fought
panic filled my eyes
I fought and fought
oxygen-deprived blood cried for help
I fought and fought
voices whispered in my ear
3... 8... 10....
there seemed to be no end
I fought and fought
but the voices were too soothing
too convincing
I fought and fought
but the day wore on
I fought and fought
the day came to an end
the object upon my shoulders grew to be too light
I held it down with a pillow
I fought and fought
until the voices came to an end.
  Apr 2016 Monica Lara
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.
  Jan 2016 Monica Lara
Nathan Horkstrom
Forever feeling her life is dying
But the doctors keep on lying.
"Your daughter will be fine,
Just give her some time."

But she wasn't okay
Because your baby girl took her life today.
She couldn't keep running
And she wouldn't stand living.

Her silent plea's for love
Left her heart on black doves.
"I'm in pain"
Her innocence cut, her pride slain.

Her cries fell on deaf ears
So no one realized her fears.
No one saw her fatal change
Until her heart was out of range.

She wrote out letters
Saying her life would be better.
She laid the pistol on her heart
And blew her body apart.

Her parents cry themselves to sleep
And all her friends weep.
They loved that girl well
And left her alone in Hell.

Maybe her soul can be free
And everyone will see
The lost life of one teen
And the love there could have been.
very deep work
Monica Lara Jan 2016
Are my eyes growing weary
or has the light in your eyes dimmed a little since we first met?

Is my body growing old
or do you not hold me tight enough like you used to?

Am I losing the feeling in my mouth
or have our kisses lost their passion?

Do you not love me anymore
or was there ever a love to begin with?
Written on 1.3.2016
Monica Lara Dec 2015
Today I learned that
humans are 99.9% genetically identical to one another.
That's an awful lot isn't it?

So please forgive me for having these mud-colored eyes of mine.  
For I know you cant compare them to something beautiful
like the fresh waters off the coast of Venice
Or to the first leaf of spring exposed after the final layer of ice thawed off.

Please forgive me for having this unruly curly hair
which you can never run your fingers through unless
you are okay with the amount of time it takes to untangle your fingers
from the mess I carry upon my shoulders.

Please forgive me for not having English be the first language to roll off my tongue.
I know I pay the cost when I cannot find the right words to express
how deeply I am in love with everything that is you.

But darling, if you must know one thing, know this:

Every cell in my body craves to show you
how infatuated I am with you.
This heart beats so loudly whenever you are near
it's a wonder it hasn't broken the ribs which enclose it.  
My fickle brain goes back and forth between
wanting you and needing you.
But there is no need to worry, my love.
I always manage to steer it in the right direction.

And because of all this,
I will never fear the day when you will no longer love me
because if everything within my skin loves you this deeply,
I know everything you carry inside feels the same way
today I learned that
humans are 99.9% genetically identical to one another.
That's an awful lot isn't it?
written on 12.1.15
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