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 Feb 2014 Natasha Smith
Dánï
It's scary,
It's terrifying,
How your love is meant to cure but instead I become *weary,

Your words are hate defying.

I'm waiting,
I'm impatient.

You're leaving one day, that goes without saying.
Don't mean to hurt you, I'm just being blatant.

It's sad,
It's dreadful,

How you try so hard to please me as I'm waving a red flag.
I'm pushing, you keep pulling- soon you'll be regretful.

I'm weak,
I'm needy.

Be strong for the both of us as I **** the strength out of you with every word I speak.
I beg you to stay as I push you out, hardheartedly.

You're striving,
You're standing tall.
*
Telling me to believe in us whilst we're *thriving.

But I'm fragile, powerless- we're beginning to fall and *there's nothing you can say or do at all.
I'm sorry

-d.***
Foolscap
now I understand better,
the ironic humor of naming
the plain white paper before me,
where the construction commences,
the scratched surfaces, entrance ways into
the best I can hope to offer and having yet to write

                          foolscap

laugh out loud,
move over great ones,
this fool had tipped his cap,
betrayed his intention and attention,
he has a kitbag of raggedy jumbled words
as yet unassembled, and had all life to snap them
colored Lego pieces of his own design together in a way
that takes the un from unremarkable and so let this newbie

commencement be a beginning,
not an ending célèbre but a transition to
translating the heart and head and a storied vision
retained therein, treasure chested into an assemblage
pleasing to those who peek over the foolscap's shoulder

the snow has dappled doused my lower legs,
wet, does not creation commence in the wetness,
even slush that is the residue of the brilliance of snow
as a concept, even the slush, disdained and discarded,
***** grayed, from it will come my firsts, my births,
my ***** grayed, my beloved unbeloved,
sculpture of words that resound
across the better days to yet,
yet yet yet yet - a hundred
Yeats yets, sweet vets,
all I need is the first
word, so chosen,
so apropos,
foolscap


Foolscap - a type of inexpensive writing paper
Dedicated to those measured few here who have nurtured me with gentle pushes and sweet perfumed praise to push myself harder yet, push harder than I ever dared.
You know who you are.
Pray I please you.

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/596769/poet-in-trouble/
 Feb 2014 Natasha Smith
Dánï
I think I've found the one,
But how many times have I said that before?
Maybe you'll stay, maybe I will, who knows?
Only the warmth spreading in this stone cold heart is for sure.

You help me by not helping me,
Make me laugh with no effort.
Your voice is constantly replaying in my head,
I think I'm falling- long story short.

You mean the world to me,
Plus a couple of stars.
Add Uranus because I want to be bangin that asap,
Sorry.. I went too far.

Regardless, I'm feeling you on a whole new level,
I'm pretty lucky- ****.
Letting you know I want to stay lucky for a couple of while's,
No pressure, at least for now I *am.
-d.a

The random weird things draw me closer like if I was an asteroid and you were earth and had that magnetic pull - "You"
Today if you had asked me
what love still meant to me
I would look at you,
diving in the abyss
of your brown eyes
and look at you look at me.

I'll tell you that I loved you
before the first spark
ever hit your armoured heart
to light an everlasting fire.

That the words which escaped you
cascaded down on me
like a million rivers unfolding
to reveal their anger they kept
hidden long enough
to allow the heat to die down on their own.

That the truth in things
didn't exist in the ways,
in people like we wanted to.

If love was an inferno
to walk through
you know I would.
That with every burning touch of the coal
beneath my feet
would be another step closer to victory,
closer to you.
That this was the painful esctasy of love,
and every ember was like the ones
that burnt in me for you.

And I would tell you
that you were worth it.
You were worth it all.
Today, you sent me a box
full of chocolate and poetry
and beautiful things.

You must have known
your gift was unwanted.
You must have.

You must have known
that I would read your name
and address with dread,
a hint of panic, with confusion
and consternation.

You must have known
that I would tuck the box
beneath the table
and try to ignore it for hours,
until its presence
needled me like a thorn
needing to be plucked out.

You thought you sent love
and affection in a box,
but you sent a reminder,
one of wounds and worry,
a reminder that
gifts and well-wishes
do not heal bruises
and never will.

I would send it back
full of wolves if I could.


Return To Sender from my favorite poet, Gabriel Gadfly. Truly said.

Looking at the poem I posted last year, life has changed a lot. For the better, I hope.

To the most overrated holiday of all.
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