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Oh, I remember the forgotten romances,
And tragedies of times forgotten,
Unsaid-
When my dear loved one lies next to me.
And why I imagine you,
Not her.
And wish my angels,
For a truthful dream.
And why,
Do I miss you still,
When my dear loved one lies next to me...
Posting after quite a long time :)
I hope you like it.
sometimes on bright days
when i can't stop smiling,
when i look up at the sky
with a sparkle in my eyes
i can hear your voice
and i feel the scars you
left on my heart
and i wonder if the sun
is shining for you too
i wonder if the same hope
that is nestled in my heart
lives in yours too
and sometimes i wonder
if the last words
i said to you visit you
at night just like the pain
you gave me sometimes does
but mostly i wonder
if you're happy
i wonder if you have love
i wonder if the memories
of the short amount of bliss
that we had make you smile
i wonder if you're okay
and honestly, i
hope you are.
This was written for my first mentor, who unexpectedly stopped talking to me one day. It is a poem about hope and forgiveness.
i wish my words
were enough.
enough to heal you
so that i could use
them as a balm to
place over your heart.
enough to take the
bandages from your
eyes so that you could see
the constellations that
made your soul their home.
enough to make you smile,
enough to make you see
that this is not it
enough to make you see
that there is more
enough to make you see
that you were made for more
enough to make you
love your struggle
and enough to make you
rise from the ashes
and i just wish that my
words were enough
to make you see
that you're enough.
 Dec 2014 Anson Thomas
Poetic T
Upon a snow flake a word is centre
Caught within an exhaled
Breath
Revealed a moment
Of winters tale,
Each now like glass semi transparent
Every breath reveals another
But soon to white they turn
A story
Lost,
Absent,
Hidden
From view, the little one
Ran, scarpered as fast as little legs can go,
Mother,
Father,
Sister,
&
Brother,
Wait child what is the rush,
"A winters tale"
"I breathed upon it"
But the moment faded, the word was lost
They went out side
As gentle flakes feel,
She breathed upon a single tear of snow
As before the word glistened,
"Do you see"
"Do you believe"
Astonishment,
Wonder,
Confusion
Mouths ajar at what eyes just seen,
As before the moment passed
Word had faded as lost
In the fresh linen of snow,
Each was ready,
Inhaled breath
Exhaled,
Words appeared, glistening within
Mothers word was
"The"
Father exhaled,
"Meaning"
My brother sneezed upon one
"Of"
Mandy
"Ate one"
Then realised, exhaled on passing ones,
"Christmas"
I waited, as many fell upon
My face, I exhaled
"Is"
But as we breathed none did change,
Is what, then
Goofy barked, dog breath greeted
Flakes
Falling
Slowly,
The word brought a smile to all,
"Family"
They were still upon the blanket of white,
Each picked the chosen flake,
It was glass, as if the word etched,
Upon the mantle piece each sat,
"The Meaning Of Christmas Is Family"
We all smiled at the winters tale,
We each exhaled a breath and a story was told..
 Dec 2014 Anson Thomas
islam
Do you know what a knife is?
The one your mum uses to cut onions...
Onions.
The best excuse for battered mothers.
Anyway,
Bring that knife,
Hold it as if you're holding a god.
Bring it slowly to your neck,
Slowly, slowly...
Let the sharp tip cut the blossoming vein.
Let it bleed.
Close your eyes.
Do it now, little one. The world needs not another innocent victim.
 Dec 2014 Anson Thomas
islam
And I write.
I write about everything I did and regret,
I write about everything I lost and missed,
I write about a darkness that's lurking in my head.
And I write.
I write about stars, space and bliss,
I write about the nights I spent sleepless,
I write about the internal extraterrestrial intelligence.
And I write.
I write about stolen kisses and awkward hugs,
I write about sharing a bed and drugs,
I write about drunken *** and whisky jugs.
And I write.
I write about literature and poetry,
I write about Sexton making out with Bukowski,
I write about Akhmatova painting Dostoevesky.
And I write.
I write about music and lovely symphonies,
I write about Tchaikovsky waltzing with Vivaldi,
I write about a world where we dance as we please.
And I write.
I write about childhood lost not forgotten,
I write about battered women and abused children,
I write about you and them. I write me every now and then.
And I write.
#q
 Dec 2014 Anson Thomas
Kate Irons
you ask me what's wrong
as if you weren't aware that
the scars on my body
were because of you
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