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Paige Hatcher Jan 2012
Which “I love you” matters most
The one spoken, written or sung,
The one implied, sighed or thought,
The one yesterday, today or tomorrow?
Which matters most?
The one in the rain or under the sun,
The one with a smile or through the tears,
The first one or the last,
The one with the future or the one with the past?
Which matters most?
The one with a laugh or with a sigh,
The one with hello or with our goodbyes,
The one with our friends or with those we despised?
None mattered most.
Otherwise there’d be
No rain, no tears, no last “I love you,”
No sighs, no goodbyes, no caring for the despised.
There’d be only you and me
That’s something that will never be.
Paige Hatcher Jan 2012
I'm single.
And not that chill
Ready to mingle,
But that sitting at home
With my hand stuck in a can of Pringle's
Single.
Paige Hatcher Jan 2012
My father once told me,
When all seemed well,
"Keep an eye on the sky
And an ear tuned to hell.”
Shuffle
For the Dealer above
May not find it hard
To throw down the deck
And let the cards
Shuffle
Deal their own hand
And let the Devil play,
With his fire and sulfur
And his drunken demon sway.
Shuffle
If drew from the cards
The man with his guns
And fire in his gaze
The Devil may run.
Shuffle
If the Dealer may wish it,
The Devil may linger
And play a hand of fate
Against a human Gunslinger.
**Shuffle
Paige Hatcher Jan 2012
Though I wear no crown of decadent jewels pressed down around my brow,
It can be said that I am beautiful.
Needing no assistance from a mask of make-up and every hair doing as it pleases,
I am told that I am beautiful.
Without the burden of corsets, push-ups and garters; no cocktail dress draping my shoulders,
I look in the mirror and am satisfied.
I wear blue jeans, t-shirts and tank tops; tennis shoes, flip-flops and high-tops,
And still my legs are long and lean; my shape curvy and full.
And while I walk by, a southern sway in my step, you know you take more than a cursory glance.
I have attitude, and bluntness inherited from my line of honest folk.
I am country. I am bold. I am ruthless.
I am simple in the way that diamonds are simply compressed carbon.
I am beautiful in the way that only a southern girl can be.
I am a huntress with my 243 across my lap in a camo blind.
I am an actress as I smile and say “Bless your heart.”
I am a lover if there ever was one.
I am a fighter when the chips are down.
I am my father’s nightmare and my mother’s dream.
See me with my mut from the pound that’s better trained than your frou-frou, AKC registered pom-poo.
Join me as I sing the hymns my granny sang with the same tone and inflection.
I am educated with my poor country grammar I use only to spite those who think I’m ignorant.
I know more about tracking a blood trail than I do about propriety,
But I’m studied in the art of being couth.
My southern charm is mixed with brazen straight forwardness.
I am proud. I am American. I am beautiful.
Paige Hatcher Jan 2012
For all those quiet types that sit and listen
To the world’s maddening, deafening roars
And still find time to dream.  
To all those shy, unstable poets dying to
Break free of the confines of verse and stanzas
And yearn for originality.
For those who refuse to take on an identity
Knowing that nothing is certain and
Ideas and creativity is a living thing in flux;
Forever moving, changing, and evolving.
For those that find silence beautiful
And feel no desire to spoil it with
Useless words but instead wait,
Give pause,
Breathe
Then reply with the softest tones
Of enlightenment; not of contempt, but of privilege.
For all those who are sure that all things
Will end, not with a roar breaking through the solitude,
But with a whisper carried across nations.
For those who revere the solemnity of the quiet
And have no urge to break free from it.
For those of us who know we are not bound by silence
But rather, by its absence.  
Where fools abound with spoken words
That fall flat against the black top.
For those who know it’s better to be quiet
And thought a fool than speak and leave no doubt.
This is for you, my brothers and sisters of silent acquiescence
To the cause of verbal restraint.
While it’s true we have every right to speak,
What good can come of uneducated speech laboring off an idiot’s tongue?
To drive others on like cattle in a common cause?
Better luck would be had in asking a befuddled bovine the cause it follows
Than inquiring the same of the herded masses of fools
Who were taught only enough to string words together for the most basic functions.
So to those who know the importance of
Silence, reverence and educated listening,
Spread the word,
But do so, not with a roar, but with a
Whisper.
Paige Hatcher Jan 2012
Her eyes are clearest
When masked in tears
And light’s reflected in such a way
The truth cannot outrun the lens.
Clearly she can see
Through the shadow
Her sight passing through storm clouds
And her eyes remain the palest blue.
Understanding is not lost
In deepest despair.
She can see through the mask,
Both yours and her own.
Paige Hatcher Jan 2012
I’m THAT girl.
I’m the girl sitting quietly in the corner,
Minding my own,  scribbling in a notebook
Or taking in the remaining chapters of my sci-fi book.
Maybe giving others a distracted look
A polite nod to keep them guessing.
I’m the girl with a slightly disheveled appearance.
His old transformers t-shirt, baggy jeans and a pair of chucks.
You may think, if you catch my eye, that luck
Is the last thing on my list of prized possessions
And you’d be right.
I’m Murphy’s law in action.
I’m THAT girl.
I’m the girl that can’t get him off my mind.
I’m the girl whose subconscious mind hates her.
He’s in my dreams and stalks my nightmares,
And all I can do is write
Write a miniature prison around his memory.
Write free verse that I hope catches his eye,
And I’m sure it doesn’t.
I’m sure he doesn’t have a positive thought of me
The way I think of him in the quiet spaces
Of my normal distracted being.
He calms me, he makes my heart race,
He makes me want to sleep, then chases me from a dream
Pitchfork in hand, slinging my bladed words like daggers.
I’m THAT girl.
The hopeless romantic and helpless cynic.
He made this poet, the cynic, the thinker.
I hope he looks in the mirror and sees
The creation he so meticulously molded
And turns away with his conscience disturbed.
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