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As I sit here in the sun
On a backyard's step  
Cigarette in left hand
Blowing clouds from my  
Rusty lungs  

The end comes
And it doesn't justify a thing
The end is just
Pure  m a d n e s s

To wake up one day
Whether the sun shows  
Its face  
Or the sky's all gray
And not feel
The love
The loss
The hopeless weight of  
Wanting what can't be touched
Is a true sadness
The weak wrap themselves in

The end is madness
Because the beginning  
Still exists
 Sep 2014 Paula Pineda
Jodey Ross
Drip.
Drip. Drip.
I miss the feeling
of the blood dripping
off of my skin. The red color
of the delicious blood. I miss it so
much. It makes me want to do it again.
Thinking about it like this, I remember all the
lonely nights I lay on my tile bathroom floor.
Listening to the drip, drip, drip. Wanting to
finally feel again... Not wanting to be alone
anymore. Wishing someone would come
ask me if I'm okay. Show that they
actually do care for me...
I sat on an old bench
Near that oak tree
Searched for the ideal spot
Provide the perfect lighting
From where I shall picture the view.
I stared at the vast blue blanket
Listened to the beautiful noise it makes
The atmosphere hovered with tranquility
I am at peace, drifting in serenity
I watched as the sky turned to
fiery red to comely orange
Slowly indigo creeps in
with a touch of navy blue
All shades of strong hue.
I took a deep breath and sighed
Another attempt to interpret your loveliness
On a blank canvass
I see it clear in my mind
And I started to sketch.
A stroke tinted to perfection
Lines and circles to describe affection
A shade to remind me
how bright your eyes glistened
Down to emptiness shown by your eyes' darkness.
It'll take a lifetime to draw
Something as stunning as you
I'd paint the universe, if I can
Of my love for you

When the sun sets and gives the earth its daily kiss
What lovers watching sure will miss
You're the inspiration for this moment of bliss
Your existence is art and I call it masterpiece.
I'll call it a day
And put the brush down
Another praise for she
Who has the crown.
 Sep 2014 Paula Pineda
L T Winter
She--


Was Hal-f-
Torn.


When carousel
Cabinets; whirled
Ferociously around.


A mouse-
Of maggot--butterflies.

It seethes here...


She-- was just-

Rustling, her carrier-bag.
Weeps.

From useable filaments.
 Sep 2014 Paula Pineda
A
Pant
 Sep 2014 Paula Pineda
A
Love does not give flowers.
Love does not speak in
Poems,
Or rhymes.
Love is a sigh
That makes you whole.
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