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Vale Luna
(read forward, then backward, line by line)

I ran.
Not knowing what else to do
There was so much blood on my hands
It was mine
The kitchen knife
Caught in my chest
Consumed by
I was heightened by
But running on
Wasn’t enough
While trying to stay calm,
Losing control
It was me that would end up
Dead. Because
He was
In front of me
The whole time
It was too late
I found myself
Locked in chains
My fate was
Forward: from the victims perspective.
Backward: from the murderers perspective.

Jeff Gaines
OK Reader, I'm going to tell you a tale … with great trepidation. You see, this tale, well, it's kind of like telling someone that you've seen a UFO. They want to believe you, but … it's never really been proven scientifically. Not to mention the fact that most folks who believe in such things are often the tin-hat wearing types, written off as … lets be nice and call them “odd”. And, of course, the more you swear to it, the crazier you appear. It's an epic tale, spanning 30 years of my crazy life.

  But, It's a story I want to tell, because it happened to me. I can barely understand it myself, let alone explain it. So … I'm just going to launch into it and you take it any way you wish.

*  *  
Where Can You Be?

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

I'll search with gazes and I'll search with cars,
I'll search the cities and I'll search the stars, well …
I'm gonna find you, oh, wherever you are,
I'm gonna find you baby …  near or far, but …

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

I thought I'd found ya, but she wasn't you,
that girl she left alone and blue, well …
I know that's something that you'd never do,
your love has always been strong and true, but …

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

If you must settle for some other man
and deviate from our immortal plan, well …
I hope you realize I will understand
and I'll try and do the best that I can, but …

Where will I be?
Where will I be, my love?
Hoping the next life sees …
our destiny!

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

~Wednesday, April 1st, 1987
10:30 P.M.

  I was singing in a band back in those days and, as it happened, this was the last song I'd ever write for it. Just after this, as it does, it all came crashing down and the band was finished. But in those last days, they pondered this song, with great puzzlement. You see, it was unlike anything I'd brought them before. It wasn't rock … It wasn't a ballad … it wasn't even structured like a “normal” 80's rock song.
  No bridge, no solo, no loud grinding guitars, etc. It even had bits where I hummed, yes hummed, the melody, like a lullaby. As they read the lyrics and I described how it went, they all looked at me like I had three heads and asked where this had come from. It was nothing like anything I'd written before. I could only tell them when and where I'd written it, but had no explanation of what inspired it. It had just came to me, so I wrote it down. They didn't know what to make of it, or even what to do with it.

  One of them said it sounded like a late 70's or early 80's adult contemporary song or even in the vein of The Eagles. Another asked if it was about reincarnation … And I honestly, until that moment, hadn't thought of it that way, I didn't think like that at 24 … but then, one of them said it was “Haunting” …


  “Wow”, I thought, I'd never had anything I'd written described as that before. When I asked him what he meant by that, he told me that it was haunting to think that this poor guy is desperately seeking a girl, that may or may not even know that he exists … in a world with billions of people in it. To top that off, he fears that she may off and marry someone else if he doesn't find her in time.

  This, along with the suggestion of it being about reincarnation made me rethink and rewrite the song. Well, a few lines in the last verse and chorus anyways. It actually made the song flow better and seem more complete. In a way, it actually made the song make more sense … to me and them. Sadly, we never did anything with it. There wouldn't be time. Ha … Time … how ironic. Over 10 years later, came this …

For Someone I've Never Met

Please save a place for me,
deep inside your heart.
Always know that I think of you,
as we both practice our arts.

Our worlds are full of temptations,
so very hard to resist …
and the good Lord knows
we're both far from,
sixteen and never been kissed.

Wealthy men with jaws divine …
Temptresses with looks so fine …
Paths that lead our hearts away …
Paths that surely lead astray …

They'll lead us there every time.
They'll leave us there … so  unkind.
Our hearts must shine,
night and day.
Through any darkness … they'll light our way.

If you never touch my face …
If I never look into your eyes …
We'll always have the comfort of sharing
the same
big, blue sky.

If I never smell your hair …
If you never kiss my lips …
Always know the search for your smile
has launched a thousand ships.

So, I hope you save a place for me
in your heart so sweet and kind.
Please, save a place for me …
Heaven knows you've one in mine.

~Thursday, September 9th, 1999
9 A.M.

“For Someone I've Never Met ” poured out of me in the midst of another breakup from the second, and last, girl that I wanted to marry. That emotion, never found me again. I looked at it on my computer screen and smiled, seeing “Where Can You Be”, in my mind, on my tattered old note pad that I called my “Song Book”. The memory of me writing it while sitting in my Z-28, looking out over the Gulf of Mexico as a beautiful heat lighting storm sent bolts across the sky, came flooding back; as did the debate of reincarnation I'd had with my pals in the rehearsal room all those years before. Here I was, again, writing about “someone” that I sensed, for lack of a better term, was out there … somewhere.

  Well Reader, do you believe in reincarnation? I was never really certain, but, as you can see, I had twice written pieces to someone I wasn't completely sure existed. I had always “sensed” someone out there beginning with the period after I wrote “Where Can You Be?” and thereafter. So, there they were, each written after losing someone I was deeply in love with. Each came out of nowhere, as they usually do. By the time I was in my 40's, I began to think I was either imagining it all (a side effect of being a hopeless romantic) or that I had just somehow missed this person and our “moment”.

  And then …


There was a place.
There was a time …
There, I stood … still unknowing
and everything seemed fine.

But there in that place …
at that moment in time …
the moment I saw the eyes,
I'd never believed I'd find.

Well, what could I say?
What could I do?
In a world filled with billions …
and there … was a you.

I'd always known you were out there …
even written of something amiss.
I never, ever stopped looking for you …
because my heart always said you exist.

My breezy Fall became harshest Winter.
My crazy life left my health running out.
I'd resigned myself that our moment had passed …
but this moment … it removed all doubt.

Well, what could I say?
Tell me, what could I do?
There we stood, staring … alone … in a city of millions …
yes, there … there was a you.

Oh, that mistress fate, she is just so cruel.
Frustration, a curse to be mine.
   I'd searched for you my entire life …
but now … my clock … knows a limit of time.

You see, I would never venture a love with you,
while knowing I'd have to leave you … hurt and alone.
I could only admire from afar … stoic and aloof …
while turning my heart into stone.

Nothing I could ever say and nothing I could ever do …
But now, at long last … at least I finally knew.

There, you stood … green seas, gazing up … into skies of blue.
My long-awaited revelation … become sorrow-laced realization.
There really is … a you.

~August 12th, 2009

  Typical of my life-long Charlie Brown syndrome … After being told in 2005 that I had “the lungs of an eighty-year-old man” and that I had “Six to Ten years” to live, I made a conscious decision in that Doctor's parking lot that I could never have another girlfriend and that I must face this alone. I don't see woman as objects. They are glorious creatures that are here to be our partners and friends and to make our lives amazing. I could never, ever knowingly let a woman fall in love with me, all the while knowing I was going to die and leave her. It's not in me to do such a thing, lonely or not.

  Yes, I'm still alive, I'm stubborn like that. But, some days are better than others and my new doctors say that they don't give people “time limits” anymore … because of people like me. I can't afford the lung transplant. So, as Bono so aptly put in one of his songs: “The rich stay healthy, while the sick stay poor”. It is what it is … and like the energizer bunny, I'm still going. Good for me.

  In the moment that I met her, the morning that followed, and the amazing speed of our nexus over the next several months combined with a string of synchronicities (Coincidences? Did I mention that she too, was a poet and writer?) that not only came after I met her on the sidewalk in front of the publisher we shared, but in those pieces I had written before and in several after; I was pretty much convinced I had actually found her. I have NEVER experienced anything like this, or her, in my entire life.

  So, after all this time, here she was … and there wasn't a damn thing that I could do about it. Besides, she was much younger than I and it probably would never have worked anyways. Damn, the universe is rotten sometimes, huh? Maybe, if I'm lucky, things will balance out better in the next life. I can only hope. But I'm reminded, worryingly so, of the Kill The Alarm song: “Collide”:

“All of these thoughts pounding in my head …
with the words I've wrote, in the letters I've never sent.
The distance in our lives may change …
Times that you can never erase …
But will our worlds collide?
Will our worlds collide, the next time?”

  Only time will tell.

  “Colors”, and a few others, were written about/for her. But, I could never show them to her. I would never endanger my friendship with her. I just wanted to keep her in my life. That, and that alone, was the only motive I'd ever had with her. I looked forward to seeing her marry, hearing her stories of her three kid's adventures; Hubby, all greasy, working on the car in the driveway, rabbits in her garden at night, eating her precious organic veggies or even about her new curtains. Just to know that she was alive, happy and doing well. I found a solace in her voice I could never describe and I was completely content to just have her in my life and watch hers unfold. Only I could end up in this odd position.

  I feared that she might get weird-ed out because I'd never displayed any romantic inklings toward her, so, to suddenly read these might make her feel a bit, lets say: uncomfortable. Actually, I didn't write them with any romantic intentions, per se; I just did what I always do … write what comes out. Still, there's no denying that they come across romantic. Again, so, so Charlie Brown. (long sigh)
  It is what it is. I also have to ponder the fact that maybe all those Charlie Brown moments in my life were preparing me for this one big, painful one. That does makes sense … Fuckin' Universe.


Well when you're Green, I'll be your Brown.
Like the earth that loves the flowers,
I'll will be your solid ground.

And I'll be your Azure, when you are Verdigris.
We'll be thee most beautiful ocean
that eyes have ever seen.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
Mixing all of the colors … I'll make everything alright.

Now when you're Blue, I'll be you're Red.
If something should make you wanna cry,
I will feel your pain instead.

And I'll be your Orange, whenever you are Pink.
We'll be thee most amazing sunset,
that the sky could ever ink.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
I'll mix all of your colors … and make everything alright.

Should you be Violet, I will be your Beige.
Like a sleepy moonlit desert,
pasteled in dunes and sage.

And when you're Grey, I will be your Rainbow.
We'll be thee most soothing rainstorm
the world has ever known.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
I'll mix all of your colors … yes, I'll make everything alright.

With love on my palette, painting a glorious sunrise …
I'll color all your mornings with a smile and brighten up your skies.
If you should find yourself in sorrow from someones hate or lies …
I'll take the stars down from the heavens … and paint them in your eyes.

So whenever you are Black, I will always be your White.
I'll mix all your colors with a promise … everything will be alright.

Yes, I'll mix all of your colors with a promise … Everything's gonna be alright.

~  Winter 2012

  I wrote this after she had rang me up one afternoon lamenting about her life at the moment, troubled that her latest novel hadn't done as well as she'd hoped and now she had to be waitressing to make ends meet. I tried my best to cheer her up and assured her that she was strong enough to handle anything and that she must keep chasing her dreams. I wrote it as a poem, but I can't help but notice it looks like a song, though I've never heard music for it. Those repeated verses look just like choruses to me.

  Earlier in the day, I had been looking at a booklet of paint swatches. I guess, up there on my roof looking at the Manhattan skyline, her sadness and me looking at all those colors melted together somehow and, as happens, out came this piece. Even this, became another synchronicity as she would name her next novel “Show Me All Your Colors”. I remember seeing it in the bookstore and looking straight up … shaking my head at the sky. Was this the universe telling me to show and tell her all this?

  Well, if it was, I stuck with my gut and kept it to myself. My God, if you only knew how many of these synchronicities there were between her and I. It simply boggles my mind. I wanted to call them “coincidences”, but there were just so damn many of them … Each so unique, they just couldn't be called that. I don't want to tell them all here, because like I said, the more you swear to it, the crazier you sound. And I'm sure your questioning my sanity by now, aren't you? (Smirk)

  OK, OK … this one is definitely romantic. I wrote it one night, drunk to the bejeezus. I'd done what we called “The Crosstown Crawl” with my pal Tristan and a gaggle of assorted waitresses we knew. This involved starting at Brass Monkey on the west side highway in the Gansevoort District and ending at my favorite hookah bar, Karma, on the Lower East Side … Drinking in, and often being “asked to leave” (Read: Kicked out of) every bar that took our interest as we walked (Read: staggered) west to east, staying below 14th St.

  On my way home from the city on the J train, I thought about all the phone conversations we'd had while I was on this train crossing the Williamsburg Bridge. Being drunk, I guess, I caught a bout of sadness that I'd never get to tell her any of this or even how I felt about it all. Before I hit my elevator, this piece was swimming in my head. It's about as mushy a piece as I've ever written … if not thee most! Not the norm for me, but this is, after all, a lot to keep pent up inside you. I wouldn't wish this predicament on anyone.

For My Little Red-Haired Girl …

You …

My Love.
My Queen.
This Shining Light in my eyes.

My Laughs.
My Dreams.
My Soft, Contented Sighs.

My Opium.
My Lavender.
My Dew Covered Rose.

My Smile.
My Cinnamon.
The Joy in my heart … ever inspiring my prose.

My Best Friend.
My Co-Star.
My Fearless Partner in Crime.

My Breath.
My Cohort.
My Side-kick throughout time.

My Snow-capped Mountain.
The Wind caressing my face.
My Vast Green Field.

The Ivy Covered Wall
that harbors my soul … ever refusing to yield.

In a different time ...

You … would have been my Life.

You … would have been my World.

You … would have been my Everything

and I will always love you for my own special reasons.

It is just a shame … and I'm so, so sorry … that you … must never, ever know.

Maybe next time.

~Charlie Brown

   When I came-to in the morning and read what I had wrote, I had to laugh a bit. It is borderline corny, very beautiful, very telling and very sad … all at once. I shook my head, laughing and told myself :

  “God Damn, Sam … yer losin' it. Get your shit together, will ya?”

  I guess in my stupor, I was imagining what it would have been like to write something for her. I don't know … There it was and I was stuck with it. I almost deleted it, but, my finger wouldn't press the key. As I told you before … I'd NEVER show this to her. She'd probably never speak to me again.

   As a sadder epilogue, that eventually happened. I still don't know why, but we haven't spoken in years. Maybe she sensed this emotion in me and ran away. Or maybe, just maybe … she thought I'd pushed her away somehow … but for whatever reason, we drifted apart. I guess I'll never know.  As you can see by reading this, that was never my intention. But, like I keep reiterating … It is what it is.

  One day, I called her number to catch up and shoot the breeze. I hadn't spoken to her in a few months as she'd been busy promoting her new novel and I didn't want to pester her. But … it was disconnected … I checked my emails … nothing. I'd never been so confused, she just closed me out. I didn't want to bother her. I was sure she had her reasons and if she wanted to reach out to me again, she would. She had my email and my phone number. But, for now … she was gone … and that was that.

  So, what do you think, Reader? Do I get the Tin hat … or a Badge of courage? Am I bat-shit crazy … or just eccentric? I'll leave it up to you to decide, because as I said, this all happened to me and there isn't a thing I can do about any of it. I just had to get it off of my chest. Thanks for letting me vent.

  Wherever she is … she will always mean the world to me. I can see her green eyes if I close my mine and look for them. Sometimes, on occasion, her face haunts my sleep. Still, I like to picture her, kids playing in a sprinkler behind her, digging in her garden, wearing gloves too big for her hands and a smudge of fresh dirt on her cheek … it makes me smile.

-Sam Webster
Brooklyn, New York
OK, you can stop scratching your head. I'm sorry if you feel like I tricked you or was playing a prank … That was not my intention. This piece is experimental writing, of sorts. If you are wondering, it's titled “Somewhere … Out There”. But I didn't want to put a title at the head of the page, as that might have clued you in too early.

I also confess that “Sam” the narrator is, on no uncertain terms, based loosely on myself. But hey, what better way to string you along? Besides, as Stephen King said, you “Write what you know”. As far as I 'm aware, using poetry within a short story like this, or in this manner, has never been done before. Welcome to the future!

It really belongs in my “From Thee Edge” Collection with the rest of my Twilight-Zone-esque short stories. (Not online for now. Sorry) But, because I pieced together several of my poems to not only tell the story, but as a vehicle to carry it along as part of it; I wanted to put it here on Hello Poetry just to see if I could convince you long enough to get you through the story … while having you believe it was me speaking to you and that it was all very real to me. Thus, making it feel real to you as you read it.

Was I having you along right up until it was signed by someone else? Or, at least until the narrator addressed himself as “Sam”?

If so, then I accomplished my mission. I'd love to hear your comments on it. If you've been reading any of my other posts, I'm sure you've figured out that I like to run wildly outside of the box sometimes. This was just, as I said, an experiment in a different way to tell a story … fiction or otherwise. As always, I hope that I took you on a journey and, more importantly, that you enjoyed it.

~Jeff Gaines
(Lower Alabama)
                       ­                  Are
            ­                             Deep          
   ­                               The    
               ­                                        They    
                   ­           Need
    ­                                           Remember
           ­                                        Is
                                                          ­          A
                                                     ­   Cause,
                              Never                    ­
             Appears Out
                     ­                         Storms
                                 ­                            Are
                              Unhealthy Habits &
  ­                                    Stable.
                     ­   Facing
                           ­        As
                                                 & Accept.
          ­                     Heals,
                   ­                         Wrong
                                  ­                     &Finally
               ­               That
                  ­                           Miswired
                                                        ­       In
   ­                                        Mind,
    ­                            Pain.
                               ­  No
                                                     Will No
                        ­          Here's A Lifetime
                ­          Without
               ­        Shame,
              ­                Why
             This Way.
           With Tools
             The Opportunity
To Improve,
           Banishing The
           That Sucked Dry.
Remained &
                               From The
                                                 Early Days,
                                       A Responsibility
                                 Within Our Hand's,  
    To Not Let This Repeat &
                  Young Seeds.
            Our Responsibility
             To Be Able, Not To
         Pass On These Learnt
     Habits & Behaviours. To Break
     The Cycle, Not Being So Damn
Prideful, For Our Children Not To
Have A Lifetime To Mend, Taking
  Away Toxicity When They Are
     Young & Can't Defend. To Have
        The Foundations To Be
               Emotionally Able
                 & Not to Become

© 2018

Abigail Sheard
Kobayashi Issa
Don't worry, spiders,
I keep house
hell is a place where
you constantly love those that
do not love you back.
Ciel Noir
We are such            clever creatures to divide
Most everything             into its different sides
With chaos versus             order, dark and light
The stark duality of         wrong and right
We even split the very        world in two
With human versus human,       we and you
But still no matter how much      we divide
Each thing has infinitely many      sides
Sorry to bother you
but I just have to say,
you bear a striking resemblance
to someone I knew once...

Were you there?

Were you there?
Probably not, but I confess

that it's refreshing to see
such familiar eyes on a strange face.
I'd drink it all in
if it wasn't probably laced.

Give it time.

I'll build up an immunity,
maybe even an affinity.
I'll drink your poison,
convince myself it's medicine,

If I could only get a proper dose.
A spontaneous poem I threw together off the top of my head.

Trying to work on not thinking so much about what I write and just tapping into the stream of consciousness.
We're almost touching.
we were walking side by side,
you're talking about cabs in your hometown.
I can feel the gravity of your hand, calling my fingers
whispering "it's alright."

We're touching but not quite.
you held my shoulder to protect me from the passing cars.
and for the first time in a long while, I felt so fragile.
In this world where I find it hard even to breathe,
you believed me.

I almost said it.
All I need is one ounce of strength to tell you every single thing that I have ever felt about you.

I want to find home in your collarbones.
Would you be kind enough to let a stranger in?
I want to seep in your being because I'm cold.
The world is harsh and my cracks are aching.

Please don't ever become a stranger,
whose laugh I can recognize anywhere.
Your naked body
Pressed on mine
We kissed

I thought that
I should feel

Thrill, euphoria
Lust, love
Or bliss

But no
I felt
And I'm very sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me.  You are everything I have ever wanted, but for some reason touching you leaves me blank.  I feel nothing.  And I am sorry.
The chronicles of the mind, connected,
           shooting across         its organic

A spider web of curiosity,
is only how
                 it can be defined.
         A search vast, with no straight
                                    answers lined to cast.

With science speeding along fast,
          Maybe the fascination of this
    task won't                   be passed.
Maybe       answers     at last,
  a hope of what we find,
Will not set off
             theoretical         land mines.
          Scarring the tissues
will rely on,
              For preserving sanity of


© 2018

Abigail Sheard
If I could turn back time
I would hit Backspace all day,
Id put on Caps Lock
and SHOUT what I say.

I'd use the whole Alphabet
To tell you hello,
Press seven Numbers
Til your phone is aglow.

I'd Tab through the comments
I didn't want to hear,
And use the Arrow Keys
To drag your body near.

I would Delete the harsh words
I didn't mean to speak,
And Insert the "I love yous"
I before couldn't leak.

I would use Ctrl to
Keep reigns over my heart,
And I would Escape lies
That tore us apart.

I'd Print out your photo
And kiss it goodnight,
Use the Calculator
To check that it was right.

I'd Paint you a picture
of us, you and me,
Then I'd hit Enter
Just so you would see.

Those are the things
I would do in my strife,
If only Backspace
worked in real life.
This is the first poem (that I have a copy of) i wrote that I actually thought was good. I was in seventh grade, twelve years old, and I wrote it for a newspaper competition. I knew it was really great but I didn't think I would beat all other applicants in the state in my age group. So you can imagine my surprise I'm sure when I DID win! That is the first time I was proud of my writing. So this one has a lot of special sentimental value. Thanks for reading.
Are We Rare?
The people who care.

Sensing a world of festered pain.

The need to save,
To show everyone their rightful place.

Lost within the compelling daze,
Feelings of those who surround.

The need to live a life that is profound,
Yearning to make society proud.

To save the depraved,
To loosen their chains and to heal the tortured remains.

To evoke change,
To show them grace.

To empress what is seen,
In the strength which lays beneath.

To encourage,
To applaud the life inside ready to be explored.

Doubled eyes to the toxic slime,
A warning of presences that swallow whole.

These creatures when felt,
Distancing these blurs needs to occur,
The vibration of hate splattered to those they taste.

These the swarmers,
The harmers,
The ones who set the inner alarms.

With our gifts,
We can learn to avoid their charms.

Are we Rare to truly feel and see the energy never revealed?

© 2018

Abigail Sheard

Gentle calls as evening falls.
I heard a nightingale
Far beyond the eaves it cried
in darkness, it prevailed.

It sang to me it's lullaby
and lo, I listened well,
In shadows where it could not see,
within it's peaceful spell.

The sound so gently soothing
to a heart that's troubled so.
It's song caressed my soul
and seemed a sign, so I would know.

That all our cares are small indeed, compared to many more
Whose pain is deeper than my own,
whose needs go to their very core.

And tho I could not answer,
in a way that it could see
I thank the angel, that sent down,
that nightingale to me.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
The blurring of reality,
Something that hides beneath you and me.
Bursting to be free,
with the chance to escape.
To create worlds,
Without making any mistakes.
Reaching for mystery,
For something beautifully dark in the in-between.
To play in the serene of the light,
basking away from realities fight.
To create,
To find completeness in these tortured times.
To fight ahead,
Pure fantasy fuelling the way.
That one day all of us.
Will no longer be working to believe and that
Dreams will be our reality,
Flowing down an elegant stream.

© 2018

Abigail Sheard
Never tell poison,
Ambition or growth.

The poisoning few swallow dreams,
Being unsupportive and lacking

When will I learn?
Even when I expect,
These poison few have no words or
Life to cheer.

Pride comes from proving,
Not the work put IN,
In getting yourself moving.

By time the poison,
Poisoning are proud,
Something for them to talk or shout About.

Fully no longer insight and Disappeared,
With the people who've believed and
Support throughout the years.

They only deserve my shine and
Perks to offer.

Here with my hedge cutters,
The cutting of the poison cord.

Only the poison and the poisoned
Are gifted to rain pain,
Unable to spread happiness from
Their inflicted chain.

For this soul cannot afford,
Of the posion's wordless negativity or Expectations on board.

No one deserves to gain or to bask In your rays,
Who aren't there every step of the Way,
Giving you praise from the
Accomplishment you make.

Working hard,
Is a reason to be damn proud and loud

For poison there is only pain,
From the tracks they've laid.

Forward to future you go,
Pulled finally away from the poisoning Of roots and the clouder's of the
Hopeful sunlight.

© 2018

Abigail Sheard
To learn late,
By the lack of how others Communicate.

Help the young constantly to learn,
Encouragement to question with a

So jealously
Regret doesn't fester
To everyone else who have had
Expansive early developmental lesson.

Frustration at the viewing
Hearing how others have been nurtured.

From understanding why others have
Intellectually grown.

Feeling like a monumental part of life
Has been blown,
Highlighting insecurities reason
Previously unknown.

Tiring anxiety from the hollow early
Parental teaching that should of been
Wasted childhood by your own blood.

Understanding presently the advanced,
With the case of a lacking base.

Later age learning basics earlier
Made to be afraid,
Screamed at when first times tried
Were wrong.

Brain fried through the fear to learn,
Through younger reactions heard and

A curious mind,
Told off for everything curiosity found
Presented around.

For a time not to speak,
To ask
Then Curiousities ceased.

Mind wandered to another road,
To be dominated by emotions and a
Slightly creative hole.

These years digging out of a limited box,
Which sewed down by a lot of knock backs,
Where stability lacked.

Contradicting all enforced road blocks,
Outgrowing faux procedures provided.

Mind understanding and how certain
Situations collided,
Broken opportunity a chunk decided.

No more to be frightened or hiding,
To early wilted,
An unnourished crop.

A wish to be fed by books,
With engaging thoughts and toys.

To be engaged with love,
A remembrance of patience for a child
Struggles to understand reasons why
Your unkind
Snap at times.

Ages flew by,
A place to Challenge them to try
A safe place to confined.

Involve them with rhyme,
Reasoning all the time,
Grow their minds inside
On the outside.

Like a plant needed tending to
Bloom to its highest natural flow,
A complex additional ways to
Some people that may seemed

Tending a garden born is dominant
A choice to harbour life comes with a
Not giving to your selfish,
Turberlant sides

Water with emotion and knowledge,
Tend roots with stability,
Sow nutrients and research what they

Do not birth to satisfy some
Natural Needs,
Only birth when you unselfishly
Can give a child everything they need to even basically succeed
Healthily Breathe.

Be kind and patient to those in the development phase,
Who have no understanding of life's

As mistakes learned are from who
They are surrounded around in their
Early days.

© 2018

Abigail Sheard
Joel M Frye
The boxes
which keep my blood clean
are stacked as tall as I,
a monument
in the spare room
to past battles.
Too many words,
too many thoughts
tied up in the
hand-to-hand combat
with mortality.

No more.

What life I have
will not be defined
by an indeterminate end.

I live to write poems;
I will no longer die in them.
Camus knows.
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
Problems only We True Artists face.
Friday night immodesty

theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty

the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes

helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,

she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning

like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!

god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
“what was she thinking!”

my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender

her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and  otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado

some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I

1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!

after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of

9.21am Saturday
thank you all who liked this tale of
the poetry in the details
of our lives.
September Rose
Brighter than the blinding flares of the sun, shimmering outward with power of thousands of stars
yet comforting
yet soft.
Filled with oceans crashing and wild, turning over ships, rushing under a powerful storm.
yet still
yet calm.
Filled with wonder and curiosity, yearning for the unknown, desperate for enlightenment
yet wise
yet content.
Eyes so wide, so deep, filled with delicate roses, the power of mighty warriors, elegant as Venus's flowing dress, filled with souls of thousands, with passion, with yearning, with desire.
Filled with beauty
Filled with you.
Now lighten from the explode,
To ghastliness unshown.

Those years of a colossal blow,
Showed ways in which to grow.

To stand up to truancy around,
To imbeciles who dragged and drained from the ground.

To only to surround with those who help in the journey for clarity,
Paving a way to gain and understand our mortality.

Those who learn no longer throw guilt or shame,
Demoralising in manipulative layers.

The promise has survived,
All in and hopefulness has arrived.

Pleasing to be around those who treasure happiness,
Than status and pride.

Refusing to remain with the demons from a child,
To carry forward no longer wrapped in turmoil,
Dissolving being blind.

Finding time not to unburden their own load,
Showing gratefulness and Shine to those on the same road.

Beauty  in the change and not remaining the same.

Letting go of the past,
With a task not to let it overcast your whole life with a lethal,
Penetrating mask

© 2018

Abigail Sheard
September Rose
The satin gown of hope a myth
            The hero's fallen to
                                                the abyss

The bloom of death, no longer risen
Our souls trapped in endless prison

        Existence the master of all masked curses
              A song of tragedy with endless verses

   So if dying breath comes anyway
                  What's it matter
                 How soon the day

All suns set
Some plan no dawn
They care not for those who mourn

           I wish for myself
      The blood to stop
     To soon not hold
   A single drop

So I promise you my heart for free
       If you swear
   You'll rip it out of me
why doesn't hello poetry like metaphorical Shakespearean poetry? its so pretty?
Earth and Air,
at the beginning beware.
Many attributes and compatibilities they share.
Ready to tend,
completed showing tender care.
Earth plodding along slow and steady,
only approaching situations when they are ready.
Air twirling, learning and always ready to keep the wheels turning.
Both with the same inner yearning,
surprised to the exciting challenge they reveal.
Air flighty and insecure,
when the balance is unsure.
Blowing gale force winds,
intensity stirring the ground to enter in a race,
which isn't always the grounds place.
The Earth loves deeply,
strong and rooted around the world.
Always turning,
active and with magma burning.
Hidden to protect,
to the maintain the other elements do not feel this effect.
only breaching at the exhaustion of overwhelming heat.
Gasping for air,
to urge growth.
On this the Earth dotes.
With Air,
the Earth surrounds,
to breathe,
to seek.
To offer starry skies,
shade to hide from the heat,
Air to melt the icicles away.
Air needs to prepare,
to think and stare.
See where the Earth cannot fare,
needing to plod along,
to carry along to the individual song.
To ensure things don't go wrong,
without pushing you away for too long.
The earth will slowly follow behind your feet,
as you are what they truly seek.
The earth is limited by its grounds,
unable to stretch to certain amounts.
Air you may speed,
in this way you'll aways lead.
Pondering Earth wonders and mulls,
to do what is right,
to prepare a flight before you two can finally combine.

© 2018

Abigail Sheard
What qualifies the profound?

Is it the deepest of how they explore?

Is it the darkness which has been seeped?

Is it that they've witnessed a physical,
emotional or intellectual disease?

Is it the beauty which they seek?

In the darkness and unseen.

Is it the leaning into layers of perception?
A drive to see passed deception.

It is the behaviour in what they do not mention?
The mischievous look in their eyes, tying together structure and sense of rhymes.

Is it that they never deny?
The way in which you live your life.

It is that they know how to survive?
Gently calming those with fried insides.

It is the questions which urge their speech?
The rippling of joy,
of the unique way they teach.

It is the way want nothing in return?
Only the opportunity to grow and learn.

Is it the insight of life?
The ways in which we all sacrifice.

Is it the way they throw the dice?
Knowing the risk in this unknown.

Is it the knowledge?
To the way they calmly forage.

Is it the way they like to invent and experiment?
To propose a choice,
in which no one looses their voice

It is the way they deliberate?
With the intentions to liberate,
to make you feel alive and to show that life is worthwhile.

Are they profound?
The people urging changes to those who flock,
to open minds and sight,
to what is on the rise and inside

© 2018

Abigail Sheard
The inner me is fragile and small,

at the same time mighty and grand.

Sometimes the feeling in which I do

not belong to this world,

this time and this land.

A stranger!

Sometimes feeling the protector,

the hope and strength of this place.

The leader,

the nurturer,

that whimsical mind,

at the same time feeling larger than life.

A broad mind!

Sensitive and guarded,

dreading the fall.

Always being and always will be my

greatest downfall.


needing a challenge.

Whilst sticking to rules and needing


going the opposite way to everything

about me.

A whirlwind inside me that can never

be controlled,

that one day I am afraid will explode.

© 2014

Abigail Sheard
Found today on some old storage software.

Predicting the eruption that was mounting within.
They do not have the capacity to Change
To recognise the way they mame.

They have no idea how they've toxicly
Carried along,
Wounding others without realising
They're doing anything wrong.

They can't understand why people
The world ostracising them any
Chance they can.

They wonder why they've never
It's because of the oblivious venomous
Ways they've gone along.

They carry on with their acid spray,
Never apologising for disgusting ways

They with the inability to change,
As they see nothing wrong with how
They behave.

They are offended when others treat
Them the same,
As somehow their actions should slip
By and keep unchanged.

They cry wolf,
As double standard do apply.

They Guilt!

They Demoralise!

They Blame!

They Shame!

They will never claim their mistakes or
The insanities they vibrate,
As they are in pain
No one
Feels the same.

They cannot relate,
Others earthquakes.

They will not change,
Expecting everyone to go unphased
From the damage they araidate.

They will not accept the consequences,
For the mayhem they've made.

They when questioned,
Unleash a war,
Squashing you for the questioning
Exploring the darkness of their core.

They narcissist,
It is time to say no more,
As these vile creatures are broken to
Their core
Are to pitied for their unshakeable

© 2018 

Abigail Sheard
When the heart speaks,
It discloses its beliefs.

Echoing its needs,
Humming its thunder to the

Offering its counterpart the
hyperactive brain a temporary
That there are times to just dream.

Cradling each other to find some type
of peace.

At times opening opportunities to
to offer a release in need.

Then comes the reflective soul,
Spurring the whole to reach for

To see,
What lays beneath.

To feel,
The unexplainable and to grasp for
the seemly unattainable.

Offering a taste,
Screaming to lead.

To take the whole down an
unworldly stream,
To a life which is not what it seems.

To show,
A world,
A time without control or taking a
toll on the inside.

So combine,
Go explore the wonders unknown
in life.

© 2018

Abigail Sheard
She could develop empires with her kind embrace.

Ready to fight the cruelty and injustice in front of her face.

Somehow always remained having faith, that not all humanity are a disgrace.

Knowing some need encouragement and love, to find some hope in the rough that surrounds.

Keeping  others attached to the ground, but nurturing dreams to the expansion of space above.

Seeing the good in those who struggled to see, helping to become best version of what they could potentially be.

All she asked is to be free and some peace to breathe.

Allowed to reflect on humanities side effect, to find a way not let people stray to the beautiful opportunities offered each day.

Strong, but distanced away is where she likes to stay.

Not remaining in the spotlight, driving influence to those greatest to make the change.

From the present day stains imposed by the ugliness of those running the global show.

Asking all the questions everyone else would ignore.

Inspiring those live and explore the full horizon's ahead.

Not allowing those of purpose and grace to waste away.

Knowing together one day, as a whole that we be the one's invoke change.

For now she'll remain a muse, encouraging all those still confused and lacking the belief to unleash the healing fuse.

As one day these beautiful people will have a monumental role to play.

© 2018
Abigail Sheard
Peace, silence inside.
No need to hide from pride or to fight against the tide.
Flowing to my own beat, on and off my fidgety feet.
The calm, the stillness, my own time to let free with past defeats.
Each and every slumber ever so sweet.
The more I explore, the more I find to adore and want to continue this curious tour.
The web of reality, not as dull or cruel as it originally seemed.
Finding peace in oneself, helps one exist and with time finding some type of bliss.

© 2018
Abigail Sheard
She woke up in her dreams,

A home,

Familiarity in the lands in which she


No longer surrounded by mankind,

Surrounded by the unknown.

A different world to behold,

One in which could be moulded.

No longer carried on each shoulder,

A balance struck.

Unbelieving in her luck,

No longer a pebble in humanity.

In a place of her own,

With only land before.

Behind a gate,

Radiating at a shimmering rate.

The shimmers a rainbow glaze,

Seeping energy of the world she'd


Surrounded by castle stone,

Wrapped in green and golden ivy.

A door in which only she could


A gift she only owned.

In this moment she wasn't alone,

As from behind a cloaked figure


Now in wake,

Walked over placing his hand for a


"At last you've arrived,

you took your sweet time" said the

man with Eagle eyes.

A Knight lost in time.

"I can't believe it's been ten years,

since we last spoke,

Oh how you've grown", as he bowed.

Her eyes widen,

Her mouth drops,

It is like her speech has stopped.

Memories subsiding from the electric


To a world only she can unlock.

© 2018

Abigail Sheard
A glimmer, an idea which has laid within me for a least 11 years. One day I'll earn the discipline to write this book.

Writing here there, when my inspiration does not ware.

A story close to my heart!
Energy surrounding me!
Energy bouncing back into me!
Energy blasting out of me!

Ephoric state riding the rhythm of the night.

Floating around the electric atmosphere.

Oh the feel of life is beautifully sublime.

Relief from mastering an overwhelming sensitivity.

Amazement to finally gained control and clarity.

No longer getting lost in the depths and glow of the crowd.

Dancing away,
with energy coursing through my veins.

Adoring the untamed,
drawing people in like a flame.
Seasoned state opening new doors.

Now to embrace the things previously ignored,
moving to a level never explored before.

© 2018
Abigail Sheard

All you may


Spread all the

But how about



displayed ?

© 2018

Abigail Sheard
September Rose
As the sun slowly sets
The precursor to the week
With deadlines,
                            ­               Oh so bleak
The calm before the storm
  Too restless to enjoy
For everybody knows
     It's sundays melancholy ploy

    Responsibilities loom overhead
     Our heart as heavy as the air
      The world has now gone silent
              We sit in subtle fear
There is a choice in the way we speak,
To the way we strut on our feet.

There is a choice how we reach,
To that beyond and in our dreams.

There is a choice in the ways we meet,
Especially how we leave behind the people we greet.

There is a choice in our actions,
Extremely the way we react to

There is a choice in the way we treat,
Importance not to repeat in the
Explosions which creates disease.

There is a choice in how we raise our
To apologise and repent for the
Mistakes not meant.

There is a choice to be free,
To move away from ever going

There is choice where we can leave,
To create a life to breathe,
Outside of drama and tortured

There is a choice to make a stand and
Set life according to our own plan,
Not to be dictated forever by
Unreasonable demands.

There is a choice where we can all feel
This stops when we delete the
Unhealthy obsession just to please.

© 2018 

Abigail Sheard
There is a choice in how we act, especially how we chose to grow out our toxic actions and behaviours.

Boundaries are sometimes unknown,
the reason you cannot understand being so low.

Learning them helps you grow,
creating a natural flow.

Don't go about unknown,
breaking those with your accidental show.

Don't go around blind,
letting those rob your emotions and mind.

Chose the best route,
don't hurt or use.

Don't be the reason for others blues.

Chose to learn,
taking your turn,
to move pass the conditions burned onto you from the pain.

As spreading times you were merely spared,
will not spread any gain.

Raiding you of feeling whole.

Learn to heel and to heal,
holding back the tragedy of the past.

As no one deserves that toxic blast.

Learn to break out of that cast,
letting go of the past.

So your task,
is to unmask the ways you bring yourself and others pain.

© 2018

Abigail Sheard
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