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 May 2015 Laura
Kyle Howard
It would take an entire lifetime
to express my love for you
I recognize each and every feeling
but the words won't find their way
the frustration is
what I feel for you
is buried deep inside
I've been digging deep
within myself
trying to pull them
from where they hide
the feelings exist, but
the words I miss
they may never leave my mouth
but trust me dear
I'll never stop
trying to pull them out
though I promise you
I'll never quit
searching for the phrase
know all the while
my love for you
keeps growing
with every passing day
To my love
 May 2015 Laura
daisies
What an almighty accusation!
A string of words muttered into the spur of the moment.

"You do not talk much, but..."
Do not attempt to free your way out of it, now.
A relentless accusation, that's what it really is.

Do you, Mr Know-It-All, have any idea how
I spent years upon years upon years
trying not to be so encompassed in myself, my own thoughts,
and feelings and constellations, my introversion, and open up?

Do you have any single clue how my plan was perfectly
detailed that I made sure not to go a step backwards?
You should've met me back then. You'd think I was mute.

Have you thought about what it really means to point out
the flaws in a person that they clearly acknowledge
all the intricacies of?

Did you really need to tell me what I already know?

Well, listen to this,
I will not apologize for me being uninterested
in small talk, the weather, and your mentality.

I don't particularly care how well you, neither I for that matter,
did on that hideous, arduous test we had.

I don't exactly fancy group talks where no one truly listens,
nor come up with a certain purpose.

You insanely shallow, shallow person,
I am not into your actions.
I am really not into your body, or eyes either.

Give me sensual meaning, not accusations.
I do not talk much, but when I do,
people listen, even you.

So hear me out now,
next time you tell someone they don't talk much,
make sure there are no stars in the sky
on which they'd be gazing dreamily upon.

Make sure they aren't engulfed in a book
so daunting it hurts.

Make sure they aren't trying with every fiber in their being
to speak up, because they know people like you are scrutinizing,
anticipating their every word to strike.

Make sure they aren't grieving.
Make sure they aren't broken to pieces.
Make sure they are free of all problems in the universe.

Make sure they found enough missing parts of themselves
to go on an adventure of exploring yet another soul.

But most importantly,
make sure they haven't gone downright mad
that they don't give a single **** what you have to say anymore,
********.
Right back at you.
 May 2015 Laura
Chauntelle Laflen
The sun arises
to dawn on new troubles,
tribulations,
and tribble-sized problems-
things that will start small
and multiply-
into invasive thoughts,
pervading senses of doom and despair,
becoming conquering masters
of deceit,
illusion,
and trickery.
From outside my bleak and tiny window,
the rays of betraying star-fire reach-
creeping over parked cars,
dazzling my eyes
in an ill attempt to gain my favor,
as it entangles the world in its ancient hands.
Redefining what it is to be alive,
each and every morning,
it persistently climbs with self centered surety,
to lord over my aching head
as I cling to the skin of this tiny world,
bound to it by responsibilities and duties
of the most mundane necessity.
What will this day bring?
Shall all the nusisances of adult life be avenged?
Or am I doomed
to continue plodding on in grunting,
laborious,
displeasure;
to pen my utter dismay
at having to work before the sun is up?
 May 2015 Laura
Chauntelle Laflen
The key to words,
when written down,
is to view them
like a Lost and Found.
For, when faced with creativity,
one can be lost in eternity,
and the endless options
that thoughts present-
all the struggles
in the time that's spent.
One could hear a phrase-
uttered on a whim-
but for a creative mind,
it makes a cup flowing to the brim.
Ideas and conjurations
spring forward with ease,
like delicate whisperings
on a warm summer's breeze.
Bursting with inspiration,
so suddenly found,
makes each step a blessing
as it touches the ground.
Then how is it,
that once imparted,
it is so easy
to find those dear words departed?
A moments distraction,
and then they are helplessly gone;
as you frown and despair
over a writing gone wrong.
You scavenge the void
and the dark recesses
of a previous list
of brilliant successes,
only to find that,
though measurable indeed,
the words on that list
are not what you need.
So treasure wisely
your words today-
for a borrowed word
is tomorrow's play.
 May 2015 Laura
Chauntelle Laflen
This morning is bleak and dreary,
The lake is frozen and cold;
The prince is making me weary
Of all of the stories he's told.
I've seen all his quests for vengeance,
I've counted his spoils of war,
I've relayed all of his messages,
And now I'm quite terribly bored.
He's crude, he's foul,
He never says thank you or please;
He never stays quiet, he always yells,
And his britches smell of old cheese.
I cannot bear to be near
A man so lacking in refinement;
He's got not an ounce of respect,
And should be in solitary confinement.
He's repulsive, repugnent,
A blight on the land;
Why, the very birds won't eat
From his murderous hands.
Oh! If only I could escape
This horrid, ***** man!
If only I could save myself...
Oh wait! I can!
So, I think I'll go find a dragon,
And strike up a bargain for gold;
Because princes are tasty with ketchup-
Or, at least, so I'm told.
;)
A rewrite of a poem I made for my second grade teacher when I lived in Utah. To Miss Bird, the original hero of my education- you tough old bird you. :p
 May 2015 Laura
Kyle Howard
There once was a lady
Named Mrs. O'Brady
Who hated the world
It seemed
The wicked 'ol witch
Was sort of a *****
And she spit and she cussed
And she screamed
The children all feared
Whenever she leered
That her gaze
Might turn them to stone
And the dogs even knew
Never to poo
In the small yard
In front of her home
'Til one chilly mourn
When snow did adorn
And the ground
Was a blanket of frost
Mrs. O'Brady
That rotten ol' lady
Slipped and her footing
She lost
She fell to the ground
With a thud of a sound
And knocked
Her ol' hag of a head
Then everyone stopped
And they let their jaws drop
For they knew
Mrs. O'Brady was dead
But when she arose
And brushed off her clothes
The drop of a pin
Could be heard
She said "I'm Mrs. O'Brady
The wicked ol' lady"
And she flipped the whole crowd
the bird
Gotta love the feisty old ones!
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