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We write love poems to "lovers"
Spawned in imagination

While real people die

I think that's really chicken-****
---
 Nov 2015 Robin Medina
Robin
The
words
you
say
capture
me.

This
is
a
new
feeling.

I
have
fal­***
for
words.

Who are you to do this to me?
broken promises
i who have never, ever........(?)
-------------
SCREAM!
-
like a dawn
shot across the bow
of
consciousness!
ARE YOU AWAKE!
....
(dont die again!)
.................................
dont ever forget the god or goddess
that you are
-----------
......promise?......
....
hell surrounds us
what of that?
.
in a while
doom'll seem alright
...  that LOVE is the hardest thing to write about

//

This is true

ONLY IF

you have never felt love

//

But who wants to admit that !

//

So we ******* about love

In order to present the semblance

Of being alive and loving

AND THUSLY

HELLO POETRY

IS BORN

//

//

//

as

GRACE SLICK

( of JEFFREY ROBIN AIRPLANE )

Once sang

FEED YOUR HEAD
FEED YOUR HEAD !!

//

That is

FILL YOUR MIND ( AND HEART )

WITH REAL EXPERIENCE

AND BECOME FREE





this is still true

And truth is still waiting for you to appear
people ****.
i grew up too fast.
and lost my favorite shoes on the walk back home
to georgia

       daddy said he didn't want me to come home
and momma' said she's leaving him for some other man
with more hair
   and money

and i,
         i've been waiting too long to see the sunrise
  it's been a few days since it's all really dawned on me

that

i

cant get away from
                  this
place.


i tripped on a pebble and broke my neck as i was writing this sentence
what a funny place the world is
when you see it
    upside down.


it was raining on
my walk back home to georgia
and i was running on exhaust fumes.
and might i say the condensation on car windows really does
come in handy
when you need to evaporate
from everyones elses
existence


please
just
don't shake your fists at god
when  i get home
and
leave footprints
on your canary yellow tile floor

i didn't mean to leave in such haste.
i'll tell you i'm sorry if that's what i think you want to hear.

just two thousand eight hundred and eighty seven more miles to go
and there will be
dinner on the table
when i get home
the legs wobbly  
and the floor caving in
and
that is how i will remember this place..

but
   mom made chili tonight

i hate chili
it
always reminded me of dog meat
and for that i curse this world.
 Sep 2015 Robin Medina
Styles
I told her,"Cross your legs tightly, and start rocking back and forth. Be patient, it might take some time. Just, let it build up. Don't uncross'em and it will feel awesome. You should know yourself, what works best; rolling or rocking. Don't think about it, just relax. Use your muscles, the one(s) between your legs. Read in between the lines of everything thing I just said, then repeat it in your head, word-by-word, sign language on your lips. Your heart skips. Speeding up your heart's beat, note-to-self all over your sheets. Pace yourself, you can't cheat. First come, first serve; you can't beat. Just, listen to my voice, follow my lead. Take your time, no rush. Relax, match your breathing with mine. slow, down, take your time. Find your fingertip, with your tip, and grind. Pause, fast, forward, left, right; rewind.  Now, do all if that, one more time. But first, lick your fingertip, so your *******, rise and shine, glitterish. Your index, just slide, inside you appendix, cause I penned it.  Now, move your hips, like you are enjoying the ride. Here's a tip; curl your fingertip, like my tongue licked your upper lip; the thought alone should make you flip - ******* colored wet, that's my favorite. Just use your imagination; then go for it! If I was there, I would, make you, "Knock on Wood." Now do what Simon says, and you should be all good."  Then she just hung up the phone. So, I guess she was good.
*******
 Jul 2015 Robin Medina
Tryst
Whence comes thy ill? Thy brooding bitter pill
Ploughed deep in fertile soil, sprouting to seed
Snake-like tendrils crawling to sprawl and spill,
Choking lush verdant fields with poisoned ****;
Wilted young peaches, withered pears dying,
Irises blinded, red chrysanthemums
Faded to white, strewn petals borne on sighing
Dark fitful clouds rend'ring the landscape numb;
Oh bitter pill, thy loathsome poisoned thrill
Afflicts one tainted by unsated need
To wilt and wither, blinded, faded, ill
Craving for thee with hollowed hateful greed;
    Sweet bitter pill, thou will be coveted
    Till once ripe lush and verdant fields lay dead.

— The End —