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Everything Beautiful inside of me is taken.

Everything that framed my body has cracked.

Everything that once molded who I was and what I wanted to become has shattered.

Everything healthy inside of me has hollowed out and left completly.
And I feel dead inside.

So I curse my features,
       For they do not follow suit.

And I am broken.

But a solid mask is stuck in place,
masking my truths from any followers.

So I stay peaced together.

Hiding from my true form.


*So well that I hide from myself
This is an old poem that I dug up, and thought someone might relate to. Don't give up! The answer is always out there, even if it is good at hiding.
Why I Kissed Your Glasses (A Love Poem)

I went to kiss your forehead
missed my turn off,
instead, connected,
with a seeing-eye tortoise
made of plastic.

Went to kiss your toes,
but the stunning purple hue that
decorated your toenails
shocked me into limp rigidity,
in-articulation, inactivity

Kissed your lips tenderly, longingly,
but Coco's formulation haunted me the whole day,
Her interference needed, but let it be noted accordingly,
It was you I loved, not her!

I kissed your fingertips so delicately,
with tenderness great,
enjoyed a vigorous nibble,
as your compensation,
received a poke in the eye,
accidentally, of course. (Right?)

Could go on and on,
but decorum forbids further revelations,
worth noting, but not composing,
still laughing at my just rewards,
the bruises resulting from my failed escapades!

All I can say is
En Garde!
I will be coming back soon enough.
because you are my best poem,
and the there will always be another stanza needed...

10:00 AM
Shelter Island
Memorial Day Weekend 2013
 May 2013 Rosaline Moray
LDuler
If you died today
I would be dead tomorrow
And if I were to become immortal
I would spend my life
Trying to make you eternal
Glistening through shafts of sunlight, I spy the silvery dragonfly,

Hovering above the clovered knoll,

Swaying like wheat in speckled sun.

Cantering up grassy hills, away from the stream,

The bleating goats exchange existential crises,

Brushing past the whispering tulips ablaze in the sunset.

Behind me,

In the shade of oaks, in spiraling dusts,

Decaying logs half buried in the windbreak

Rekindle and animate in the orange beams.

I stand up and sip my beer, as the stars blink and stutter.

A snowy owl whooshes past, wishing for rain.

Somebody loves me.
Imitation of “Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota” by James Wright
The entity was with him from an early age
She constantly whispered his name
She waited until he was all-alone
Her tone remained the same

Constantly whispering his name
Two or three times a day
She was relentless in her objective
She would not go away

She would call him from the living room
And from the foot of the stair
Always when he was alone
So that others were unaware

Upstairs the voice was different
It came from his parent's room
Accompanied by a flicking paper sound
With an eerie sense of doom

He would dart down the staircase
As fast as his legs would run
And, white-faced, join his family
But never tell anyone

Early one evening he stepped outside
It was dark at that time of year
Something urged him to look up
And he was consumed with fear

A grey white figure scrambled over the roof
He glared at him with hate
What his malicious intent was
He had no idea. He did not wait

A short time later he became gravely ill
He could neither eat nor drink
The pain so engrossed him
That he could not even think

Nurses worked around him
In so much pain was he
He pleaded with the surgeon
"Let it end for me"

Turning his head in resignation
A smiling maternal face he saw
She whispered his name
His consciousness was no more

After the surgeon's success
He was relieved of any pain
And never more would he hear the voice
Whispering his name
life
reversed in my hands

inside out
exposed

but
I see it
alive in your eyes
waiting
perched
at the edges of your vision.

placing
careful steps
across
my tender mind.
Mom passed
Some years ago
Dad a year later

She hovers
On the mantle
In her urn

(Silver and Rosewood)

Watching over the house
Whispering to me
When I'm not paying attention

Dad sits next to her
Silent for the most part
Adoring her for their eternity.
copyright 2009, T.P. Mooney
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