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just because
it doesn't leave
a single line
doesn't mean
it's not a poem

just because
it doesn't rhyme
doesn't mean
you're not a poet

because a poem
is not merely
about the style
but solely
about the soul
Leave it all on the floor
your blood
your sweat
your tears

Leave it all
your hopes,
and dreams

bare your soul
in all its awful ****** glory

take everything
cheers
jeers

every cry of exhaustion
of pain
of fear
of disappointment

whatever they throw at you
take it
to be great is to risk weakness

retaliate
a thousand-fold
every movement
every effort
every waking moment

in stark defiance
of insurmountable odds
of a defeat that seems destined,
of odds against.

Regret is for tomorrow
and this moment

isn't.
When feelings overload,
and my mind is left a mess,
I look to writing, easing the distress.
My lips are sealed and my heart lies heavy,
that is until, I have released the levee.

©A. Harris 2015
Here we are again,
in the same places–
kneeled over–
staring down at the
very knife that gutted us.

The blood is gone,
wiped clean from the blade;
shining and clear and gleaming
now like it is brand new
in the dim light.

How many times must we
impale ourselves
before understanding sets in,
before we realize we are
bleeding out again
beside the bed.
 Oct 2015 Rose Moravia
Aroody
If we love someone,  
We express it,  
If we hate someone,  
Then we say it,  

But you chose silence,  
To destroy me slowly,  
Your silence has kept me on a string,  
The string of uncertainty,  

I'm not sure what this silence means,
Do you still love me?  
Or you hate me now?  

If I walk away from you,  
I'll be thinking of coming back,  
And If I walk towards you,  
Maybe I'll make a mistake,  

You have left me alone on this string,  
Anyhow I'm destroyed, destroyed of uncertainty ....

© 2015-AROODY
I believe that uncertainty is a destroying feeling,
Why do the roses dance back and forth in the howling winds, as if to spite me in some way. Shaking heads in disagreement, as they breathe in and out. Huffing as if to show their disappointment of my every little detail.

I may not be a rose, but you could pick a thorn off of me and still feel love.
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