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 Dec 2013 Sir B
PK Wakefield
.































                                ­                     O
                                                      yOur
    ­                                                    mOuth
       ­                                                   issO
         ­                                                      hOt

               (inside it feels)

                                                sometimes­tight

                                                          ­and
                                                             ­                      O
                                                               ­                 it dOes

                             when

                                                  Springtim­e
                          
                                    ­                           draws 'er

                                                            ­               pretty 'ittle
                                                          ­                                
                                ­                                                                 ­    nOOSe

                                                          ­                                                    acrOss

                        
                           ­                             yer neck
                                                               (jerks)
        
                                                ­                                                             and parts
                                                           ­                                                  (wetly)
                                                         ­                                                     light

     ­                                                                 ­                                        and
                     ­                                                                 ­                        (life)
                                  ­                                                                 ­                                        intO darkness

                                                       ­                                                                 ­                            strays.
 Dec 2013 Sir B
Christa H
"I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows."
Every syllable was the pitter patter of water on glass panes.

But the feeling he gave me was hurricanes on concrete.

"I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows."
The fluidity of the liquid would fill the crevices in my mind to the very tip and remind me that I was not alone.

You do not have to read the meniscus to look deeper into my being.

"I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows."
He formed his words and dragged them quietly across pavements, reminiscent of the deep tint of the clouds and the rumbling of thunder.

But when the sun came out,
I did not feel radiant
I felt alone.
 Dec 2013 Sir B
soul in torment
You are free
to look through
any
windows

but

two.
She was free to enter any door I've played with this and made my eyes the forbidden Windows of my soul
 Dec 2013 Sir B
soul in torment
She lay there
naked...

covered in blood...

crying...



Love me.
To my grand daughter due any time soon.
 Dec 2013 Sir B
soul in torment
The
medieval monetary
still
stands
as
farms
and
their
surroundings.
The old ruins picked over centuries ago to build farm houses out buildings and dry stone walls
 Dec 2013 Sir B
soul in torment
If you really
wanna shut me up

then

kiss me
A look back to the old black n White movies where the men silenced women simply by kissing them
 Dec 2013 Sir B
soul in torment
Released from prison

and yet
only now ...

he's truly

free
I need to stop romanticizing the past.
I'm walking backwards instead of forwards.
Your name still comes to me in the night
and clings to my sheets like you did once long ago.
But if Gatsby had let go of the green light
he would have lived.
I want to live.
I don't love you.* you said.
And my heart dropped down to hell.
The word played over again in my head,
and my tears began to spill.
Why are you yelling?
WHY ARE YOU YELLING?
YOU PROMISED YOU'D LOVE ME TOO.
I'm not yelling, you said; Just telling you the truth.
So is this what you meant,
when you promised with your arms?
When you laid down on  my chest and swore you'd never go too far?
Do you find joy in seeing the eyes you once claimed to have loved,
spill tears of broken glass and the secrets you promised of?
YOU'RE STILL YELLING.
EVERYTHING IS SO ******* LOUD.
Why would you ever say those things when you were just planning to let me down?
Have you noticed this is all questions,
cause you've made me question myself.
Every time I speak or move,
my head is filled with doubts.
Will I lose her, will she come home?
Will she be safe with me again?
I doubt it, it's quiet now.
They must have killed each other,
the voices in my head.
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