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they read
my
Father agrees
cAlling out
*******
He
hatEs
******
?






















...
..
.
that not an question
the mark
keeps
my
"poems"
...
..
.
what is this
from
my
palms

blood drips
razor blade sips
child like manners
wording me to tears
cry with me here
she is crying
was it me
she asks
never
mind
me
her mother
never said that
she clipped our wings
here from the cage
we can see
my
wings
from my palms
?



















...
..
.
our questions marks
are
...
..
.
Matthew Scott Harris (the second offspring and only son of
Boyce and the late Harriet Harris) made his unheralded debut on
a brutally cold January thirteenth almost three score years ago.
     His father - employed as a mechanical engineer with general
electric heard the powerful lungs of this gangly newborn prior to
being permitted to cradle said infant.
Born in Cincinnati, Ohio, this sole son spent the majority of his
fifty plus LIX existence within southeastern Montgomery County
Pennsylvania.
     Extreme shyness in tandem with a congenital speech defect
(submucous cleft palate) seemed to alienate him from other class
mates.
     As an outside neutral observer, I watched with gut when
ching agony how he seemed socially detached and rarely invited
to join in any reindeer games, rather mean kids balled their fists
and swung faux pas sucker punches to sleigh **** shay -
so they did say.
     Yes, a gross degree of taunting left him without friends.
     Lack of confidence and ultra reticence offered hue manna
tee to bullies.
     Matter of fact, this vulnerability, and susceptibility per
receiving verbal slings continued thru public education.
     He graduated without any vocational idea (despite an ignoble
attempt to fail - and yet got promoted nonetheless), and then
endured parental wrath equal ultimatums with a scathing expletive
filled lectures.
     The absence of clear-cut goals found him enrolling and with
drawing from countless colleges and/or universities.
     Delay with interpersonal success accompanied like a dark
shadow creeping closer to the edge of night.
to block her
my fingers
oh
my fingers

just calm down
we will wait
these are
our
gallows

she has high heel intentions
we
eat
stilettos
we will wait


another dream

one of hair brushed
before braids
my
first
lover
really
left me

we will alway love her
until the day we take
our last breath
we
will
wait
for her
to love me

for her
to
love me
we will wait
?






















...
..
.
let me write
your
name
...
..
.
write     .to the side
try try try
                  .not to lie
she has love
                       .applied

she broke
                              .my heart
we broke
                                  .hers first
not sure
                                       .what
hurts
                                .worse

how
         ­                  .could
                 i
                                   ?
been an while ... to be read right ... one should start at top left read down then around t... i read the right side up ... then down ... either way ... wanna pop-cicle ... or ... sumn ...probably confused myselfs again
...
..
.
Karisa Brown Feb 2018
I liked it better
When we fought
Then I could get attention
Then you'd call me out

Dear sweet attention
What's my name
Slap me
Berate me
Carmalize me instead

Make me pretty
Attention will follow
Many beds

Till I collapse underneath
My pillow instead
And crawl to walk
And walk I shall stay

Firm and steady
Not wishing I was dead
Past washed
Past watched
Not to show up
But to feel me
leave my IMPRINT
love yourself true
yourself love true

when rearranged
things changed

true yourself love

if i must be true
reassure yourself
there
is
only
you my love

true yourself love


imagine yourself
in
love
alway
true


don't fall in love
with yourself
to deep
cause
it
will
never
he true
?
















...
..
.
she was distant
she spoke
softly
but
her
whispers
...
let me drive your car




i will wreck your car life





no
U
turns




you
come
here
?

















...
..
­.
get away
Adrian Ware Jan 2018
I died in a mist and disappeared in the fog
When my spirit left the earth
My body was ripped apart by vicious dogs
I haunted the earth until I seen a chance
To dive into someones flesh
So that I could live again
I awoke in a body that was so different
I died but came back as a poet
Due to reincarnation
How could my spirit be the same when everything else has changed
I guess reincarnation is something you really can't explain
For this is not my blood that I shed
This body means no more to than
a hotel room that gets rented out weekly
Which means this form is only temporary
Because in actuality
you only get one chance
Even if you get reincarnated
You still ain't living the life that you were once living
©Adrian Ware
Death
(ah...a flickr of nostalgia washes over my psyche for those days of yore, when going to the local playground ranked as a big deal to offspring well prepared for young adulthood).

Paradise visage and eyes a bulge with dollar signs
   whets imagination with PowerBall ticket bought
expect the usual outcome after next drawing
   to yield monetary naught
temptation for instant millions

   human foible to reach for elusive *** of gold
   streak of universal desire
   for potential wealth overtakes rational self
   with delusions of grandeur caught

allow, enable and provide flirtation
   with fate to experience rich draught
envision emancipation from penury
   a distant battle fought
and tacked hard scrapple existence wrought.
 
at the core
legal tender in such precious chronically
   in short supply within this family of four
though times eye desire at least

   another son or daughter more
at such urge (long silenced of this
   ram by ewe to who) did vehemently roar

boot budding young girls
   I whole-heartedly love and adore
who rush into my arms whenever back
   from trivial pursuits

   nearly squeezing out digested gore
when casually and nonchalantly
   turn the key to open the front door
akin to the finest crafted clock work

   to sound the time of day
   they still dance and frolic like kittens or puppies
   bring newspaper and slippers

   sharing silly concocted faux pa lore
inviting me to play make believe games on the floor
enjoying revelry without keeping score
yet…creating memories I will forever store.
 
Financial straits
   make our existence hand to mouth
all grandiose aspirations to succeed
   in life frequently head south.
 
Creative endeavors find excitement
   and linguistic pleasure
   thru the attempt to pry
   poem or prose from mind

deliberate semblance to communicate
   and extract idea from cranial rind
words that synchronize suitably
   in poetic third eye bind

readers may espy hidden puns
   within this rhyme lined
with challenges or commiserate
   and complement via words of positive kind

although large sum of money would be  a dog send
   delivered by one blessed angel in disguise
   redemption and salvation considered thankful find.
 
Much rather be cursed with excess wealth
Deliverance to life, liberty and mental health
Depravity foreign concept never to rue by stealth.
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