As you write you are hundreds.
Become the thief, murderer, and sacrificed.
You stand at the crossroads,
leading the sheep
and angry bulls.

Feel for the nemesis,
Feel for the grandfather --
their fluttering leaves of childhood worries.
You must feel from the heart for the sad.

"Help Us"
"**** Them"
You stand with one foot on each side
of that line drawn in the sand
with chalk.

Write, because in the pages
a rose is a poison, a city is a flower,
and the truth can leak from the pages,
and the fingers of the reader will absorb
and carry the truths to the heart.


Poppy P.
8/24/14

He looked at me
The way you look at
Stacked books
On a wooden shelf,
Carefully stroking my spine
After he's done it to
Three other stories
he'd gotten tired of.

Mr. Bookworm,
I am not a fictional option.
Yes, my cover is
Stained
And my last reader
Folded and tampered
With all my pages,
I only wish you'd
Treat this piece of literature
With respect.
You see, Mr. Bookworm,
I'm not a trilogy,
At least I'm not sure yet.
My Author isn't quite done with me. And I find it quite rude
That you stare at my papery insides,
Page after page,
Only to leave me
Back in the shelf,
Collecting dust.
Be patient with me, wandering reader.
Wait for my story
To reach it's ******.
Inhale my aging pages
Until you reach my resolution.
My apologies
For the times I've been
Rewritten.
But wait with me
Till you've reached my story's ending.
Because I swear upon my
Mismatched table of contents,
It will be a story worth telling.