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My fingerprints have gone missing.
I sit and there is no dent in the cushion.
I sleep and the duvet lays flat and smooth.
I’m afraid to walk in the wet sand
For fear no footprints will be following me.
I’ve covered every mirror in the house
I can’t bear to not see a reflection.
I whistle for the dog - she doesn’t come.
I make no shadow on the wall.
The scale says I weigh nothing.
I seem to have faded like poorly dyed fabric
Left out in the blazing sun.
Can it be possible I’ve become a wraith
Of someone I once was and am no more.
I didn’t feel the transformation -
I touch my cheek and it feels warm -
But I sneeze and no one says “God Bless You” -
So I guess I’m well and truly gone.
   ljm
Just got a silly notion in my head and follwed it .
Blah  Blah  Blah  Blah
I write the crap
That no one wants to read
Not even those who share my blood.
Depressing was the kindest word
They offered on my tripe.
So who the Hell did I  think I was -
Some highfalutin' poet dame?
No, just a hack at choosing words
That paint a dreary picture
Of a scene nobody wants to see.

Blah Blah  Blah  Blah
Aren't I sorry for little me.
Get off your *** and haul the load
That what's left of your life will be.
                         ljm
Too many years of happiness lived and unhappiness recorded.
It may be time to go away
Too many cookies are uneaten
And a few are only nibbled

I baked all night for many days
And used up all my spices
But few customers appeared

I laid them on my very best tray
And priced them as a bargain
Now most of them are growing stale

I think it’s time to close up shop
The other’s cakes were obviously better
Their customers waited in long lines

It will be hard for me to stop
My hands are white with flour
And my apron’s tied so tightly

Still, no farmer wants to plant a crop
That never will be eaten -
Are cookie bakers not the same

Perhaps my wafers were too plain
And lacking decoration
I thought that flavor was enough

But recognition brings me pain
I felt my recipes were special
But everyone had better ones

It seems that I cannot sustain
The dream of being Mrs. Fields
When It comes to writing cookies
               ljm
how i long for 40 hearts
Leandra Jan 2017
Let me tell you about me

People look at me,
Like I am a thing that came from outer space.
They look at my height, my clothes, my wrists, my thighs, but not at me.
They say things like you are small or you wear really weird clothes.
Why don't you wear shorts or why do you have bracelets on one wrist.
But none of them ask me why I am me.
No asked me why I can be sad, but paint a smile on my face just to get through the day. None of them ask why my eyes are rimmed with tears but I say that everything is okay. That is the biggest lie, I am okay.
No one asked me why I don't fit in or that i need a friend.
No, they asked what is on the outside, not what is in the inside.
That is all they see, is the outside.
Marilyn Sistinas Dec 2016
I've learned a few things from you
And from the situation, a multitude.
I'm not to blame, for you can't just point fingers to relieve your shame.
You know, it's hurt in a way,
showed me how ungrateful I am to those who make me feel home.
I'd rather be learning, seeing lessons up close,
Than concealed and shushed to safety.
These experiences create me.
I never knew how long I could with stand pacing.
Do not run and hide, you'll always be with your own self,
It's pointless when your shadow is chasing.
I've witnessed your soul turn frail,
I've seen every part of you, every slick inch,
I've touched your every darkened scale.
Is it sickening to watch yourself wither?
You ought to satisfy the hunger,
that grumbling is being mistaken,
misheard for pity rather than what it's supposed to be,
forgiveness, in yourself,
which, in return, may set you free.
Evil step mothers are real, not in fairytales.
David Adamson Oct 2016
Dear David:

We are deeply gratified that you gave us the opportunity
to read your poems.  Notice that we say “opportunity”
rather than “submission,” for truly you graced us with works
of such enduring power, so sublime, so transcendent,
that our humble words scarce can adequately praise
the sacred privilege of reading them.

Seldom, no, never has human experience been so distilled,
so purified, so exalted, yet so exposed
in all its paradox, its shades and sunbursts,
shouts and silences, the hiding places redolent of inner light,
as in these timeless works.  

A calm breeze from the desert’s edge at dusk,
the chatter of a mockingbird at dawn,
the rumble and crash of a hidden waterfall,
the laughter of a child unseen in a cool wood’s shade,
emanate so intensely from the shapes of these letters
that our faith in the power of language to evoke reality
has been nourished and restored to its proper place.

However, we regret to inform you
that your poems do not meet our needs at this time,
which are for relevant poems for the upcoming
theme issue on Hammer Toes.

We hope you will consider us for future opportunities.

Sincerely,

The editors of ******* Quarterly
Have been collecting a lot of rejection letters lately.  Here's my interpretation.
Brent Kincaid May 2016
I’m no longer a resident
Of self-pity City
And I most certainly
Am not the mayor
I’ve given up crying
And eighty sixed whining
“It’s just not fair!”

Now I don’t ask “Why me, God?”
I realized I was wishing another
Poor somebody suffered my fate.
Who? My sister, father, mother?
When did I gain so much clout
That I deserve a better fate
That moves me up so high
And makes the rest second rate?

I’m no longer a resident
Of self-pity City
And I most certainly
Am not the mayor
I’ve given up crying
And eighty sixed whining
“It’s just not fair!”

I had to take stock of life
And realize I have what I need.
Anything else is at least excess
But even more likely it’s greed.
I was looking around to see
What my neighbors had got
And running to my toy box
Moaning of what I had not.

Did I look around me and see
The many who had so little?
Not a crust of bread or a home
Where they could sit and whittle?
So many had no toys at all
They were grateful for a bed;
A place where they could be safe
When they lay down their head.

I’m no longer a resident
Of self-pity City
And I most certainly
Am not the mayor
I’ve given up crying
And eighty sixed whining
“It’s just not fair!”

Finally I awoke and saw the truth,
How much I need to be grateful for;
For breathing and resting and joy
A roof, for walls and a floor.
And a place to call my own home
When so many don’t have one.
The day I counted my blessings
Was when a good life was begun.

I’m no longer a resident
Of self-pity City
And I most certainly
Am not the mayor
I’ve given up crying
And eighty sixed whining
“It’s just not fair!”
Cute girl, a dove
You grew up expectant
Of an inviolable love.

But,know there are things
You should, such as
Unfold the unexpected could.

Cute girl, ingratiatingly enjoying
A green light
To the citadel of your girlhood
At the height of your virginal beauty
Holding you close ****
Adept in creating the required mood,
A fickle womanizer may
Suddenly leave you for good!

Sister you should have
Seen through
Mr. Fickle's lack of personal
Integrity and internal beauty.

So cute girl ,please brush aside
Your self pity packed song
"My love for Mr.Fickle,who adorned
with my chastity, is  
matchless and strong!"

Also cute girl , know you should
Punishing Mr.Fiddle
For Mr.Fickle's mistake
Is the worst displacement
You could make.

Thus cute girl
Better focus on the fact
You will be an efficacious cure
To a genuine lover yearning
For you  with a heart pure!

The love lorn
Mr.Fidel,probably
Injured by Miss.Fickle,
Terribly clamors for your help
To nurse him and
To get him back in shape.

The past you will
Cease to rewind
Soul and body
With lovelorn Mr.Fiddle
When you get entwined!

When pricked with a thorn
Barefooted farmers
Pull out the thorn
With a thorn
So cute girl pull out
The ungrateful Mr.Fickle
With the grateful Mr.Fiddle
That way the problem
You could settle!
It is not uncommon to observe most innocent girls suffer a blow when jilted by less genuine boy friends.It takes them long to get out of that mood,which could have a hanging over effect to a second love
Viseract Feb 2016
An acid that burns me up
Falling slowly, drop by drop

Too caught up in my own affairs
To really show that much care

Self-pity comes so easy
I don't show it much but my heart is bleeding

And once again, I pity myself
And shudder at the name of someone else
self-pity+me=dead
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