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Lily Apr 2018
Everyone has a story, a reasoning behind
Their actions, their words, their thoughts.  
They have a prologue, which sets the scene,
That reveals important things if you bother to read it.  
Their first chapters are important,
Telling you the basic things about
Their personality and sense of self.  
Most people read these chapters,
But the further you get in someone else’s story,
More people lose interest, willing to keep the story,
To put the book on the shelf, but then
They forget about it. Or they just don’t care.  
The last chapters, which bring us to
The point that the person is in their life right now,
Are the ones that are the least read,
Except by those who are closest to them.  
If you truly care about someone, you will
Read their story from beginning to end,
Word for word, line for line.  
Yet there is danger in knowing a person’s story.  
Whilst reading someone’s story, you could
Fall in love, like a soft breeze on a warm day that
You hardly notice, but when you stop and
Think about it, was there all along,
And you should never have taken it for granted.  
When that happens, embark on a new adventure,
Creating a new story with them,
Starting with the prologue and not ending until you
Type the final letter.  
Because no one likes an unfinished story.
My bleeding here like this -
May it never stop until I have
Taken my very last breath.
And in that last breath may I
Somehow take up my pen
Thrusting it into my chest once again
To make way for the release of that last
Phrase which still anchors itself so
****** deep in my soul.

Oh, to feel it finally ooze from me
Leaving me void of its painful control.
Of which I both love it and I hate it too.
Its double edged influence like God
Himself on the one side giving me hope
While the devil is on the other,
The destroyer of all that I ever hoped.
Oh dear Lord - is not my pen like
A multi-cartridge-d vessel containing
More than just one color?

At times to be blue
When the pain of life draws out that color.
Spilling all my tears
To anyone within my reach.
At other times my pen writes a crimson red,
Letting go of all the love that is in me.
Then to click it yet again to find the black
Darkness that also lives somewhere in my soul.
But there is another color, isn’t there Lord?

Yes, one so silky white in color
That when I write in on this page
No one can ever see it.
That is, no one but you Lord.
So if I leave a white page
With my last dying breath
Perhaps you’ll understand that it’s
Just another note from me to you.

Pulling my pen from my bleeding heart
While taking the last breath I shall write to you:

With the tidings of my fate squarely in your hands oh Lord,
My bleeding has not quite yet stopped.
Here you are to come to administer
Whatever consolation of thy affection
That thy Love has for me.
Dear Lord, receiveth my parting breath
And close my eyes within your blessings.
And when I reawaken let me find myself
Somewhere in the midst of your framework.

Thou hast undoubtedly numbered all of my tears
And placed them in a bottle for safe keeping.
Dear God, thou has always been the framework
For all these words that I bleed upon these pages.
They were all my fancy embracing my feeble knees
Hoping to raise my eyes to bid me into your comfort.
They are all my own blessings like the child within my heart.
Never more so than when I am bleeding here like this
In these words – only then do I feel your principles
Ever present within me.

So take me Lord when my bleeding has stopped
And please don’t be alarmed if even then
My soul dips its finger into my own crimson jell
And one last time with that finger I write

In the name of Love……
This is a repost. I think this is my favorite piece that I wrote many years ago. I still feel this way. Even when I’m not writing I’m always thinking of what to write. If you are as infected as I am about trying to express whatever this is inside of us all - I think you’ll appreciate this piece.
Meg Howell Mar 2018
A daily riddle has come to mind
Where abstract words break an abstract mind
Things once healed
Fall apart
After the moon hits the golden mark
Dilapidated eyes hear harsh lullabies
But no baby cries
No baby cries
Just you and I
Cries fit for the night
The dubious night
The doubtful night
The dangerous night
Our bittersweet night
Brent Kincaid Mar 2018
I want to write such words
That can reach out and teach,
And share with the world
What I have found on beaches
And mountain passes, in cities
And the countrysides, like music;
Lilting songs without tunes
But such that please any critic
And help them learn to sing
Even when there is no melody,
Experiences that changes them
To symphonies from threnodies.

I want to help everybody hear
The jigs and tarantellas here
Made from words that keep
Their lively memory very near,
That we may subtly hear it
And love it and treasure
Every beat, rest and thought
In every verbal measure,
So they can ride along with
An orchestra often unheard:
The precious gift to us all,
The magnificent spoken word.

I have set my sights on this,
The mission I have chosen
And shall make it my quest to
Insure my stride is not broken.
Not everyone is given the gift
To say what they deeply feel,
It falls to those who can speak
To show others what is real,
Or what may just be tinsel
And what is golden, or wrong.
Thus is the fate of our poets
To parse it in poetry and song.
I wrote this for you, but also for every poet you will ever know.
Of all of these words the truest Star in heaven was first:
A name of which from all the succeeding generations burst.
With enclosed designs where my salacious counsel does fit
Sagacious she is - bold and born of a turbulence of wit.
Restless she is too - unfixed by principles or place;
Her powers unleashed with the patience of her grace.
A naked fiery soul which works out daily in her own way,
Unfettered by the gloriousness of her own body’s lack of decay.
She, the master of my mind ever beating my heart away from the clay.
A daring luxurious softness engulfing a flaming fire,
Poised with passion and waves of pleasure reaching ever higher;
Like a summer thunderstorm renders the calmness unfit,
Steering love nigh into my hands, boasting of how her touch has wit.
Of great wit we are, surely, as madness is to be allied;
As these thin partitions do touch the boundaries they divide.
Our bodies plundering our souls’ wealth loving the honor blest,
Refusing our age any needful hours of rest.
Sharing a simple body which neither alone could ever please;
For the single body alone is bankrupt, but together, a prodigal ease.
Flesh always leaves that which its touch has won
Un-feathered and four-legged making the two into one.
Oh, to my soul in my deepest huddled notions I do try;
To be reborn into the shapeless spent lump of you and I.
What is passion? What is desire? How ruthless can passion and desire be? We all feel it. We all know it. It begs to be expressed. The problem is that you cannot say it only requires one thing. The truth is that it requires two.
Purcy Flaherty Mar 2018
Two sleepy souls carried on the breeze, through lucid, epic, prophetic hopes and dreams; slowly drifting to the land of nod.
With pillow talk and our sheets for sails, we’ll storm the cotton midnight realms, and keep our simple craft afloat; with *** and love, and silly jokes;
before catching zZz’s with gods.


Dedicated to Pixie.
Laying in each others arms.
Sunny Mar 2018
Everywhere I go, I feel judged by people.
When I talk, I feel that people won’t understand what I say.
Maybe my voice is too deep. Or it just sounds stupid.
So I never talk. I close myself off.
I guess that’s why I don’t have any friends.

When I share my writing, I’m scared.
What if it’s garbage?
That’s why I don’t share it. Nobody will like it anyway.
When I share for feedback, all I get is the same thing:
“I like it.”
…But what did you like about it? It’s so unclear.
That’s why I don’t improve. What am I supposed to improve on if I don’t know?

Judgment is terrifying to me.
How can anyone do all these things without fear?
Giving presentations, standing in front of crowds…
It just makes me all sweaty. My heart palpitates.
How is so easy for everyone else to get themselves out there?
…Maybe, it isn’t Maybe everyone else is just as scared as I am.
Or maybe, they just do things, not caring at all about what anyone says.

I think I should do that too.
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