She had everything she
To make most men fall.
Mindless zombies,
Men like me,  so oblivious
To it all.

Smelled her cooking,
So sick and
so sweet
A poison that's all her own.
Heroin swept her off
Her feet,
Now Holly
Wants to be alone.

She slithers down my street
At night,
A needle in her hand.
One more shot and Heroin Holly
Fades to neverland...

In her dark eyes,  I see
Her past.
It's all so dark and sad.

Under her bruises,  I
Can see her light.
The only hope she
about a girl i used to know.  Sad story.
T R S 18h
Digging in my files
I found a dust pile of papers made of people
A soy based type of parchment
Printed on it said, with blood red words it read:

We came from the promised land
In the form of four stages of man.
First there was a titan
Then frightened bugs and spiders.
Lying in a layman ocean
Choking on the Stalk
The Stalk that lead to three
Third in this story
Third was just the fishes
Flying in the sky
A skyhole broke the mission
of only fish glory
To get to number four,
it's said here in the lore,
Men and rats ate feces
but was Women saw the land
Tinsel made of sand
They'd been our lookout
They looked out for our species.
What's propolis?
You asked.

I had no idea,
thinking it maybe
a form of police state
in ancient Greece
or perhaps a recent
sociological term
now utilized.

Not sure,
I said,
giving the impression
of uncertainty
not ignorance.

It's bee glue,
you said,
moving your finger
along a sentence
in a book.

Bee glue?
I replied,
I didn't know
bees made glue.

They don't make it,
you said,
turning your head
so I could see
your blue eyes,
they gather it;
it's a substance
from trees.

I liked how
your lips moved
when you spoke.

They use it as a kind
of varnish and cement,
you said.

I replied,
wishing to kiss your lips
to a silent place,
or place kisses
on each inch
of your face.
She is a shooting star,
who passes through your lifetime only once.

Love her
because once her light goes out,
you'll never see another woman;
smile, beam, or shine,
like she did,
ever again.
We don't get together not because of distance

It's because of love that plays in one side only, mine.
21/02/2018 | 23.20 | Indonesia | K.A
Would you look for
the atlantic coast
Where your dad
dropped you off
and became a ghost

Could you come and find
that tree in red
The one they found him under
with the hole in his head
Cheska 5d
A woman has a battle field within herself.
Fighting to do the right thing, avoiding men and it's pedophilia ,
declaring war over war within herself everyday.
If she bleed she is the winner.
I found
in knowing
how to love
My book Bittersweet will be out in Spring 2018
The woman in the office
sittng there
working out
the time and motion
at the factory
and I stand
at the small hatchway
with my slip of paper.

She sees me
and comes over
to the hatch.

So how long
were you on the job?
she asks.

When last night?
I say.

She blushes slightly:
no I mean the job
in the factory,
she says,
eyeing me.

I show her
the piece of paper.

She looks at it:
you haven't put
the job title at the top
nor when you finished,
she says,
what have you
been doing?


Just now
what job?

Drilling holes in poles
for camp beds,
I reply.

When did you finish?
she asks.

Just now,
I say.

I need the time from you,
she is annoyed.

Anytime is ok with me,
I say.

Time on the job,
she splutters.

I gaze at the wall clock:
5 minutes ago.

She is flustered:
when did you start?
she says.

A few months ago,
I reply.

she bellows.

I gaze at her;
her eyes are large.

I gaze at the clock
on the wall:
45 minutes ago,
I say.

She gives me
the piece of paper:
next time
write the times,
she says.

I say.

She walks back to her desk
and sits down.

I wander back
to my drilling machine
and Joyce gives me
the next job lot.

I write down the start time
and begin to drill
Getting the woman
in the office irate
gives me a thrill.
Terry Collett Feb 16
Still born,
perfect in form
right down
to the tiny fingernails
like fragile shells;
the eyelids smooth
as silk,
closed never to open.

Your husband in the army,
and could have obtained leave,
but declined,
the work too important
to take leave,
he wrote,
just when you needed him
you were left alone,
alone with the still born baby
in your arms
for the last time.

You hold it against you,
hoping it would open its eyes
and prove them wrong,
that it would latched
on to your dugs
and suck into life.

But no,
it just lay in your arms,
wrapped in a white shawl
or shroud, unsucking,
unmoving, unaware
that you gaze at it,
hold it,
kissing the white forehead,
stroking a finger
through the fine
dark curls.

They will be back soon
to take baby away,
to place some place,
later to cremate
and permit you
the ashes to intern.

He wrote,
sending worded condolences,
but not himself,
not in being there,
as if, as if,
he didn't care.
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