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The trembling hands
When you look at the blank pages
Minds wandering for inspiration
Wary of touching the pristine
Ink raging, bubbling with passion
When the pen shall write
The first words, and then another
Minds afresh, it’s a new day
Pen, held between the twirling fingers
Wondering, what a circus
Reeling under as many ideas
Poet’s mind is on a roller coaster ride
So many facets of life
Reflections of each and every event
On the agile mind, wreaks havoc
Ideas, ideas, and ideas
Hoping the ink shall flow as fluently
Not leaving a blotch
But, series of beautiful interpretations
Of life, there are many
As many we choose to portray
Finally, the pen shall kiss the paper
Continuing the love story
It’s a trilogy, of the poet, pen and paper
 Jan 2015 Rachel Lyle
Poetic T
If poems were but manifestations
Of the same tune,
Never changing,
Words would be bland shadows.
We must escape our bonds
And try shades that are different,
So not to be a sheep in a pack of wolfs..
???? don't ask tell me what this reads to you..
I'll sing of all the ways I miss you
and how this sorrow came to be
the verses, lies I should have whispered
the chorus, truths in harmony.

The melody will break the silence
and call your broken heart to me
to be repaired by love unyielding
to broken hymns in minor key.
Depression lies and makes us push those we love most away, sometimes so far away that they can never return.
 Jan 2015 Rachel Lyle
Molly
Every human walks around with a certain kind of sadness
stitched into the tag in the neck of their coat.
They carry it like a wallet weathered from use
and old gift cards in the pocket poke at the seams.
They keep it tucked away like a pressed flower
in between the pages of their favorite novel
and find it while they're thumbing through
for that line about love that they have forgotten.
They leave it in the bottom of their shoe
and let it poke at their soles when they walk,
and, becoming accustomed to it,
no longer feel it at all.
My words
Convey
Deepest feelings
From the soul
Revived
With every drop
Of ink
Bridged
Is the chasm
Between me
and blank pages
Crossing over
To dwell
Among the lines
Betwixt
Are the meanings
as a child
no one ever could believe my favorite color
could
be
light.
to be precise
the morning light on a cloudy day
the deep light dove gray
of the sun behind the clouds
yellow, they could believe
gold,
they loved the sheen
but not gray.
gray was plain boring,
simply too gray
I was told to pick another
pick another?
was it so preposterous that
I loved the color that
was to oft left behind?
they told me to be a normal child
and enjoy the random reds
the mediocre blues
the grassy greens
but it will always be that light
shade
of
gray
for me.
hiccups are such a silly sound
a stomach tumbling bumbling sound
a sound full of childhood
and wistful memories
they tell the story of days gone by
of teddy bears and cookie crumbs
when it was just you and I
but now the crayons washed off the walls, the toys put away,
the lullabies sung
but we all still have hiccups
the hic hic of hap
hic
iness
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