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I need someone to talk to, someone to hear.
I feel alone in the world, no one is near.
Don’t let me confuse you, a body is here.
A person, a being of such; if you must say.
Not really a person to communicate.
Although we are here, we are not really there.
Two different people, two different worlds, lives lived together yet so far apart.
Sadness pours over me to see such a beautiful love start to wilt.
 May 2015 Tomas Denson
Sia Jane
A moonlit dance beneathe constellations
      not Taurus or Gemini, Delphinus or Orion
                 but stars we named together
                   linking lines from star to star
       hands pointing in air so cold
a tear falls and
                           another
  leaving a roadmap on my cheeks
            that you
                            chase
                           ­            chase
                                                  chase
   ­         lifting the palm of your hand
                 so cold to the touch I shiver
            feeling the beauty of my tears
         that glisten like Venus in the midnight sky
             of this cold Parisian night
  you smile in jest and
     I misplace the space
  between you and I and that sky
  whispering "do you love me?"
    how could I resist the beauty of
                 our second to last kiss.

© Sia Jane
 May 2015 Tomas Denson
Esther
The light bulbs burst when you walked in,

And the sparks ignited my skin.

The fire was still burning long after you were gone,

Until I was charred to the bone.

I recall how you clawed at the meat,

Right above where my heart beat.

Your red eyes glowed in glee,

Until I could no longer see,

Blinded by the one thing

That I thought only you could bring.

Then I heard the snipping,

As you cut the strings

And began humming to my screams.

A harmony of two extremes.

When the flood lights shone through,

There was no more you;

Only a permanent deformity

And ripped arteries.
one of the first poems I ever wrote about 2 years ago
 May 2015 Tomas Denson
Esther
I’ve seen too many empty words
On papers covered with text
Like rows of parallel lines and
I’m painfully waiting for them to converge.
And I wonder how you can speak with all your might
And still not be heard,
Am I simply not choosing the right words?
Maybe this rhyme wasn’t timed
Just right
For your head to ignite
With all the fury that spins inside of me
Like tornadoes of dirt in an open space
Where there is so much potential
But no one is there to observe
How I can sometimes form images
Out of reckless stanzas of
Sounds that bounce just right
In the pits of my mind.
I still twirl around in circles sometimes
Collecting debris of those
Who have been misheard and
Misinterpreted as
Deadly villains in stereotypical stories
Where their side of the story
Is simplified into scenes of disturbance.
I’ve seen too many bland sentences
In essays that we’re told to embrace,
When these chunks of information cannot hold themselves up
Without a spine of meaning and supporting points
Of relevance
And you always sit there wondering
What the hell counts as relevant?
When there are thousands of combinations
Making up thousands of words that have yet
To grace our impatience.
I am still waiting,
Knees bouncing and hands drumming
In silent lectures about everything
And sometimes I think it might amount to nothing
If I can’t make it interesting
Interesting enough for me to want to weave it into
My natural disaster of a technique
And call it a piece of myself;
A work of poetry.
 May 2015 Tomas Denson
MV Blake
There’s this tree over there
Blowing leaves in the air
And it’s roots go far underground.
Those apples so ripe,
Hold the answer to life,
They just need to bite if they dare.

So monkey one said to monkey two
Do as I say and watch as I do,
And climbed high up the tree,
Where the sky was so bright
Before God’s endless night,
And brought down an apple or two.

With a wink and a grin
He bit down in sin,
Then sat down and thought for a bit.
Monkey two did the same
And in a moment she came
As his knowledge washed down her chin.

They danced under the tree,
Unfettered and free,
And played until day turned to night.
As the sun went down low
Monkey one went to sow
His oats in the beautiful eve.

Nine months flew on by
And the monkeys did try
To build a home under the tree.
The first was born able
And they dressed him in sable
But the other used a cane to get by.

Now night came on fast,
And the monkeys at last
Left from under the care of the tree.
They walked far and wide
With nothing to hide,
No fear of a terrible past.

But then God knew their route
And remembered His fruit
That He grew from a seed on the branch.
So He sent them a curse,
With some words in verse,
That he knew that they could not refute.

Now the monkeys grew tall
And swung from trees not at all,
As they played in the ever-tall grass.
But wherever they went
God’s curse that He sent
Would follow them all to their fall.

The knowledge they gained
Was cursed to be blamed
On the wonder of God up above.
So all that they did
Was always outbid
By God and all He proclaimed.
This is my first deliberate attempt at an anti-limerick in sextet form, which subverts the traditional structure of AABBA by inserting a third line to make AABCCA with no set meter, or at least not intentionally.  I’m still learning form so apologies to purists out there.
 May 2015 Tomas Denson
Lexander J
You are the light that shines
brighter than any star,
you're a gem riddled with flaws
but that's not what makes you who you are.

You're my candle that glitters in the night -
you may not have always been there for me
but hey don't dwell on it; it really is alright.

You may be a bit big (quite a chunky monkey)
and yeah you've lost most of your hair -
but now you're here beside me
and for all your faults, I simply don't care.

For this Christmas I want to give you something special;
I wrote this poem from the bottom of my heart,
powered by that beautiful life and strength
you gave me right from the very start.

I give you something no one can ever take away;
a present that can never be touched,
never be seen, nor heard,
but can always be had -

on this fine Christmas Day,
I just wanted to say I love you Dad.
My fathers Christmas present from last year...
I tighten my lens to see her world
more clearly, tiny wild bearded iris
speaking to me in the morning breeze.

We converse in this unknown tongue
I learned on the morning path along
green hills by the sea, a sort of

way of saying things people have
forgotten. Philosophers make their
guesses, ask their fuzzy questions,

but iris will have none of that; just
posing for a day dressed in spring
best, and begs me to snap her photo

as she will soon undress, go brown,
weep in twisted forms of sorrow,
change in a way some day I'll know
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