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I ate hot meals,
I brushed my teeth day and night,
I spent long hours on the mobile
with friends,
I wore well laundered clothings,
Not a single crease or a stain on them,
Before motherhood.
My home was ***** and span,
No stumbling on scattered toys,
No ***** window panes,
No tiny hands holding my skirts,
No one  eagerly waiting for me on the doorsteps,
No spits,pukes, pees or poos to clean,
No teared  eyes to wipe,
No tiny bundle to hold in my arms,
Getting love,warmth and satisfaction in return,
Before motherhood.
I was in control of myself,
Of my mind and thoughts,
Caretaker of my own body,
Spending hours to enhance my beauty,
To maintain grace and elegance,
Before motherhood.
Now I am a mum,
I don't mind if my hair is disheveled,
My house is a bit messy,
I am exhausted,
For the reward of a hug, a kiss
and those endearing words,"I
love you mum,you are the bestest." completes me.
Casting spells
ringing church bells
boots of leather
& diamond shells
gypsy child
running wild
ethereal whispers
****** blisters
on  feet
that
wander
far &
deep
Logan Robertson Dec 2018
On This Christmas Day With Trump

There's an odd Santa Claus
In the air
Riding and laughing
Atop Trump's hair
Even through the fluff
Blinded by the glare
Reindeer pulling gifts of prayer
Through the roots they go
Low lights here and there
Laughing in despair
** what sadness  it is to stare
On a one,
****
White Horse open
Night mare
**, **, **
Ploop
Open open mouths  a sneer
Tounges at war appear
Whispers everywhere
Laughing in despair
Hats off
We spare
To the red suited fare
Abound
And confound
To Trump's
Wishy washy care
Waiting in repair
**, **, **
Santa,
My good man,
We have clause
To tear
You're in a mess
To bare
For humbug in Trump
So held in arrear
We're crying in despair


Logan Robertson

12/06/2018
This was all in fun. Maybe. When Santa's reindeer return home their coats are due for a cleaning. I, mean, after all look what they have been through. The American people, too, need a spiritual cleansing when the next election takes place.
  Dec 2018 Logan Robertson
Loser
I'm writing to you from a cave on the bottom of the ocean floor

chained down by my stress and shackled by my fear,

i'm dreaming to pass time, i'm dreaming to see you

and i'm starting to forget the color of your eyes.

I've written you my letters, but kept them in a box,

for only my eyes to see, in fear of you knowing how I feel.

I know you don't want to talk to me, you live upon  the shore,

your feet dance free, not shackled to the floor.

This is letter number 15 from a boy with too many fears,

this is letter number 15, trapped in a box for ten thousand years
Logan Robertson Dec 2018
As the moon and stars teeter
Totter  became deeply sweeter

Logan Robertson

12/05/2018
Those Story Book Memories (10 words)

A cliff hanger held the air
On that maiden voyage
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