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Iska Nov 2017
tis a sad day indeed when family turns to strangers.
when you look into the face that you have loved for years
and only see uncertainty and distance.
you know what I'm talking about....
when you dress up for their visits.
and worry what they think.
where stiff conversations
and insincere smiles dwell.

what happened?

I cannot remember a time with out you...
yet I find my self unsure as to how to spell your name.
I cannot remember our last laugh.
not these pretentious giggles
but cheek burning, tummy clutching, eyes tearing laughter.
I cant clearly see your face. hear your voice.
I cant remember your catch phrases. your jokes.

What happened?

I know not your friends, nor where you sleep at night.
what has caused this heart wrenching chasm to form?
I have loved you!
Where are you?
I have fought, kicked and screamed with and for you,
who do you fight for now?
What severed these bonds we swore would never brake?

What happened?

was it me?
was I not there?
did I send you away?
Oh the heart breaking pain...
I would do anything for you,
even now,
although I know not the person you have become.
I would die for you.
and I do... a little more each day.
would you do the same?

What happened?

why did you leave me?
I am your sister, your blood,
yet you are no where in sight.
I miss you..... oh God I miss you.

What happened?

tell me and i will fix it.
I swear i will,
because, dear sister i miss you
so much that  it hurts.
I wake up at night
and I wounder, are you still alive?
If so then why do i feel so empty.

tis a sad day when your name falls from my lips
and sounds clumsy. as if it didn't belong.
I miss you...
What happened to you?
to our bond?
was it I who did you wrong?
Im sorry i Let you go...
and you will never know
  Nov 2017 Iska
bluevelvet
My father kept a rose in his bible
To symbolize him and my mother
I remmeber when he pulled it out
When I was little at churce,
I asked him what it was and
I forgot the whole story but I remember
It involved him and my mother
I can still smell the aftertones of rose
But it was brown and decade,
Withered from years of protection
Between pages as a bookmark
I realized I am the same for the ones I loved,
As little to none would admit it
I am that rose,
I am the withered bookmark you keep
I am the reminder of when you were human,
When you first started,
When you thought you knew everything,
When the simple things were enough.
I am the reminder of who you are.
I don't have a bible filled with bookmarks
I have a body colored with the reminder that
I am in fact human.
I will continue to add to it until I decide,
When I meet the one.
I will no longer need to print myself with bookmarks
But rather take photographs with my eyes
And feel with my hands and lips.
Taste and feel and experience why
Those other bookmarks are not here
But a reminder of how far I have come
  Nov 2017 Iska
r
Silence
is sound
that comes between
sounds

It moves
upon the waters
between the waves
and is good

Do you hear it?
Iska Nov 2017
My dear,
they say that a poem is a work of art.
they say that It is emotion,
pouring from your bleeding heart.
and I find that to be quite true,
but not every emotion is happiness anew.
the sadness the anger and pain and fear,
they each have a place to reside in here.
for such raw emotion does set the tide
for the torrent of words
that in a poem, does reside.
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