We connected...
I trusted her to see me today
It felt like I gave a piece
of my soul away
She's friendly and kind
I really like her style
I think she'll do just fine
I will work on trusting me
More now

for the record, yeah.
i’m as flat as a board
and sometimes i get breast envy

when i feel super girly
my best friend has two pillows
that i love to rest my head on

i know it’s not universal with everyone,
but i love ‘em, squeeze ‘em, slap ‘em,
feel how soft they are, kiss them

maybe i love my best friend too much but
i feel like this poem is going in a direction
i would rather us to not go in

I can feel it in the air;
Closed doors and little words spoke.
Life became a silent whisper,
Has infidelity banging on my door step
He waits for me to fall asleep, so he can smoothly slide right in.
Fornication is a misplaced sin,
When it comes to marriage.
Love is the worst weapon to use
I knew I was being used...
God have mercy on our home!
It's once beautiful face
Has now so many scars...
I told her,
Till' death do us part.


©MH

It arrives,
Unnoticed, unannounced.

Quiet,
At first.

Slow,
Seeping, dripping.

I put it down to a few stressful weeks.
I carry on.

It unpacks,
Worries, anxieties.

Gently,
For now,

Tiptoes,
Whispers, creaks.

‘It will leave soon’ I think ‘It always does.’
I keep going.

It settles in,
Getting comfortable.

Getting louder,
And louder.

Banging thoughts,
Insomnia.

‘Please don’t be happening again’.
I shuffle along my daily routine.

Claws in,
Insidious.

Screaming,
24/7.

Shame, worthlessness,
Hurt.

‘Please go away’.
I’m barely coping.

Growing roots,
Into my brain and heart.

Blossoming pain,
With every beat.

Emptiness, loneliness,
Abandonment.

Silence, Stillness,
‘I can’t move, I can’t cope.’

Autumn by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
   Close *****-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
      For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
   Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
      Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
   Steady thy laden head across a brook;
   Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
      Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
   And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
   Among the river sallows, borne aloft
      Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
   The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.