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"What is there to gain,
From enjoying the rain?
Is it hearing the raindrops
Pitter patter on the treetops?
Is it seeing the drenched bunny,
Scurrying home to his honey?
Or is it hearing the birds chatter away,
As if they are ready to play?
It could be the rumbling thunder
that scares some and others wonder?
Or is it the flashing lightening,
A brilliant display but rather frightening?
It could be relaxing or soothing,
A perfect time to do some snoozing,
But after a long day,
in the rainy month of May,
A good book and a cup of tea
is all that I need,
and after a while,
I might look up and smile."
what do you mean that the universe is still growing?
what do you mean that we're just a small speck on this great universe where,
in the end,
don't know if we're real or not?
you feel real,
i feel real,
our love feels real,
but is it?
nights and classes wasted reading story upon story of those who kissed death.
what do you mean you don't think anything happens in the afterlife?
when i leave, will you look at butterflies and think of me?
for i too want to be remembered.
will you remember me?
I don't want you to hate me but you do
I don't want you to leave but you did
I just want what we once had
"I'm here for you and I always will be"
"I won't give up on you , because I love you."
Now it seems I'm as meaningless as the milk you pour on your cereal
What happened to laughs and camping and telling me stories?
What happened to tickling my feet to see me smile and saying one day I'll be great and find love?
I'm replaced in your heart with
"Why aren't you as good as him?" and "I hate you , I despise you."
I just want my true dad and his love...
I guess people will just have to keep labeling me with "daddy issues"
And maybe I do have them but they won't stop until he does.
This is not like my usual poem I could have rhymed but I didn't
I just needed to release some things
We, the teens of the new era,
Are quite different.
Maybe this is just self obsession,
But whatever,
I know for sure,
That this generation is
Surely different.
We are mature more than we should be
We are childish even more.
We are not sure about our next step
Neither that our life is sorted,
At least that’s how we see it.
It is indeed puzzled.
We dream so big unlike our predecessor
And then again, at the same time we
Just want to leave the battle at the age of 16.
We are so much energetic
To think of ourselves as the next Einstein
And at the same time we are as lazy as a sloth.
We like to write carelessly
Much like me
And then again we think a lot before posting it
Thinking it wouldn’t remain as beautiful
After this moment will be gone.
But then again, I know we are so lazy
to even consider the very idea of wasting our effort
that we have put into
writing the piece.
so posting this currently,
without even considering the mistakes
that would have been commited.
Without considering
the reaction of the event.
That’s exactly how we are,
Carefree.
Jolly, happy, poetic,
Philosophical moreover.
What, I know only this much that,
We surely are DIFFERENT.
we are surely differnt, kind of born philosophers:)
 May 2018 sheila sharpe
Ammar
when you love them so much
that you see the future in their eyes
and in the future you see a forever
with them

when you love them so much
that you want to drink
from their cup
so you can taste their lips

when you love them so much
that you want them
to eat before you do
because filling them fills you

when you love them so much
that every moment spent
without them
is like missing a limb

when you love them so much
that you fear
that one day you'll lose them
to fate or to life

when you love them so much
that their happiness
is the only thing
that makes you happy

when you love someone so much

how can you leave them
somewhere
in the middle of
life & death
In memory of Forrest Bird, who saved the lives of millions

A little Bird, singing all through the night
A plastic box of green mechanicals
Its soft, subtle hiss-click there breathing life
Into and through the wreckages of boys

Americans, mostly, Vietnamese
Koreans, Cambodians, Lao, Hmong
And one who might have been a Russian (shhhhh….) -
The pretty Bird sang in their languages

And when they woke, the soft song that they heard
Was whispered to them by a little green Bird
Okay, a poem about a machine is suspiciously redolent of Socialist Realism, but I’m not ready to write an ode to a tractor factory.
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