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 Sep 2019 Grace E
Jeff Lewis
These days I dredge the past
                 for the kind of  pain
                      that used to drive
                        my words. Heartache
                 was the fuel of poetry
            and I drove those lines
                                  like a madman.
But, now that tank runs dry,
          which, I guess, is a good
                                  thing really.
Now lucky in love, but wasn't always. So why does it seem so much easier to write good poetry from the bad sh^t that plagues us than to record the good that happens?
 Sep 2019 Grace E
Elizabeth
The sun light shining through my window but only enough to welcome me to the day. The birds are chirping only waiting for me to rise from my bed, stretch, and meditate for a minute or two. The wafting smell of coffee beans and oatmeal fill my senses as I stroll into the kitchen, but half asleep. The blue sky or maybe grey will greet me as I slide the window open to great the morning air, one with the residue of last nights rain. The morning walkers quickly walk past my window only having a conversation of their own with a friend or a lover. The 5 am shift started and the 6 am is soon to be, the cars cruising past. The children at play before breakfast is served, sidewalk chalk and a box of matchsticks, mom said never to play with. The day looks inviting, may I join?
Kids at play with matchsticks and chalk
 Sep 2019 Grace E
Alice
It's just that
i'd like someone to
write for me
just once
i'd like to be the object of affection
i'd like for someone to find
that beauty my mother keeps telling me
i have inside
i'm not complaining
but you see
i'd just like to be the
poem
and not the poet
for once
 Sep 2019 Grace E
Styles
Pain.
 Sep 2019 Grace E
Styles
Sometimes people hurt you;
They don’t mean to,
They don’t intend to,
They just do.
 Sep 2019 Grace E
Poetress2
Freshly falling Snow,
blakets the landscape with white,
a sledders' dream.
 Sep 2019 Grace E
inreticence
Mercy
 Sep 2019 Grace E
inreticence
You make me
both the happiest,
and the loneliest
person alive.
And that
is a terrifying power
to wield.
Life would
be quite
worthless and short
If this is
the only
dear life
we
have.
Great
plans just
death can abort
to be
useless
once you
met
your grave.
As for
those who
die young,
in
childhood's
tender
ages
How short
and
incomplete
life
would be
How
unfair and
unlucky if
death's
the end
for them
Besides
life to the
fullest is
eternity.
What
about
those who
born
and die
poor
or those
born deaf, blind or lame
What if
they were
so
doomed
without
any cure
How
unlucky if
resurrection never came!
But a
belief that
there's a
life
after this
could be
of great
consolation and solace
especially
to the
poor
handicapped,
the
shortlived
that they
could
make it up
under heaven's grace!
For the
good one
who is born blind,
In heaven
shall he in
brighter
vision see
And the
goodly
one yet
who
has lost his mind
will in the
afterlife
be as sane
as could be.

The deaf
man with
his balance
of pious
acts
Only the
hereafter
would
compensate
what he
lacks
And that
godly one
born poor
and who
dies poor
could be
of the
richest at
heaven's
door.

In this life
those
who've
been
saintly yet
unable to talk
could
cheer up
to believe
what
heaven
has in stock
For this
world can
be misery,
Heaven's
the place to rock
In this
world at
times
you've
to let
the hawk gawk
Knowing
your
tormentor
in
heaven
shall ye mock.

Thus for a
true happy ever after
for an
abode of mirth and laughter
Work towards thy hereafter
A divine place devoid of disaster!
O' God therefore after my death and demise
Do place me in a peaceful palatial paradise.
Profile cover pic represents my Taj mahal poem
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