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Hope —
Is like fire in the frozen days,
Water in the drought,
And joy in the brokenness
Of life —
a storm in stilettos.
her eyes once burned as brightly
as the neon signs above
shuttered stores.

night is standing in front of Walmart
selling dead flowers.
there are 2 young children with her.
the children are her sister's kids.

(the children are an asset
when you're trying to sell dead roses.)

night has a soul with no address
somewhere in the concrete prison.

she lives with the echo
of every fool
cradling their broken promises
cupped like the wilted roses
held in her hands.

she dances with shadows
and the night bends through her.

the silent witness to the center unraveling.
You'll know life is moving on,
When you find all the pictures with her,
You forgot where there,

And delete them for storge space.
You know you're better when you feel it.
Growling
In
Crowd
Means
Elite
Crawling
In
Crowd
Means
Dregs
              - Amisha priya
You want me
To do this
You want me
To do that
Clean the car
Feed the cat.
You put stickers
On the fridge door
Like do the washing up
And clean the floor.
I got to put the bins out
On a certain day
I work twenty four seven
And you want all my pay.
This is not fair
l do love you
But a one sided arrangement
Just will not do
You can keep the cat
And the house too
Im out of here
Can’t live life like
this Im totally through.
Ordinary people
are wonderful—
in that
lies their glory.

Peace is a treasure
that money
cannot buy.
Farewell  - Do not weep
my presence has not left you
I will still be there
In the still churchyard,
a blood-red blossom—
April morning.
For eyes of iron
Hearts of ice
Fingers of lead
Children in the trash

For kindness
Goodwill
Goodness
Love

For bullet holes
Burglars
Taggers
Brawlers

For the courageous
The peacemakers
The volunteers
The helpful

A rainbow in the sky
Beneath it live people
Like you and me
So alike — or not?
People
I have a pen and it doesn't write very well.
It doesn't capture all the things I wanna tell.
Whenever I want to write about my happiness in words.
I end up writing about all of my misery that occurs.
Whenever I am sad and want to rant about my feeling.
It reminds me of a time where I would find this situation healing.
Even though it doesn't write well.
Nor capture the things I wanna tell.
I still use it to write.
It's like a bumpy road that leads to a beautiful sight.
It doesn't have a mouth nor a ear.
But it still expresses my thoughts like it could hear.
It always write about me not someone else.
It's surprising how it can know me better then myself.
The pen that I have might not write very well.
But it still expresses all the emotions that I wanna tell
Part 1
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