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  Oct 19 Emma
Chelsea Rae
Every day feels like another nail in the coffin lid
but almost like it doesn't have any point anymore.

There's no use in continuing to hammer it in
When I'm not dying fast enough.

I waste away slowly inside,
Chipping pieces away from my soul.

Such boring existence.
Repetitive and old.
Patterns that remain the same.
Around and around we go.
Emma Jun 20
When the thinking ends
You can feel the wind
Brush against your feet
You can see the rain
Dripping from the apple tree
Its branches shaking outside the window
Emma Jun 9
I remember now
The nights we walked drunk
On the road to Lewis' from the pub
As moonlight froze our skin
The wind instilled us with Irishness
Golden puddles pooled by the curb

Balancing on the pavement's edge
Swaying in the winter air
Sometimes she was there
Skipping to keep up
Shooting me in the heart unknowingly

Until we stumbled blindly in
Through the door to the cinema room
Smoking and finally falling into sleep
On the grey sofa
Where so much happened
And never happened again
  Jul 2019 Emma
beth fwoah dream boleyn
the stream is a breeze of
blue stars, layered in sweet
melancholy, layered in
sadness and love.

the world revolves like
a wheel, burgeons like
a flower, weeps like a
sorrowful cloud.

i yearn for you, down
misty lanes and dreams of
dark seas, fall until
i can no longer fall,

fall until our love blossoms
and our hearts cry out.
i'm sorry if i have not returned a comment it is really down to time and trying to find the right balance in my life between poetry and loved ones.
  Mar 2019 Emma
Patrick Kavanagh
O stony grey soil of Monaghan

The laugh from my love you thieved;

You took the gay child of my passion

And gave me your clod-conceived.



You clogged the feet of my boyhood

And I believed that my stumble

Had the poise and stride of Apollo

And his voice my thick tongued mumble.



You told me the plough was immortal!

O green-life conquering plough!

The mandril stained, your coulter blunted

In the smooth lea-field of my brow.



You sang on steaming dunghills

A song of cowards' brood,

You perfumed my clothes with weasel itch,

You fed me on swinish food



You flung a ditch on my vision

Of beauty, love and truth.

O stony grey soil of Monaghan

You burgled my bank of youth!



Lost the long hours of pleasure

All the women that love young men.

O can I stilll stroke the monster's back

Or write with unpoisoned pen.



His name in these lonely verses

Or mention the dark fields where

The first gay flight of my lyric

Got caught in a peasant's prayer.



Mullahinsa, Drummeril, Black Shanco-

Wherever I turn I see

In the stony grey soil of Monaghan

Dead loves that were born for me.
  Jan 2019 Emma
Maya Angelou
They have spent their
content of simpering,
holding their lips this
and that way, winding
the lines between
their brows. Old folks
allow their bellies to jiggle like slow
tamborines.
The hollers
rise up and spill
over any way they want.
When old folks laugh, they free the world.
They turn slowly, slyly knowing
the best and the worst
of remembering.
Saliva glistens in
the corners of their mouths,
their heads wobble
on brittle necks, but
their laps
are filled with memories.
When old folks laugh, they consider the promise
of dear painless death, and generously
forgive life for happening
to them.
Emma Aug 2018
I am hearing rain for the first time
Like soft hurried footsteps,
The sounds of mice scuttering,
The creaking of an old house.

I am crying again in the darkness
Caressing my true self,
Feeling her ****** fur
As she flinches from my careful fingers

Her eyes are endless black pools
Her thin legs are injured
Curled up, she whimpers
And cowers in pain

I get too close and she scurries away
Into a shadow,
Leaving me alone with the rain
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