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~

a gift as you say,
if such there be,
is only a gift
when given to thee
with no strings attached,
and truly is free.
yet...
mine come the hard way,
no, my poems aren't free,
for it is no gift
when the "talent" you see,
though the writ and the wit
flow with ease, admittedly;
no, my poems are cunning,
they act like they're free,
yet in truth they are cruel
for my poems own me!

~

*post script.

written in response to a friend's words, " you have a gift", to which i can only say, "ha!"  and to my fellow poets, you know who owns who; for if yours are like mine, they tumble around in phrases in the night, leaving you restless and wanting, til you rise and extract them onto paper, and ONLY then will they leave you alone!"

i think fellow poet Joe Cole has perfectly captured what i have wanted to articulate  in these words to me:  "The gift is in the mind, the use of words are the ability to gain the gift."  well said, my friend!
 Sep 2015 Wade Lancaster
Andra
i never would've thought that seeing again those eyes that
i already
adore,
the heart would weep a little
and would languish,
and the stomach would rub its walls stressed that
the hands were shaking too.

there. thats how everything fleed inside my body,
like there's a competition between organs:
which one will break down first.
the lungs, they can not breathe anymore,
the brain, going into "freeze" mode,
the legs, suddenly not having any bones,
but a sort of gelatine that rather flows,
and flows,
and these eyes that want to wash my cheeks,
my sins.

*I think,
still,
that mum was right
when she said
that love is nothing but
chemistry and hormones...
 Sep 2015 Wade Lancaster
Andra
Today. I give up.*

I got up to you,
I climbed
all the stairs of the seven storeys, until
I got there, where
I forsook
the costume and the mask,
the desire and the expectancy.
I left them all neatly folded at the door.
You will find them in the morning when
you will wake up and
you will leave sleepy for the office.
You probably won't put them into consideration.
You'll step over "i miss you",
over "i'd love to",
and you''ll hit the little"why" in its belly while
he slowly pulls your sleeve.
Don't worry,
I am better now.
I forgot about the dimples and the mole.
How does your voice sound?
Your eyes... are they green or brown?
That yellow t-shirt,
that plaid shirt...
I do not even care if
you will see the pile
waiting for you outside the door.
It's not like
you have not seen
my backpack every time
we met...

Today I give up.

Because
I am not made of concrete,
and that's how the breeze that
you carry with you
always
unbalances
me.
Because
I really know how to ride a bike and
I do not need training wheels.
Because
I am not afraid.
Because
I have courage.
And especially,
because
I have nothing to do here.
It's empty and deserted.
It's nothing.

*Today I quit.
the ghost of the moon,
a sky of dark oaks,
its blacks deep cauldrons
breaking like twigs underfoot
its blacks tragic horizons
where the clouds stretch and dissolve.
a fiery heart,
the beating sun,
summer’s ghosts burning
and a lonely petal falls from the rose.
 Sep 2015 Wade Lancaster
Traveler
Exhausting are the questions
That just cannot be known
The ceiling of thinking
Is far below the soul

Yet wash it all over me
The legends and the myths
The folklore of my ancestors
The euphoric magical gifts

The goddesses
Who restore balance
The gods
Who direct our flights
My atheist heart can't dismisse
Such possibilities
At the end of life...
Why die a thousand death everyday
when you've the option to choose the easy way
of dying the one death faster and supreme
slipping into a blissful sleep sans the bother of dream..


Her voice tried to be uttered from mouth horribly agape
but words had sunk too distant to take anymore shape
the horror shadowed her eyes like when death is too close
mocked by his hand's syringe now emptied of overdose!

He smiled to have accomplished for a cause another ****
help a life escape the pain of a grinding mill
by being a stoic missionary out to achieve a goal
decreed by heaven's will to cure a tortured soul.

He would now record his notes on her physical state
the stage had reached terminal death was natural fate
so her people would be convinced to bury her peacefully
and not approach a coroner to perform autopsy.
Harold Shipman (1946-2004), the doctor who murdered more than 200 of his patients.
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