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Paul Hansford Jul 2016
Over the years, I taught so many classes
in many different schools,
long-term or short.
Hundreds and hundreds of  students,
all ages, three to eighteen years old.

But how could I remember all of them?
I was the teacher; they were there to learn.
Those were our roles; that was the contract.
They would move up and I move on, for all of us
always a new beginning.
                                           But now and then
one will return to haunt me, like the girl
whose secret tiny friend, Little Mister Hansford,
drove a red plastic car.
I keep it now, in my drawer,
and remember.

The boy, his skin
flaking and cracked with eczema, trying to resist
the urge to scratch, but always failing.
How could he bear to wake each day to face that life?
Yet I was proud he claimed me for his brother;

On a school exchange visit,
another girl, seventeen,  
crossing the Alps in a coach,
moved beyond tears
by her first sight of real mountains.

Do they remember?
Maybe they do. A young man I met by chance
one day on a Spanish street
surprised me by recalling
how I read Winnie-the-Pooh when he was small,
and did the animals in different voices.

So many children, so many years have gone,
but memories, like love, can linger on.
"He do the police in different voices" was the original title of T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land".
Ruby Payberg Nov 2018
I know a butterfly with broken wings
He’s made of smiles and light
Oh, he loves it when I sing
I’ve seen it make him cry

He said he found a way to fly
Even with that broken wing
I told him I’d never seen flight
Quite as beautiful as his
He claims that he can fly
But cannot move his wings
He only rides the breeze
I fear the wind will leave
Cathyy Jan 2016
Libras love hard..
Oh you know us Libras love hard sometimes.. And we are quite sensual,
artistic, sentimental..

Just let this time heal,
Let 2016 fix your heart
Oh I know its hard sometimes
But you deserve more days out of the dark..

We started a friendship through a group chat
This time last year who could've ever imagined that?
Well since then; we've been tipsy in a park and in a *** club
& then I crashed your bike into your skateboard..
And I don't normally sleep early or take photos with people, but now I do

So I want to thank you,
For all the impact you've had
'Hope I made you feel the same, too
You've seen me cry when I'm sad
And laugh with all my heart, you..
Always make it hard for me to stay mad..
Whenever you look at me like that

And when you've hurt me, thats okay baby; you could've done worse things..
Just make up for that, by holding me
Until I stop hurting..
And never, let this connection go
I'll wait for you to move on

Oh on every Sunday..
Whether i'm uploading on Youtube or singing on the pavement;
I will remember turnpike lane station,
And to be honest i just used that because it kinda rhymed (****)
As cheesy and dramatic as i may be
I'll always remain by your side.
Mystic Ink Plus Oct 2018
Once in the blue moon
What if, you can rewrite the history?
He asked

For sure
I'll turn it into a fairy tale
She replied
Genre: Observational
Theme: Soft words, history without blood shed
XyL0S Dec 2018
It was so much easier
When I just
wanted it all.
It doesn't seem worth it anymore
Kail Jun 2018
I’m caught up in a cacophony
a mix of jarring noises sounding all at once
Your voice drowned out by hateful screams
reminding me of choices that make me
forget that You ever loved me

I wring my hands tight
with every single fight
that I watch myself lose again
and again
and again
and again
and my sin whispers words that
fall like anvils dropped from
the empire state building
and that cacophony gets that much louder.

And I come to find I certainly lack the power
to do anything that seems even of the slightest worth
to me, to you, to everyone that I threw away
because those anvils that hit me yesterday
hit me just a little too hard and
I don't want to get hit again because
I just might die next time.

My memory offers me nothing but unrest as my
conscience is put to the
test that I keep forgetting that I’m supposed to study for
and it's easy to blame it on the dog because it ate my textbook
or at least I say that because I don't want to look
at the words of life that I come to find only condemn me
for all the things I know I was supposed to do right the first time.

Because at first I think I knew
that You were the only one who was worth it
worth all my devotion and energy
and at one point I think I was blissfully caught up
in what sounded like a symphony
that in spite of the giant mess that was my life the Creator of the universe was somehow madly in love with me.

But now all I seem to do
is wonder why I can't hear the melody
only ever feeling guilty
that the grand staff where you wrote that symphony
strikes nerves instead of chords
leaving me feeling depressed, broken and even bored
and instead of a song I see an impossible score
that I'm sure I could never perform
well enough to feel like I was worthy of Your love.

But the person you sang to back then
I'm pretty sure he hated you
deeply longing for his sin
that he was head-over-heels for
a nightmare he said was his best friend.
And Lord I wish I could say all of this in the past tense
But my pretense can only go so far
you have scars for things I did today on your hands and feet!
And the noise of this reality hits me so hard that I can hardly breathe
Let alone begin to see that you never stopped playing the symphony.

Instead of striking me dead where I stand
and pouring out all the wrath you can
It makes so much more sense
That you should take my life
to make me pay the ultimate price
Jesus, You never did anything wrong
It should have been me, but in that song...

The lyric rings “Jesus paid it all.”

Oh Lord, how I long
that the cacophony
be drowned out by Your symphony
that I would hear every curse
Reorchestrated instead to sing of mercy
That every anvil that falls
in a hope to fell me
would be cast into the infinite sea
of grace where my body was buried
and it was!

The old me is dead and done
Yesterday is a memory and no longer
what I'm doomed to become
because the price You paid

I confess, God, it's enough.
Rewrite of an earlier piece. Tried to be a little more honest.
Jolan Lade May 2018
One night walking on the sidewalk
Head directed towards the phone, not the mood for talk
Bumped into a lamppost
Noticed it shined more light on my path than most
Said hello and moved on, at the moment I didn’t realize
The light could repel evil lies and equalise, keep me alive and provide key allies
Should have stayed in the light
Then battling the dark would have been a, somewhat fair fight.
Just the surrounding darkness and a few lampposts, leading my way
elle jaxsun Aug 2018
my mind is in knots.

there are so many twists and turns
that I can’t seem to follow
and I’m getting frustrated.

where is the start and where is the end?
and why is it so confusing?

i can’t sit still—my legs want to get up and go
but my brain is too tired for that right now.
i stay seated and try to untangle what is
the big grey lump in my skull, trying to figure out what it’s trying to say.

but it’s illegible and i can’t,
like a foreign language I don’t recognize.

hopefully as i spill out on to what was a blank sheet of paper i can break through those knots and maybe comprehend the load of thoughts running through and around each other in the space of my body that has been assigned to them.

i only wish i knew for certain that there would finally be a break through and that i will know what I should be knowing.

gathering myself might help as I feel as if
i’m spread across a massive surface that
i can’t seem to find all the pieces of myself on.

but how can I find myself when I barely know myself?

when i find out, i’ll let you know.
This is an edited and shorter version of a very messy poem I wrote in high school. So like 8+ years ago.
RedD Sep 2018
Help me through this mess
These tangled thoughts
Black ink
On white paper
15/9/18
Zywa Dec 2018
Your house can be my house
our house, a fine house
I love you

if you do not want to be more
than I am and want to be more
than you are, not a boy

but a man who dares
to see me as Í see me
then you'll see more

of reality than you think
you see with your self-conceit
Look carefully, look better, I am

not a lesser man, I am
more than your expectations
How far do you dare?
“Rewrite the rules” is the appeal in an Always infomercial, calling up to rewrite the male rules of society

Collection “I am”
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
October 2013

for Maria and Logan...

you need two hands, one foot.
count my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...

birthdays.

point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you taste grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be taken,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if need
explanations.

none know, can provide,
still and yet, a
priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
absolution,
song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
that ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
unreasonable,
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrect
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm,
could it be
Morrow?

bath drains, rosemary and mint
odors dismissed, the  Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

didn't know
the Renaissance come
and go,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
Notes: my birthday was a few weeks ago. One of a number poems I've written about birthdays.  This one was modified, but only slightly for Maria and Logan.
Alpha.
Dopamine Hit For The Data-Addict

Beta.
Conscious Experience

Gamma.
Being Is A Category

Delta.
The Existential Is Ours To Warp As We See Fit

Epsilon.
This Iris Brimming With Choice Or Judgement

Zeta.
Dialectics Of Thought

Eta.
Rapturous Olympus

[Heta].
Exile Vilify

Theta.
Sublime/Oblivious

Iota.
Romantic ******'s American Dream

[Kappa].
Devise Your Own Philosophy

Lambda.
Wake Up "Mr. Freeman"

Mu.
Recurring (Socratic) Anachronism

Nu.
History Is Written, Rewrite Politics

Omicron.
Zero-Summing

Pi.
Listen To The Moon

[Qoppa].
How Many Dimensions

Rho.
Be The Compassionate Arbiter

Sigma.
Humanity Is A Joint Effort,
Mastery Is A Sole Exploit

Tau.
Some Sick Fiend

Upsilon.
Welcome To Wonderland

Phi.
Philosophy At A Rave

Digamma.
Thus "The Symbionts Were Born"

Chi.
Found In A Maze Of Spring Empathy

Psi.
Pharmahuasca Maelstrom Drank The Earth

Omega.
Ion Chaser Ate A Hurricane
{[Greek-Alphabet](Definite)}
Now bold to keep hold
of child idle wishes,
when in all a boy's life
the bliss is true with kisses.
Verbose promises mostly misses.
&
What is corporeal is made real
in beloved eyes' appeal
yet just one is giving real deepnesses,
heaven half realized in their weaknesses.
&
A young sunken heart congeals.
Framed in little honest pictorial pieces.


(Can you see the furrowed brow
Consternation crinkles his babyface)
&
No kisses but fish lips in wallet sized b&w
No love lost boys of Indian summer nights
I see with my mind the questions wade
Discovery of Why oh why
“Kawawa mo” sadly see it on his face.
&
In wallet sized black and white, kids in
Photo booth time machine, young trysts
Proof of life, fake smiles in matte finish
Click click flash, wishful first kiss missed.
sara Jun 2018
I'm anti-attachment
and I cant help that
I'm a hardback book bound tight-
Always on the rewrite
every word placed right
because it's so important;
that you read me right;
that you see things right;
undress your mind for me
under the right light
because
God above
I don't want tears tonight
if I tell you it's not serious
or when I make you work or wait
it's obviously worth the work
and even more than worth your wait.
I don't like games
I play it straight;
you're either with it
or you ain't.
So if you do not like the blurb
don't bother reading my first page.
something other than love poetry for the lady in the back please
Chicken Aug 2018
So you sold your soul
Became a puppet on a string
All you saw was the money
They talked you around
****** you in

Paparazzi haters
Rewrite your reality
And it’s all just for you baby,
There’s more to come, just wait and see

Cause you sold your soul
Sold your dream to set em free
They poke you with a stick
They watch you perform
Rich mans commodity.
None of this **** exists... unless you believe in it.
Andrew Jul 2017
The evolution of art never halts
Once we began dancing around fire
Our feet couldn't stop
A place in our lives
Where our subpar seeds
Could be seen as glowing trees
That's the way I feel about my poetry
It reminds me a lot of me
I reread it and rewrite it so often
By the end it seems unoriginal and plain
And all I can hope
Is the themes and ideas that were the inspirational genesis
Remain intact

Art walks a tightrope over the most unpredictable factor
The audience
They are the other half of art
Their power cannot be overstated
And as time progresses
Their power grows
And the importance of art always extends an equal distance
But the stronger art becomes
The more it asks of it's audience
In many cases
The audience is not ready to take the call
This is one of those times
Here at the current pinnacle of art
Surfing the web
A wonderful chance as
Art is a reflection of people and society
The Internet is people and society
But just as we listen to songs
To decide what concert to go to
Or watch trailers
To decide what movie to see
We like what we like
And put blinders on to find it
Like moths to fire

We could do amazing things
If we could harness the potential
Of our collective conscious
But the threat of losing our individuality
Is too great for us
Unable to accept
Our individuality is always in the context of our cosmic existence
We are part of something greater
And we can't escape that
Even in death
We feed what lies beneath
The memory of our lives
Shrinks to obscurity
The maggots that cover our corpses
Flourish to maturity
Everything this world creates is art
And we are it's most complex creation
Not necessarily the best
We just have the most parts
And the maggots that use our dead bodies for sustenance
Were once the monsters that roamed this Earth
They had no nationality
Or political affiliations
Or religion
And they're still here
Waiting to reclaim their throne
Once "smarter" species seek suicide
L B Dec 2017
from a dream*

...My student's name is Ari
and he's dying...

“No serious talk today!” he warns
He wants to laugh –
and so we do

He wants the Patriarchs and Prophets
on this tropical island
He names them doing something funny
and I pick up where he leaves off--
with the second line:

      “Elijah, with his ravens on a blow-up raft...”
     “...Ascends with ham sandwich, sipping wine!”

    “Jeremiah throwing mud *****...”
    “...at Zedekiah's white garage!”

We rewrite the Old Testament
laughing till we cry

“Now that's what I'm talkin' about!”
He's pumped
and kicks that rebel trashcan 'cross the room
...and suddenly shouts out--

“For everything there is a season...!”

I do not finish this one....

“I'll tell Solomon you said Hi”
____

...and in that moment half aware...

_____

I'm wearing a grass skirt
in someone else's dream

I'm on Instagram
and I don't know how I got there

I have coconut halves for my ****
but for the life of me –
can't figure
how to keep them on

So I let them sway with my grasses
to the languid freedom of marimba music
toes clutching warmth of sand
No one here to see
but Instagram?

Nagging in the background:
How did I ever get here?

Dreaming like this... right?
Thanks to Anon for the suggestion to switch the order of the two pieces to this dream.  Yes, definitely makes it more sensible.

These two different dreams just somehow blended together.

I have never been to the tropics, but it's nice to dream, seein' as how it'll be
3 degrees here tonight.  I've worked with kids and as a teacher in public schools, so I guess that's where the rest comes from--that, and I've read the Old Testament.
chichee Mar 22
You'll always be my favorite kind of film. The sitcom without the laugh tracks or a romance without the actors. The kind of irony so good it hurts. Pining for you to vivisecting you against the metal of a surgical table, because maybe if I cracked open that soft, stupid flesh I'd finally be able to understand why. How you unspool me, all these years between us but you're still the only boy that's ever made me cry without hitting me first. Mum says she liked me better before I got off the pills. Honestly, I only cut them up once they're dead mother, we all need our hobbies.  I used to rewrite scene after scene of the woulda-coulda-shoulda's of our script and hide them from you. I used to be a lot of things. Don't we all miss me on pills.
It's been a while.
acacia Jul 16
My tears boil in a kettle over the stovetop, and it whistles
but I don't move for
I am in my own dreamland, it is safe here

In a world of my own I won't have to cry
about not being enough, about not having enough
In my land there won't be any competition,
all of the races will already be finished
My heart will be so big it covers me from head to toe;
every perimeter I walk on I will pump blood into the dirt of the gnolls and dales, nutrition and vitamins fed to every inanimate and animate thing: there is no distinction in my world

I want to be blind to the outisde world,
my eyes shrouded with shimmers and mink fur
I want cherry blossoms to cover each apple on my body,
marigolds shielding my honeydews and my backside
So that when I wake up in my bed huddled in blankets,
warm skin against fresh sea-shelled shell sheets, I can
shower in rain every single morning, bathe in the clearest
puddles every single night

For skin I'd have pink, violet, and (my favorite shade of) blue petals,
for eyes I'd have the smoothest pebbles
My hair would be cascading billowing streams of blue sky
I'd sew grass blades into lingerie, I'd take the Moon and crush her into gemstones
All in this world of my own

I can have wings for swimming
I can have flippers instead of feet
I can have a tail for flying
All in this world of my own

In my dreamland where it's safe:
I'm being hugged by the clouds
I'm dressed in a sweater stitched with the threads of Our dreams,
shoes made of puddles of tears from the lazy yawn instead of pain from my heart;
my heart can be my own heart, my heart can be my heart
My heart will feel only my love and my heart will give only my love

I could freely be selfish with the birds above me,
with the bees that hover the waterbed,
with the smells that linger near me,
and the trees that grow under my feet:

I won't have to share the love around me,
I won't have to give my love that feeds me
In this world that I have created,
I will only have eyes for my world, and my world will only have eyes for me
In this world that I have created,
the world can love me and I can love it back

O, in a world of my own . . .

Though it seemed like motion-sickness, the kettle is no longer whistling and the people around me yell and ask, "What is wrong with you? Why did you leave the kettle on?"

I fly away from them, onto the punch-red sofa
I sit
O, in a world of my own . . .
I wrote the original a couple months ago but only recently rewrote it

I wrote this because we all want to be selfish sometimes. This is a result of that want, that thought to be away from everyone and selfishly have your own land only to you

in our worlds, we all can be whoever we want, do whatever we want because we are not stars, no, we are comets (gods)
Andres Martinez Jul 2018
Relive the moment
Re-read The history
Repent from the past
Reiterate the words
Rethink the logic
Remember the hardships
Restrain The inscurites
Rewrite The map
Retype the joy
Reassure the foundation
Recite the goals
Re-do the next day
kellie scranton Jul 2017
We were a strange kind
your mind ignited mine
we grew on eachother like a fertilized vine
& crashed and burned before our time

ours is a tale I long to rewrite
let ink spill out, 7 chapters in a night
regretting words I hissed in spite
forgiving ourselves for ending the fight

I'd start back before I knew your name
slip into to a less polluted time
before I cried after drinking red wine
back when our souls were intertwined

before contracts of our destiny were signed  
before my heart was forced to resign
once upon a time,
I was yours and you were mine
check out more of my poetry on Instagram @dirtyblondepoetry
Grace Jul 2018
I walk into the mirror box again and it’s as if my life
really is just an extension of my own metaphors.
I’m caught in the mirror maze, searching for something
in the mirrors at angles, but all I can see is myself,
my sad, stupid self, stretching on and on forever
with the same boring face, the same boring feelings,
again and again until I stop being able to make out the details.
Am I looking back at myself or am I looking forwards to the future?
Will it always be the same or has it merely been
the same since forever? I stare into the mirror tunnel
at all these selves repeating themselves,
forcing the years, the weeks, the days into the same strict patterns,
merely following the self that came before them, merely mirroring
the feelings, only doing it worse and worse with each new rendition.
It’s just me, I think, in the mirror box, caught up in myself
because I am selfish and horrible.
I’m selfish and horrible
and I want to turn my back on myself but
how can I possibly do that in the mirror box?
I meet myself over and over, and it’s just me,
in all this vast, repetitive vagueness, just me in
this long stretch of lonely unsettledness that surely doesn’t end.
I want to smash my own face in, so I close my eyes
and try to think, maybe, maybe, maybe, because I don’t
want to be this grey-cloud self forever. I can’t be, and so maybe,
just maybe, somewhere beyond all these selves
there’ll be a day when I’m down on the shore
and the sea will be calm and the sky will be
faded purple. Love will not sink down into nothingness
because in the cool evening air,  my heart will be full
instead of gaping and my mind will be at ease
instead dwelling on it’s own boringness
or entangling itself in own self-created sadness.
And maybe, I’ll have abandoned my book
and its pages will be dry because I won’t have been crying into it.
They’ll be no mirrors, just the ocean,
glinting like an amethyst cluster in the half light
and I’ll rest my head on the shoulder of the girlfriend
I'll meet someday and I’ll smile in this beautiful liminal moment
and nothing will be tainted by the dread of returning home.
We’ll kiss – on the shore – and rewrite it forever and
maybe the stars will fall out of the sky when I shake it and
all my trains will run on time and all the wounds
in the world will heal simultaneously.
It’s a moment surely stolen from someone else’s poetry,
but I’ve got to cling to something to avoid becoming
lost entirely in all this dark, intangible vagueness.
There’s got to be at least one imaginary moment
that isn’t just me, reflected over and over.
There’s got to be one moment that doesn’t stare
back at me from inside the mirror box.
here's another poem the same as all my others, just more mirrors and me, me, me but this time, there's some stupid, happy fantasy about a shore that will surely never happen :) might delete it, probably won't. anyway, thanks for reading - it means a lot :)
When an angel grants me my birthday wish..
I will ask to see your smile again,
Actually no,
I will ask to hear your voice again
Actually no,
I will ask a beer with you,
Hmm no,
I will ask for a walk with you,
Hmm no,
I will ask for your touch again,
Actually no,
I will ask for a date with you,
Hmm no, thats still not enough;
Actually what ever I ask for, you will still not be with me;
So I am going to ask for rewriting a moment, a moment where I let you go.
Love
Deb Jones Dec 2018
Sometimes my words tiptoe in
Hiding in the shadows
Peeking behind curtains
And under beds
Climbing under covers
I shiver

Sometimes my words
Have teeth
Biting and tearing
I struggle to contain them
Lest they offend
But usually fail

Sometimes my words
Are as my lips
Soft and tender
So ready to surrender
Sensuously sliding
Along a cheek, whispering

Sometimes my words
Are as wild as birds
Starlings dancing on the wind
Set to beautiful music
And synchronized waltzes
The beauty makes me cry

Sometimes my words
Are like a hot ball in my throat
I almost choke on them
I keep my teeth clenched
Because I can’t contain
The pain

Sometimes my words
Are in my tears
I need to share
Prepare, exposing
Realizing I am minimizing

Sometimes my words
Are in my eyes
The green facets
Like a gem, glitter
I am wild and unfocused
But once penned
I rarely rewrite
Esmena Valdés Sep 2017
I survived another day.
I will rewrite the forgotten,
before it is extinguished.
Steam in my lungs.
Carbon monoxide.
We ate honey in the morning,
to tablespoons.
We kiss without tiredness.
"Bathing together unites us," he said.
Resonant palpitations.
The guitar sounds soft.
You give me music of spirit.
I survived another day
because you breathe.
elizabeth Jan 2018
i miss you
i miss you
i miss you

i rewrite messages,
over and over again,
watching my shaking fingers
type the words i know
you don't care to hear.

i see my fragile frame tremble
every minute of every day,
almost as if i am continually realizing
that you aren't coming back.
that you aren't mine to call home anymore.

my heart aches
like there is a gaping, bleeding hole in my chest
that no amount of
doctors in surgical masks
putting their gloved hands in my body
could ever fix.

i miss you
i miss you
i miss you
Victoria Feb 19
Once upon a midnight,windy,
Graveyard heavy, tombstone weary,
Rose a man of great renowned-
The writer of which works can be found
Classroom sat in many a volume galore.
As the news and folk declare-
The dead whose lungs again took in air,
The writer who now stood before-
T’was Poe (and raven) of “Nevermore”.

“So if it be daemon, omen, curse or hex-”
In deciding action next, he spoke forth these words of old,
“I have been given further morrow, time of which furthers my sorrow,
Yet if I may this new life borrow- borrow perhaps to bring prose more-
In the hope,to continue prose more-
Pen to paper I’ll restore.”

Many a night spent struggling to create rhymes anew,
Edgar realized how language had changed,
For **** no longer meant to slay, and his beloved had turned to bae!
On his desk the perched bird had flown-
To say these words in had it flown-
Quoth the Raven “Just use Rhymezone.”
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