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AS Jun 27
I can hear it within the voices,
unable to feel proud for those who try.
On the other side of the fence,
they celebrate and dance in glee.
The reason I originally was afraid to try,
as the way you twist to those who take risks.
Not passing at the top,
a failure you rather of not known.
All I hear is the shameful,
fake tone.
Maybe if you gave me your belief,
stopped covertly belittling in the way you speak.
Maybe I wouldn't be afraid to fail,
trying,
learning and growing to the best I can be.
But within your actions,
you create disbelief and anxiety.
Not emitting the support I seek or that this is just another stepping stone to achieve.
The other side of the tree truly believes,
brought to tears by how I've surpassed my troublesome past.
Their voices filled with triumphant pride and joy,
of the way I fought and tried.
Not allowing me to slip by,
seeing the opportunity and the drive inside.
These people make me happy to be alive.
Judgemental side please abandon me or at least fully dettach.
For you have poisoned my roots too long,
which has brought me to twenty seven to find where I belong.
Burnt my leaves in your disgusting pursuits.
Dented my bark,
covering my childhood in upheaval and traumatic marks.
Making me wilt for years,
with the guilt and the monster you let consume the water supply.
Even though my trunk is chipped, with
distance I've found the sun nutritional to my insides.
Growing strong each day,
without the fear of strain or being drained.
Finally I am taking bloom,
no longer buried by the family filled of doom.


© 2018
Abigail Sheard
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2017
Far and near
they are two stars
rose in the same orbit.

One shows up is a
dazzling shimmering sun.
One is so polished fine
as if the zenith is
zipped in zero bytes.

No grave can grasp
it in the end.
It has no end, no size
zero left to demise.

An ocean is no more
now is only a drop.
Now the ocean
is in a drop.

Still on the ground
walking the walk
but those giant feet
do not show up!

Can we hear it bending
the ear on the ground?
The orbits on the go
with the sun on the top
pile into the vibration within
only to float up a notch
then bends down once more
delicatefractal Jun 2011
Collapsing on my bed
    in a fever,
the stitch in my side
as a knife wound
seeking to stay its itch.
My exposed torso
    reveals no such distress.
The ceiling, as always,
  holds no release.
And I'm getting sick
  of hearing my breath.
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
On the day
or in the night.
In the dark or
in the light
black or white.

Whatever.
whichever way.

You got a choice
how you look.
On the flip side
or the other side,
any side of the coin.
Down the sun
or down the Moon!
Valsa George May 2017
On the bank of a rushing brook
I sat for hours watching its course.
Peered into the clear gurgling mass
That cascaded down from a mountainous source

Like a slithering snake, it slinks and slips
It babbles downhill night and day
Rolling and gliding through plains and dales
It winds its way to the wider bay.

Dipping my fingers in its icy chill
How my hand got repelled as from a shock!
In its ripples stirred by the kissing breeze,
I saw trees, clouds and the jutting rock-

All floating in queer, fanciful shapes,
Shuddering, trembling and standing still
And the fishes leaving zigzag trails,
Swishing and swimming in the winding rill.

As I quietly watched her speedy flight
With her bosom rising in mournful heaves,
In my ears fell her whispering soft
Orchestrated by the rustle of quivering leaves

I hardly knew the time speeding by
Nor noticed the birds’ homeward flight
Or the Sun moving to the west end side
And the Sky reddening at his sight

As the brook thus continued her headlong ride
To be mingled finally with the ocean wide
I walked, brooding over man’s relentless stride
To be merged eventually with the Cosmic Guide.
CK Baker Apr 2017
to exonerate the clipping
we took the dirt road to oswega
the tudor house rabbits
had long lost their heads
(presumably to the coons)
and what remained
of the scape
was dead
and dry
and orange

that happy home
on the brink
of cattle loop
was gull grey ~
the needles
and stragglers
(from shady bay)
remained in numbers
on the outskirt
of the park

the fabled town
of horse drawn tours
was stone washed ~
on the back of
government docks
sat decrepit toppers
set on high tide
against the lighthouse
and its measured song

flutes and fiddles
and acoustic sitars
ride the accompaniment
nose rings
and signage
in the hands of
staged protesters
the sickly spit strewn
with tidal run
and ocean bags

hedgerow trimmed
alongside the sea walk
rolling hills bend
before the chuck
mint juleps
and flop hats
peak the parade
clydesdales
and royals
blinded in back
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