Caro Aug 2016
He slept and I loved it,
He dreamt and I coveted not,
Having dreamt many dreams,
Spared of sleepless nights,
His sleep was my happiness,
His dreams my requite,

His hands in my hair,
Fingers long and strong,
The air in his lungs,
His chest so wide and proud,
Twice I said to him:
           Look up love it's the stars
Twice he said to me:
           No you are my star

Though I've dreamt and slept to my hearts content,
It's his dreaming, his sleeping,
That murders my weeping,
The gentle close of his eyes and his gracefully wandering mind,
That sends a torrent of peace through my chest.
He slept and I felt the heavens smile.
Annett 7d
I walked alone at midnight, picking berries off of trees.
I tried to stay along my path but found I strayed too easily.
The woods were solemn and silent, not even breaking for a breeze,
Yet as the path disappeared from sight, I moved with further ease.
Warm trickled down my arms till it filled myself completely.
A strange whisper tickled my ears, anxious to greet me.
A melody danced along the trees, low and warning, high and sweet-
Till I broke a clearing expecting there to meet.
But nothing, no one was around, the song drifting to faded sounds,
I veered center and to the shock of me, I gazed rather awed at a conspicuous faerie ring.
Mushrooms stood innocent enough, and though I feigned indifference, it did unsettle me.
The Old one's stories sprang to mind, my discomfort setting deep.
Nothing but tales to scare children, my thoughts begged to assure,
Yet as starlight broke upon the ring it tugged with vast allure.
I disregarded child's tales and neared tword ring,
But as my toes touched inside, ice shot through me viciously.
Were once my arms were warmed, they lay slack and cold, the warning ringing clearly.
Whatever left the ring so serene and open, it never meant for human eyes to see.
This is a long one. Hope everything got spelled right. If not, it was only to be expected.
AS Jan 23
When you think you’re finally free, all want to do is see and thrive.
Wandering around curiously like a child, questioning everything here and there.
Then a boundary crossing monster appears with malicious intent.
The work done to undo the pain, all seems to be in vain.
Worried and still, afraid to witness others judgement and stare.
Reduced to old habits of isolation and numbing.
Being smothered with an egotistical painful air.
Stirring anxiety of a person who’s worked tirelessly to mend.
An angry boy!
Reflecting his manifested discomfort onto people who struggle and recently found the courage to begin to speak.
No excuses for anyone, but the person in the mirror.
Domineering, loud and thriving off creating an uncomfortable crowd.
Behaviours of a bully, lashing out in his own obvious anguish.
But really what is there to gain?
Oblivious maybe?
Ignorant?
Or not to giving a shit!
That venom he spits, even when begged to restrict.
Offended by reducing a girl to tears, who is recovering from some traumatic monumental years.
PTSD that is her shame, the highest highs and the lowest lows.
Spiralling back into the black hole, which is on the brink of destroying her soul.
Triggered flashbacks constantly every day!
To those days you take the steps, plunging into the extremes.
Feeling that you can no longer breathe, feeling there is only one answer.
No energy or sanity left, you come close many times to taking your last breath.
So, remember when someone asks, just to stop and let go.
Don’t carry on and on and on….
Until someone see’s there is no point to carry on.
Look at the words you say, do not take their agony as an attack and the social ways they lack.


© 2018
Abigail Sheard
Peter Simon Nov 2015
I know this isn’t like the movies...
But I miss you, Baby. And this is not the kind of missing that I can get over with after a few days. This is the one kind that will not go away until I see you again.
My feet are aching to get to wherever you are. And my mind’s wanting to drag my body to whatever place you might be. But I know I can’t do that; at least not for now.
That’s why I am resorting to whatever possible things I can do so I can feel close to you. But what remains is reading our past messages, staring at your number in my phone book and wandering through your Facebook account. That, and getting lost while I gaze at my cell phone’s wallpaper that features your face.
I miss you so much, Baby. I wish you’d be mine because you know I will always be yours. I wish I could hug you whenever I want to; wish I could kiss you wherever I want to; wish I could talk to you all day and we wouldn’t run out of topics; wish we’d never hang up when we talk over the phone; wish you think I’ll be perfect for you even though I know in myself that I am not. Are these things even possible? I wish.
Baby, do you know that I miss you so much I won’t be able to explain how much? I wish you’d be mine. I hate it when they stare at you.
That’s why I never tell about you to people—even my own friends—I avoid them seeing my phone’s wallpaper. Because I know I’ll hate it when they start to ask about you. And I don’t want them to. I don’t want it because I know they’ll get a liking of you. What if they meet you, and they start talking to you saying I told you to them. And slowly you’d like them too; even better than me. Yes you might call me selfish, guarding you from them, but that's what I'd probably do.
Everybody likes you. You’re like a star that fell down from the sky, and everybody wants to see how immaculate you are. And it’s not a bad thing, I know, but I hate to think about that. Because I’m afraid that when these people start wanting to be closer to you, to know what stars are made of, I’d be left behind their trails, barred by their bodies between us and I won’t be able to reach you again, no matter how much I extend my arms to do that. All will be left are stardust, the littlest remnants of you I could still hold, glittering on my palms that nobody else wants. I’m afraid to lose what I don’t really have.
I wish I could hug you. And I wish you’d hug me too. So tight, until my spine collapses.
I wish I could kiss you. I know you’re the sweetest thing in the world.
I wish I could talk to you all day. And we'd share stories we never told anyone before.
I wish we’d never hang up on calls. Oh, believe me, I won't if you won't.
I wish you’d say “you’re perfect to me” one day.
I wish you’d be mine. One day. You and me. I wish.
Sorry, I know this is not that kind of poetry. Just something I wanna say. Well, whatever.
only the sense of fleeting time
and the fact that i am almost twenty nine,
years spent,
wandering half a life,
makes me pretend to be wise,
though i am still a careless child,
fond of tales and flirty rhymes,
heedless to the warning chimes,
i can't be different,
nor i can be nice.
No i dont expect you search for me, girl.
for i am not a treasure or a pearl.
read my writings if you want poison for the soul.
Wandering,
Ragged,
And worn,
I stumble on
To my mat.
And reaching
Past its
Rubber edges
I gather
The pieces
Of me
Strewn about -
Knees and elbows,
Tips and toes,
A bit of flesh,
An organ or two -
Each finding
Its place
So I can find mine
Before sunrise.
Mounds of Caramel (Brown) Poop
[it is said the Virgin Mary's poops             did not smell
& were creamy & well formed; wandering
women removing their sandals &
bowing down to pray           on the holy ground  where
the blessed mother had stooped to pee or poop,
        hoping to likewise         become pregnant
     by God's will; instead inflicted w/
the Fivefold Scapular Passion (Red)
          [mensis so heavy they identified it      w/ the crazed      groupie
            w/ issues whom Christ
had taken on as a sometimes     lover;
Passionate (Black)   Seven Sorrows of Mary caused by        
              worries     that Christ was messing w/
          the Roman & Jewish          whores       in the back alleys;
                              not for his soul but b/c these woman carried                   flesh-eating STDs       [(Black) as foretold by the [           ]
The Archangel (Blue/Black)] [digging the scene]  
           receiving  Good Counsel (White) from       the      Sacred Heart of
         Jesus &         the                          (White) Immaculate
Heart of Mary (White)
conceived in         Immaculate Conception
                        (turning   Blue)
                &         Green Scapular  (Green) before vomiting
Scapular of Our Lady of Walsingham;           up the toxins
                   she'd ingested w/ the  
                   Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary - - -
The Scapular           of Our Lady's Mounds of Caramel
(also known as the Brown Scapular or Mary's poop)   |
  is the shit-colored
   habit              of both the Caramel     Order and the        Discalced
Caramel    Order, [nuns who practice ritual
                              enemas as a sacrament]|
                          both of which have Our Lady |
of the Caramel Mounds as their patroness.
        Her portrait hanging above the commode
        for the Sister to pray to while moving her bowels:         
 the turds in their small form
     are widely popular within the Catholic Church
as religious articles and used           as
candy [       ] chewed slowly and     eaten,
probably serving
as the prototype    of all the other  
                    devotional scatology.
The liturgical   feast day of          Our Lady of Creamy Caramel Mounds,
July 16, is popularly associated
                                 with the devotion of the Scapular;

According to  the Vatican's Congregation
for Divine Worship,  the Brown Scapular
is "an external    sign of the fecal         relationship
                   between the Blessed Virgin Mary,
Mother and    the   Queen of Mounds of Creamy Caramel,
and the faithful               who entrust themselves
totally to her protection,          & who have recourse
to her        maternal bowel movements,        mindful
        of the primacy of the spiritual life
                and the need for prayer."

the Blessed Mother taking a poop, the turds
collected by the devoted followers of Jesus; &
preserved as relics,     staying moist & brown over the centuries.
He wrote serotonin
On his brainwaves

Made oceans to swim
Inside fascination
And wandering eyes
Instead of demons
At play

He willfully
Passed his away
Shared with another
Calming every wave

And on those days
His mind took haze
And the tools were overlooked
And instead Of giving
he took
Her lips were as brilliant
And luring,
As the cherry of the cigarette
She held between her lips.

I know if I start this dance,
If I travel the path of
The wandering,
lonesome healer,
That it'll lead me to my grave.

But those beautifully colored lips;
The honey coated words
That spill from those sibling dancers
Mounted on to her face...

I'll make her smile for the world to see,
And admire,
And bask in such divine beauty,
Even if it requires
My still beating but long dead heart
Served on a stick
To please the deceiving angel
That stands before me.
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