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 May 2016 Yana C
Elizabeth Smart
In my shattered garden
I lie and cry.
Why?
I could scrub floors
And get a sense
Of something done
A neat
Achievement
But
I get up
And stumble on
And get slapped back.
I count my blessings
Many, many.
It is no use.
Back and forth
I pace
Carrying a deep despair
Like a fretful child.
There there, despair,
There there.
 May 2016 Yana C
Thomas
Wreckless
 May 2016 Yana C
Thomas
I don't ride a bike,
I don't drive,
It's better for me and everyone else around me,
At least that's what people tell me,
I believe them,
"You can't adapt quickly enough to situations,"
I wear glasses because I crash into stuff without them,
I break everything that I own by accident,
I really don't mean to,
I don't drive,
I won't ever drive.
It's a poem
 May 2016 Yana C
Morgan
i've been nauseous every day this week
because i've been staying up until
the sun rises trying to remember
the way your eyes look
when you're in love

and i know
the universe is huge,
i'm always moving from place to place
but of everywhere i've ever been
the only place i ever crave
is your creeky back porch,
with the chipped green paint,
that i'd always peel back
when we were fighting
and i was anxious

still when my heart drops
and my hands shake
i wanna peel back
that chipped green paint
-

-

the night before you
slammed my front door
for the last time,
you were curled up in a ball
on the opposite side of the mattress,
and i was wishing you'd hold me
but i kind of knew you never would again

i said,
"i know nothing lasts forever
but i thought we were worth a miracle"

and you said,
"my apathy just got the best of me,
i don't feel you in my fingertips,
you don't send shivers
down my spine,
not anymore.
& i just don't miss
you when you leave,
your kisses never stick,
not anymore."

-

-
today i woke up
feeling like i never slept
and yesterday i went to bed
feeling like i was never even awake
...
venus keeps cartwheeling
backwards and no one knows why;
stars keep falling right out of the sky
and you're the only thing
that's been on my mind
 May 2016 Yana C
Polar
Death comes for a poet

With a plume of smoke rising

From a quill, pen, computer key.

When we write in love or hate

We have no choice in the path we follow

For all roads lead to home.

Whether you leave this plane

With the wealth of a nation

Or in poverty

In fame or deep obscurity

The real tragedy

Is that no-one gets to enjoy immortality.

Our saving grace is that we are the few

Who truly get to write

Our own elegy.

We are the few capable

Of surviving death and time.

Alas we may never see

Our elegy bloom,

Rise to become our eulogy.
 May 2016 Yana C
Emily Dickinson
1764

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
  The maddest noise that grows,—
The birds, they make it in the spring,
  At night’s delicious close.

Between the March and April line—
  That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
  Almost too heavenly near.

It makes us think of all the dead
  That sauntered with us here,
By separation’s sorcery
  Made cruelly more dear.

It makes us think of what we had,
  And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those siren throats
  Would go and sing no more.

An ear can break a human heart
  As quickly as a spear,
We wish the ear had not a heart
  So dangerously near.
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