Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. ‘A rose by any other....’ Daughter didn’t permit Granny or Grams or anything she deemed ‘cute’, so the universal address was applied. I remembered changing Miss to Mrs., unable to keep my identity and took on another’s name. Now, Grandma, the classic-usual term had to be accepted. Atypical ‘me’ with straight strands of ash blonde hair still growing that way, and thin frame on flexible body, is also joyous and giggly. I prefer bubble wands to shopping mall excursions. I had no choice in title, but I’ve freedom to resist the stereotype with grandchildren. Sunscreen Oily liquid spilled into the palm of my dad’s hand. A distinct scent mixing ocean and cooking escaped from the glass bottle. Gently, he spread it on my shoulders. The girlhood swim suit’s straps slid as grease covered skin. As a teen, I was given the product to use at the beach, but protection had less importance than having full sun bear down on me as I pranced around on the boardwalk’s wooden slats. SPF was future. Future. My dad did not have one when breath left his lungs at age forty five. Summer. Lotions sit straight on shelves in markets, have little fragrance, and make flesh appear chalky with greater blockage. But the feeling of my dad’s digits is stimulated by noticing these products, and inside my head I’m whispering ‘thank you’. Did you wear red lip pomade at your 8th grade dance? My washing machine strains to expel liquid. Its spinning struggle competes with the dishwasher's distress. Amid these reminders of my role, I sit at the kitchen table and attempt to retreat into the loneliness of writing. "Have a profession on which to fall. Forfeit a career you won't give up. Be bright. Be inferior. Stay yourself. Change your name." Programmed for playing house, I like it. I liked anthropology also. Why did I get an A in calculus? I memorized atomic equations but can't write an ad to attract a cleaning woman. During domestic duties, I think of the next work I'll compose and jot notes on papers pressed into every apron pocket. I might complete a couple of hundred words before school lets out. Out: I don't want out...I don't want in. Crusading has vanished, self-searching stays. Middle age is my past and the persistent restlessness in my present. Limbo; it's difficult. ©1991 Miriam Press Junior High Middle school. Caught between elementary and high, it’s difficult. Someone is always pushed around; another does the pushing. Name-calling, being shoved into a metal locker door makes learning harder. I struggle as I’m ‘middle’, not part of the in-group, not identified as out. I am understanding ‘me’ and how I deal with this limbo time. Will high school be better?
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Leanne Neill is a company director, domestic goddess, mother of three, and a self-confessed composer of words. She has twenty-three years of experience in public libraries and local government. In May 2016, she started her poetry inspired Facebook page: LUST for WORDS. She lives in Melbourne, Australia BROKEN Tracing your scars with my fingers, healing them with my lips. Nurturing your confused belly, with my soul food of compassion. Our words and bodies entwine; a secret language only we translate, my breath the only reason you take another; against your will. We became infinite, my glue only temporary. You are still broken. © Leanne Neill LUST for WORDS APOLOGY TO MY CHILDREN Forgive me child. I swear it felt safe when I made that decision; years ago, in the name of selfish validation. God damn, procreation. It was before the planes hit, bombs blasted, innocent blood shed, and we watched hatred live; hands and knees folding as it plays out, over and over…. © Leanne Neill LUST for WORDS Austin Brookner has published fiction and poetry in several literary journals. As a musician he has recorded with Nick Tosches, Marc Ribot, Tony Garnier, and Lenny Kaye. He was born in New York City and lives in Austin, Texas. Blue Eyes Shut I can remember waking in the morning To her still asleep, naked underneath the sheets My eyes tracking where the crevice in her Chest led to her concealed, sizable bosom And then towards her face, where there Shone the suggested light of morning And thinking to myself that I had Caught an angel, and that I was the luckiest Person in the world, and that Everything that had gone wrong Had actually gone right because it had led To her being in my bed for me To hold and to cherish. What were the odds that this creature From across the world would land up In this part of the country, in my home, I thought. And how quickly and strangely these Mornings of bliss and angels turned To repulsion and suffocation To where her mere sight and sound pushed me To swipe her out of my life with A machete not literally. And now with the promise of new love unfulfilled, I miss her And wish that I could wake up one more morning To the sight of her blue eyes shut. Aching If you set out on the path of most resistance, Better get used to endless heartache. You’ll need that, It’ll put the smile in your chest When you hear the word ‘Yes’. They say the past, It’s a very bad place To go. I think back And I’m embarrassed. Sometimes you just gotta forgive yourself, For everything. It’s not easy to do. I think it just takes time. The Most Beautiful Boy in Liberty Hill I was a beautiful young boy Now I’m an ugly old man I look in the mirror and think to myself I’m melting I had beautiful long blonde hair in my youth And I was born at the right time In the 60s and 70s it was a good time to be A strange beautiful boy I had more pussy than I knew what to do with I fathered two children that I know of And probably more that I do not know of My mother loved me I was her only child She showered me with love I never knew my father I met him only when I was a small child He left when I was three and I’ve never seen him since If I try to picture him now I cannot Yes, I got laid more often than I can remember But I do not get laid anymore I cannot even remember the last time Its’ been years, decades most likely I am content to live out my days here until my death My mother is still alive but I never see her I get my check for eight hundred dollars every month from the government Which is more than enough to cover my expenses I do not know happiness, but I am very content And every once in a while, I can catch the faintest whiff of one of those hippie chicks Who thought that I was the most beautiful boy in Liberty Hill All work copyright © by Austin Brookner Tejasvi Saxena is a poet, writer and photography enthusiast from New Delhi, India. His interests are Arts, Culture, Nature, Music, Spirituality, Books, Writing and Food. His works have been published in Muse India, Visual Verse, Duane's PoeTree, Indian Periodical, Dissident Voice Journal ,Tuck Magazine, Spillwords, Scarlet Leaf Review, Random Poem Tree, Peeking Cat Poetry, Phenomenal Literature, The Avocet Review and Thumbprint Magazine. A Man’s Query “What is my conception of a woman’s existence? Am I transitioning through tempest of times? Or, gazing at her plight; Quagmired in swamps of mankind? The joie de vivre of womanhood dims In her shattering world When, I prick her injured body To slip again into the cracks of a womb Or, to immolate her fragile shadow; On pyre of her blazing individuality The sign of her claims Gleams in the ochre dust of her validated sanctity If she grows, at all! If not; Be thrown in a disfigured form In a filthy nook of a forgetful city How would I think of her? If even, Dharma once lost her Staking her identity On a sprawling board of treachery, Rolled out by pawns of history Why would I admire her? When she was shot at; For prowess of her audacity She better not scream in howls of her conscience Or, her entrails will be wrenched To bleed profusely under garbs of smirking modernity Her masters would barter her In trading markets of shifting loyalties And one who bids the highest, Will subject her prophecies Enchained by cords; she sighs To view her tarnished figure in a mirror Reflecting blemishes of her bleak posterity And I, Hung my head in shame In a contemptuous vulnerability.” Requiem To Peace "To seek you is an eternal wait As drawing streams from dreary desert Like dredging humanity from dried seabed Of dead consciences, reeking of death To find you, is as empty; As promises you make in a hollow space That lost your presence long back From Nehruvian epoch of Socialism Till dynamics of Hindutva today, You seem to have been glancing In a wistful muse Peeping from behind Chinar trees From gleam of Nut-brown eyes To , shimmering Dal lakes From scented whiff of Kahwas , To rows of wooden Shikaaras, From young Firans to lanky Achkans Who sought a streak of bright Sun; To blind eyes and crevices of wombs Which crack with every sound of gun, Not once, you winced or shrieked aloud At wailing mothers, mourning on dead And, gaunt faces of senile fathers; Whose lives are dim lit Plummeting in receding rays of sunset You lit up the hopeless hopes Of half widows and half mothers Who find their accomplishments In quest of their spouses and sons You seem to fancy the angst of youths Who try to grab your tentacle hooks In unidentified cesspools of blood In pieces of flesh, in mutilated bodies Of toddlers, in gouged eyes of civilians and soldiers Agonised Kashmiriyat knows you though; You march in a Caravan of diplomats Whose words are sugary entanglements That bind your fleeting silhouette To elude in a blink of a swindler's eye. " ( First published in Dissident Voice Journal ) White “Have you been enraptured by tranquillity of White? While gazing at its profundity dipped in colourlessness? Have you imagined its aura undefined? Its transcendental virtuosity of nothingness? Its all embracing complementarity As putting kohl of lustre in inanimate eyes? You may shuffle some rumpled postcards to figure its chronicles and garbs that peek from old cupboards of memories lost... Or, find it in muted tones of egg shells In waned textures of peeling dampness too! You may struck with its perennial gleam While wandering in epochs of imperialism It lingers on colonnades of August mansions It sighs on abstractions On proposals of peace lost on modernised minds And blushes gently on foolishness On fools of contemporary times Who paint regality with strokes That drip the gaudy colours Colours of complexities Entangling human's mind." ( First published in Random Poem Tree ) I am The Shadow “I am the shadow of my past life A lush of bursting veins in my decadent body Whose mucky soot flows through black and white vessels of antiquarian Samaritans I am the enormity of ocean Swelling up every moment to its brim With froth of some buoyant and unfulfilled desires of that past life My beads of rusted sweat struggle their way to reach the Valley of Death Where, my dead soul is flipping its shattered wings; And swinging their carnal desires on flame of despondence My lapsed existence calmly ebbs in farthest stretches of dystopian waves That touch the venomous fringes of this unjust world The splinters of my Crestfallen shadow; Shed its fragments as some pruned autumn leaves Yet, I stand beyond the clamour of this squabbling world In an eternal hope of that first streak of dawn!" Paweł Markiewicz - was born 1983 in Siemiatycze (Poland). He studied both law and German studies in Poland. His more than 30 poems in German was printed in Germany and Austria. He likes haikus. He writes recently in English. He was twice the scholarship holder of Forum Alpbach in Austria (2007,2001) - the village of thinker. The angelic children the angelic child with golden eyes and golden hair! I want be so much like You I can dry my wings in the sun after the swim with the goldfish I will write a poem about Your wheat and be enchanted because of Your stars the angelic child with silver eyes and silver hair! I want be so much like You I can find silver next to wasteland of a canyon with the silver little bird that lives in a temple grove I will write a poem about Your moon and be enchanted because of a silver fox the angelic child with azur eyes and blue hair! i want be so much like You I can touch branches of a delicate blue spruce after a picking of the bilberries I will write a poem about the cetacean and be enchanted because of marine loneliness You angelic children! Let's go into a blue (such the Adriatic) pound in which silver swans and silvery cranes live! May the golden will-o'-the-wisp be sprung always from fire for Pegasus', phoenix' and Ibikus ' sake The dreams
the beyond the tears are glowing like your magic heart an angelic dream is from the Sahara my marvellous gift is from the eagle owl the Pegasus has left me the gold he took the cristales from the Phoenix the lunar memories are clear I like Apollo's magic of a temple the world the tears are freezing like my human heart an angelic dream is from a castle of the winter queen my simple gift is from a sparrow the Pegasus has got the sand he gave shells to the Phoenix the mundane memories are tangled up I like Zeus' simple temple over clouds Long live both Apollo and Zeus with their beyond and world! the Apollo's beyond are muses the Zeus' world are warriors S. Liam Spradlin writes poetry and nonfiction. He has been published in the 2017 annual edition of The Sequoyah Review, a literary journal published by the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, where he is currently majoring in Sociology. He lives in Fort Oglethorpe, GA. You may contact S. Liam via Facebook at Facebook/shan.spradlin. Night Light Hard shadows against the off-white walls Lamp Light obstructing my peripheral Eyes so tired the empty cloth of a computer screen seems numb. Disorganized letters scattered in unfamiliar patterns across my fingertips. Somehow, I am to make sense of it all To find the letters, the order, the movement That bleeds life into the motionless words covering my bedroom wall. My mind turns over itself like a coin-operated dryer while I walk. The spirit I seek is one street over and the wind-chill is late December. I stand behind a man in the liquor store. Ridged veins grasp at the neck of hard-hitting vodka. I look down at my own tattoos but all I can feel are the scars. The pain of a needle carving its way under the skin is therapy. The point of my pen splitting the dead pores of compressed bark is therapy. I have survived your lies I have seen through the mirage. I named the desert in your honor. My strength is more than you can deny. My eyelashes brush against a cold pillow. The rhythm of my heartbeat will bring me sleep. And I no longer live in your shadow. Laurie Byro has been facilitating “Circle of Voices” poetry discussion in New Jersey libraries for 17 years. She is published widely in University presses in the United States and the United Kingdom and is in several anthologies including: St. Peter's B List. Laurie has garnered more IBPC awards (InterBoard Poetry Community) than any other poet, currently 51. Her third volume of poetry was published in 2016 "Wonder" by Little Lantern Press (out of Wales). In 2016 and 2017 she received a New Jersey Poet's Prize, the 2nd for poetry in "The Bloomsberries and Other Curiosities" by Kelsay Books. Laurie is currently Poet in Residence at the West Milford Township Library where "Circle of Voices" continues to meet. Eating Crow After Reading Ted Hughes
A Devon autumn chases ghosts down alleys, Shura should have been our lost baby, the one flowering from the toilet the day you crumpled your face, pasty- white like the old hive, resurrected with blue-heart eyes. I was Prospero. I was Caliban. I was the filthy-nailed stand in for Daddy. Already, my tongue bled lies, my ****-- thick with honey, my vows of wild-escape. It was I who bought you your Taroc pack. I, who taught you the plays of Shakespeare, you only knew three before we met. That holy number, that trinity of failed marriage—three meant a witch has entered the sky. You invited her in, you dreamt her real and she appeared, asleep like a princess-hag in a pike’s drunken eye. The wild earth wanted you back, with all its cunning fox-holes, its voices lulling you to sleep under the deep sighs of the house. A weasel-gypsy caught you with her icicle fingers, calling you out of our sweet honey moon sleep. She declared you dead: borrowed entirely by me, not quite blue. Sycorax lured you to her brothy-bridal cauldron. Still you finished each poem, each postcard. You filled each terracotta pot with earth and all your favorite flowers. But it is Shura who makes her silent howl while the moon fills, plump with its leaking mother’s milk. It is Shura who grasps her rag-button dolls, clutching them to her chest like a crone-woman suckling a dead baby. Redwing When I flew to you, when I left my country of marsh and ice, this joy was inconvenient. I wanted to steal the turquoise from your eyes, to always have that sky to lose myself in. You dwell in a chapel of thieves; but I am craftier than you. I pilfer precious things: a jack, a scrap of tin. I will hide you in my pocket like the garter snake found sunning himself with glittering eyes. I want to turn you to a leafy face, carry you in my beak across the river. Don’t be afraid-- I am lonely, too. When my work is done, when I scrape a match along the bark of an ash and ferry you with the amber in my mouth, I shall devour your fingers. Your skin is crystal white when I drape you across my back. You breathe me into flight and I preen my scarlet wings. You bury me in the oak until my heart mends. Job Returns as a Puffin This is the island of dreams. From here the tempest will deliver us into the sea of death. Later we will be washed up on the mainland shore without eyes, without dreams, with our little orange feet curling up like the poppies I tore from the earth to lay on my wife’s table. Each bud burst into a bead of blood that spilled from my master’s eyes. We are all thieves. We are all whores. If only I could return to the earth and not this sea of turmoil. My eyes would blaze with his fire and not be extinguished by his charred fingers. I would follow him into the dark like I did an insect that illuminated the night to the days when I was a blossom needing the sun and he was the garden around me. Demeter Dresses for Dinner (while staying at the Absecon Hyatt) Of course, she ate those love-apples, I heard she slurped seeds and all straight down, the ungrateful twit. The devil trailed her, followed her along the telephone wires, urged her to defy her mother. That damned black-dog hounded her from Absecon Island to Barnegat Bay. No way, could I guilt her into minding her dear protector. She was between the devil and the deep blue Wildwood Sea. They summoned her into those pine barrens. That bastard-wolf brayed while the stars fell, throwing us completely off her scent. It was no coincidence they picked a trifecta weekend to ruin her. Powerballs be damned how unlucky was the timing of this? Those grubby-nailed pineys, how dare they abduct her, hide her under their phlox? And me trying to explain all those bad parking tickets to the nice Officer? No wonder, I lost my good figure, while that ingrate chatters on about becoming a vegetarian? If I’m to one day be a grandmother, it will be to some hideous crooked-tailed beast. The little darling will surely have a hood or bat wings, no good can come from her hanging with those people. Have you seen the condition of their teeth? I didn’t raise her to be a pine-worshiper, what is that a druid or something? Look at me, I used to be svelte, a sylph, a knock-out they said. I could get any man alive and even some dead, I had my share of Gods believe me. Now the mirrors reveal the wreck of me. I have this matronly butt, it’s fallen straight through the floor into some fresh new hell. And my legs, I could have subbed for Tina in Atlantic City. Now? I’m a mess of varicose veins. From chasing down (dare I say it), runaways? Or at least one. I shall revenge myself of this place. All the tomatoes, the cranberry bogs are next on my hit list. When I am through growing blacktop instead of hibiscus, this place will be one crooked highway. Young lady, you will have no trouble working your way back to me, Babe, with or without do-wop accompaniment. All roads will lead to Mother. Crops, you are doomed to bumper to bumper Sciroccos. Each pear and peach tree blighted, this Garden State will become an asphalt anthill. Maria Tosti was born in Perugia, Italy, and lives in a small Umbrian town crossed by the river Tiber. She writes poems since she was a teenager. She participated at several national poetry awards along the years, getting many appreciations. Her writings appeared in various nationals and international literary journals, magazines, literary blogs, poetry platforms and anthologies. Her poetry is a path of reflections and considerations on the human existence and the life experiences. Creating is a breath of art for her, and setting the emotions on the paper is to give voice to the inspiration that comes from inside with insistence. She is convinced that Poetry doesn’t belong only to the intellectuals, but it belongs to everybody because it is a universal message destined to touch the strings of the sensitivity of each individual, permeating the nuances of his feeling. She usually writes in Italian but she likes writing poetry in other languages too, such as English, Spanish and French. Her artistic works also include visual poems, thanks to her passion for photography. She also wrote the text of some songs in Italian, looking for a new way of expression and a new artistic technique. Two of her texts have been set to music, one by the Italian composer Pasqualino Moscatelli, and the other by the master Daniel Cianelli. Her literary debut was with the poetry book "Voci ai confini dell’anima”, that can be translated into “Voices to the bounderies of the soul”, published by Thoth Editions in the year 2014 both in paper and eBook format. The book includes poems in Italian, English, French and Spanish. Website: http://mariatosti.wixsite.com/mariatosti Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Maria-Tosti-1562593050627073/ YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCw1jfqlgADNhIoXN_bdDoCg Myspace: https://myspace.com/maria.tosti TO THE BOUNDERIES OF THE SOUL Come on, I will take you with me on this short journey towards the boundaries of the soul. I'm waiting for you at the crossroads of infinity along with an old suitcase of memories, of letters and photos worn by time. I will take you to know the canvases that I have painted with just my words, using emotions for colours, stealing everywhere foreshortenings of life. I will let you look at the world with my eyes, to taste the days of sun and storm, you will see sunsets colour the sky and horizons stretch as far as you can see and days of rain wash away every bitterness, going beyond the bridges of restlessness. I will lead you through rural paths, to calm waters and harmonious hills, to the pleasant search for kingdoms where emotions and feelings take life and beat the time that passes. The soul is our true abode, rooted in every breath of ours. To find its true essence is to discover its universe. I leave you a part of me on this journey, in these pages written with the ink of dreams, TAKE CARE OF IT... © Maria Tosti 2014 from the booktrailer “Voices to the bounderies of the soul” THE ACTOR A hundred lives, a thousand stories, many faces and expressions, feelings, shields for your inner most being. Your identity is already hidden, another place and another story will begin again. Applause, smiles, fragments already lived, and roses, cheers, the emotions are never the same. The soul dances in this reality, another train and another place are already waiting for you. Under the makeup seasons grow old, sheltered emotions struggle, real characters follow each other, stages invent you. At the end of your days you can say that you have lived so many lives, so many stories, as many as possible. Your identity is going to wake up but imagination mingles with reality. Under the makeup seasons grow old, sheltered emotions struggle, real characters follow each other, stages invent you. The curtains of life then close, but memories and emotions remain, some tears hide your eyes from the eyes that follow you. (poem dedicated to the Italian actor and friend Filippo Timi) © Maria Tosti 2014 from "Voci ai confini dell'anima" poetry book Thoth Editions - “Voices to the Bounderies of the Soul” - THE FORGIVENESS OF THE SKY Fleeting sun among leaden clouds is moved to pity among bare branches grants grace on this icy day stays there observing our narrowness. It’s like the eye of a fearful God who, stern, scans his creatures takes by the hand their pains and forgets their faults. The interlaced branches are the streets of the soul pulsating arteries of life’s desires now bare of that wealth which softens every agony. But today the Sky bends down upon them has breathed a light wind taking away their fears and granting them His forgiveness. © Maria Tosti 2014 from "Voci ai confini dell'anima" poetry book - “Voices to the Bounderies of the Soul” - I KNOW... I know your eyes distant and rebel when refusal doesn't accept any reason. I know the continuous sinking of your soul in moments of extreme anguish. I know the slow run of your thoughts upon the wings of the wind chasing forgotten melodies. I know your rage, your innate confusion, your dancing heart and your curiosity. I know your deceiving sweetness, your wandering without pose, your strength and your fragility. I know your free spirit, flight of an eagle between passions and ambitions. I know your tears, liberating rivulets of water that fall suffering on your melancholies. I know your eyes, windows of the sky open to the world to gather up the essence of life. © Maria Tosti 2014 from "Voci ai confini dell'anima" poetry book Thoth Editions - “Voices to the Bounderies of the Soul” - J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Social Justice Poetry, 1947, Poetry Super Highway, Synchronized Chaos, and Algebra of Owls. 24 Hour News After the latest event, another bit of bad news A political sleight of hand or two, still or again It goes on around the clock, poked at enough It’s pondered into shape, interviews aplenty Experts and strategists, columnist and pundits The news generates itself, a perpetual motion We watch patiently, faithfully, surround ourselves With opinions, analysis, mark progress with A press conference, a photo op, breaking news Broken up, broken down, it never rests, goes on In the dark, does its rounds on our bleakest days Sheds some light, like shadows on the cave wall We occupy our day, test the limits of our insomnia It’s what we’ve come to and where we’re going. Eating Disorder Eating slowly, not wolfing it, chewing well, trying everything on our plates, beets were good for us, broccoli, cauliflower, monkfish, liver, we couldn’t leave till our plates were clean, cleared of debris and then when we were particularly good about it all, we got dessert, our just desserts for a job done according to plan, menu, good manners, the clean plate club they called it as we’d slip away before they mentioned helping with clearing up, the table, washing, drying, putting the dishes away, the ritual of it all, we were learning, it consumed our time, taught us the importance of appearance, of deception how to hide things we’re doing, of sleight of hand, of going along with things, of more than we wanted, and how the approval of others becomes important and how we can out-wait them, sometimes sitting for what seemed like hours, staring at a plate that is never going to be empty enough. Whether Weather Whether weather weathers us so we really won’t know for some time but, we storm, we squall, it rains on our parade, our picnic, we bake burn, sun ourselves, shades on boil, broil, then crowd, then cloud darken our days to night, sprinkle stars, a slice of moon, a cool breeze finally, the humid comments of day pass away, forgotten, but turn chilly a cold shoulder to lie on, a blank stare to stare out an empty window we remember snow, we remember ice, knee deep with cold-cold hands we ask about temperatures, the prospect of rain, these days it raineth every day we watch, we weather, dampen, darken wake each morning, hoping for better. My name is Moses Daniel Chukwuemeka, a student of mass communication at Heritage Polytechnic Eket, Akwa Ibom state, Nigeria. ' Aging grace' Let us, this moment, together, Strengthen this bound, For now, this moment, forever, Be ambassadors of friendship,from our world. Let us, this moment, sacrosanct, Ignite esthetic ambiance, For love, for Unionship, cyclical, Be example, for history, years to come. Let us, this moment, fighters, Strive to steady the lights in our hearts, So it glows, so it beautifies in sparks, Like cricket sounds at night. Let us, this moment, time checkers, Not forget to remember the past, Let time separate our presence not hearts, Let friendship stay formidable from afar. We once saw with our eyes closed, We once spoke without saying a word, Because we once wished and hoped, And we believed and that made us one. So let us, ourselves ,stand firm, On that spot we played yesteryears, When we danced on time, timid, tame, As the world turn cold, as we go pale. ©Daniel_roars " living pictures " Trying to fit in, in a whole different picture, Is like pricking oneself with a pin, And smiling like it doesn't hurt. Sticking to your trouble, Was like fighting mine, You are my Muse, Behind every fight. We dreamt of a tomorrow, And never slept hoping, We worked and sorrowed, As the price for believing. The silent picture on the wall, Holds so much beyond words, Memories of yesteryears, That birthed today. If we had despaired, We'd tell stories with no ending, If we had failed, We'd tell lies with no beginning. If I think of the past within, And nothing crosses my heart of us, The picture would be hanging, Alone, without stories of our love. ©Daniel_roars 'Painful desire ' You always pull me back, I've tried to forget the past, Where my sorrow was conceived, Where only defeat was believed. At that playground, Our truth was found, Yesterday bares stains, Yesterday nurtured pain . I still see our grins, Even as day go dim, It sparks the ambiance, But you're nowhere to be found. Shadows blur my thoughts, I still depict your demeanor, In those days with none to share, Beside me, an ordeal, you were there. My mind says reject, But my heart objects, I'll never find another, Good things forbid twice. I'll build us a before, And call it Yes'today, We'll wait another future, Where friendship never fades. ©Daniel_Roars 'Right there' I'll be right there, Holding your arm, When you close your eyes, And open your heart. I'll be right there, Even when i'm gone, I'll never leave your side, I'll be watching like the sun, I'll be right there, Even when you cry, I'll place you a shoulder, And win you a smile. I'll be right there, Writing you a song, About a charming girl, In fifty verses of love. I'll be right there, To be your million man, To wipe your every tears, And stay till the end. I'll be right there, Just like the sky, To wet you in sapphire, And dry you in emerald. I'll be right there, Just like the night, I'll hide you in the dark, From witches sparks. I'll be right there, Lying at your side, When the sun is setting, When death come calling. ©Daniel_roars |
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