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Hope Is Sometimes The Best Of All You've Got (definition poem)

Enough to Clear The Clouds Away 4/13/2019

Devious

Checking Out

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home



Someone Send Out A Search Party

Crows...writing exercise in honor of April /National Poetry month

Words

Only The Choice To Be

When People Go

The Day You Left (Words From A Half-Remembered Dream)

Wake Wake Wake

It Is In The Rain

Dream Goblins Of The Night

Wake And Remember

Unwelcomed Like So Much Unfinished Business

In March (Finally, Spring 2016)

All For Algernon

Weak In The Knees

The Finisher's Song

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

All Beings Considered

This Is It

Max on the max

I Long For Stars

Falling Leaf, Falling Man/Woman, Rising Star

So You Do (May 10, 2010 written for June 1987)

Its About Waking In The Middle Of The Night And Having To Write It All Down

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

If I Could Be The Sky...

It Feels Better To Be Unfinished (Wish-Unspoken, But With My Eyes)

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So Much Truth Is Wasted On The Experienced

Deep inhalations
jagged respirations and blurred images.
She is
pushed in,
stretched and hollowed out.
Finger branches brush against her face,
the meaning sharp and gleaming.
She is a young face I know well.
A blind young woman with a pungent smell
in her nose.
(Perhaps Alcohol?)
She tastes blood.
And its salty swishiness
nestles into the cleft of her left cheek.
She and I wake
together, enmeshed,
feeling puckish, mewling, weak.
We have done it again.
I untangle my legs, unfold my cramped arms.
Rub and soothe the sore left elbow which has born the weight
of our bodies throughout the short night.
I have revisited
a too familiar place.
I have bitten myself
inside my cheek awake.
Sucking on the wound,
I blink.
The fan whirs,
comforting me.
It helps me to think
with its rasping womb sound.
Somewhere slithering underneath, the dream slides,
advancing into the folds of my skin.
"You could have helped women," He said to me.
"You are educated."
"You might have helped yourself."
I think,
I might have been cured,
un-cursed.
So much wasted time
hiding.
So much life wasted
ashamed.
Thirty years.
So much truth in just one sentence.
I am knocked down by it.





Copyright November 10 2011. All Rights Reserved By Author
Melissa A Howells Copyright Meloo of tilt-a-world

Ode to a Good Nights Sleep






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So Much Truth Is Wasted On The Experienced


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