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The Inner String

The Hoping

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

Some Children Have Nightmares (tentative title)

Night Train


wandering the rolling hills ...(written for his model)

All The Changing....


Lonesome Love

two out of three people

A Start Again...(I Green-Dreamed Again Last Night)

The Little Bird Said

cat speech

Funny, Not Funny

All You Have To Do Is Breathe....


A Dog Should Have His Tail...

Enough to Clear The Clouds Away 4/13/2019

Checking Out


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

Last Night

Someone Send Out A Search Party

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


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

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No Fair Tales To Cleave To Now

All my stories have become myths.
There are no fair tales but those
that belong to the lives of others.
I look into the faces and eyes of people
on the street hoping for respite,
but they appear as strangers.
Today I wish to be barely acquainted with myself,
I wish I had no knowledge of family and was orphaned.
Inside are lies and a hollow tunnel, where I once was a whole.
I hear the dark whistling in me nightly.
I don't  believe in fate, but I have been
drubbed by the heavy thumb of misfortune.
Though I've endeavored not to embrace negativity,
it has taken hold,
though I've fought it most un-quietly.
Some say it my own thumb and that
I am, indeed, the real misfortune?
I know I've felt the weight of it, palpable.
If I were braver, I would lop it off, cast the thumb away,
arm myself as a surgeon would with a mental scalpel.
Yet, sleep and peace elude me still
there is no true peace in my current restless slumber.
There are no fair tales I can cleave to now,
while my serene inner life has become a kind of blunder,
become too bad a sport for me,
a hot bouncing ball for my butter-fingered mind to fumble.

Copyright November 17, 2012 All Rights Reserved by this Author /////4am
I had to go back and write and rewrite this. Seems trouble troubles the
"good/common sense" part of the intellect...and this (poem) was encumbered by the
nonsense of grave regret and sorrow
Melissa A Howells Meloo from her Tilt-a-World

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