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Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

All Beings Considered

I Long For Stars

The Best Revenge (For All Your Critic's Critiques)

Your Next New Dying Black Swan



The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

All Too Clearly Now

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

Informed Through Pain

Sometimes In Losing I Have Gained A Lot

A Man Of The Clouds

The Birds Are Such Un-numbering Creatures of Distant Hitchcockian Past

Accountants

Shrine

Didn't You Learn That First Lesson In Kindergarten?

They Grew (A Poem From The Imaginarium)

Cuba Libre

Dragons

Max on the max

The Little Bird Said

The Factory of Resentments

When My Blues Are Gone

Expect Yourself

TONIGHT

I WILL RETURN

Silver-Tongued Devil

Within The Green Wind Becomes The Fall

Think On This--IF YOU WOULD

Open Lines

You Got Your Lilly Back

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** FOUR o'clock shadow **


listen, if you can

this is a math equation
a real story problem
which I cannot solve/resolve

the oranges and apples
have become peaches lemons olives and kangaroos
I no longer keep the solution
nor have the means to get to it in my mind

so long/good-bye

some days I feel high above my shoulders
and cannot begin to find my head
have you ever thought about death?

the bell's tolling

do you worry who you might find
when you think?

sometimes I reach for my head
wishing to wrench it off

I hide in plain sight to keep
other's eyes from
seeing who I am and am not

I have become something else at times
to avoid others' scoffs

I feel chipped away as paint
with all their borrowing
of me
I have to separate
myself
its all this rushing in like
waves

I tire of the sea

ever feel you were drowning?

would I be better off cloistered
like a nun?
ranting my prayers towards heaven
heave them up to God?
having them ignored for their total sum?

am I braver than other girls?

prayer is becoming a peculiar
unworkable preoccupation
am I unheard, cast off
unfit or odd?

thought and prayer
cast the false martyrdom
of my torn grey dress

might the Lord cheat and give me
all my answers so that nothing would I gain
but duress

do the angels dancing on a pin
all leap and turn away?

its four in the morning
outside the birds have begun to sing
if I could sleep days on end, entombed
it'd be a far more pleasant thing

I am who I am, but sometimes
I'm just not enough for me

past the expiration date of
my history

feeling a pressure:
a need to be on top, in tune,
ahead, aware, on guard and have all my
ducklings dabbling in a row

all to make some better kind of show

unhappy
my nerves are snapping
the humors are drawn out
needle thin

while stubbornness
drags me up
and down
and up
again


Poetry by Meloo/Melissa A Howells
This Author Retains ALL legal rights to ideas and written work on Tilt-a-World
Copyright June 16, 2014










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