meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

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The Make-Up of Molecules

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

Threading Myself Through The River Called Night

Dragons

HOW



EVENTUALLY...

THERE WILL BE MORE ...

At Night I Dream of Vampires Who Have No Bad Intentions

morning thoughts (begin again)

Human History is Pockmarked With Tragedy

Unseen, The Lilacs And The Daffodils

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

A Man Of The Clouds

The Cruel In The World (Blue Bag Metaphor)

Somtimes in Surrender

Encounter Before Dawn

Shedding Your Skin

Liminality

A Smattering Of Mattering (How Do You Matter)

NEEDING /KNEADING MORE (sometimes)

WHAT WILL YOU THINK GENTLE READER, AFTER YOU'VE FINISHED READING THIS?...We Are All Star Children

Not My Season

I Will Return

Like The Wind In The Middle Of The Night

The Hoping

Better To Bend Than Be Broken (CHANGE)

Belle Du Jovan

The Hope Of All These Things Which Would Never Come In a Box

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

Informed Through Pain

All Too Clearly Now

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

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Some Children Have Nightmares (tentative title)



the photo on the bedroom wall
insinuates distress
three siblings staring forward
each with separate faces
while a hollow house with
eyeless windows glares sullenly

I search for some clue of myself
and find that little here remains

I make a thousand wishes
rocks skimming across a shallow stream
of thoughts

I wish we'd known each other better
I wish we were made of more enduring stuff
some people are not meant to last
or even to be
themselves

so
how do you teach a child to trust
when there's nothing to hold onto
how do you teach a child
it can be alright

in dreams my childhood house has collapsed in on itself
while roaring flames have consumed it
from underneath
Hell surely had come to claim us
and carry us back down into the earth
on an rickety boat straight to
the river of forgetfulness

the Past intrudes
when you least expect It
It doesn't knock
It lets itself in
and tries to lock the door
from behind

some children have nightmares
some adults seem all grown up
on the outside
but are small little people cowering
from
far and wide
and deep deep beneath

you can only see them
when you really look
and who really
has time
or the patience
or the insight
to see them?


Legal copyright for this poem/catharsis
1:53PM PST time/date stamped and also for
this poet/writer Melissa A. Howells
and also for this legally copyrighted site title
Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World.









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