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Anastasia Webb May 2014
Is it you? or the idea of you
that twines it way around my heart
like a dragon.
goddammitstopmessing
with my emotions.

I swear.
I will explode.
  May 2014 Anastasia Webb
Megan Grace
i
a  m
positive
that   you
are  made  of
s  t   a  r   d  u  s  t
and  water  balloons,
oil  pastels  and  the
collecti­on          of
settled     sugar
at             the
b o t  t o m
of      my
c u p s
o     f
t e a
Anastasia Webb May 2014
Give me your inspiration.
Come on, you have enough already.
This isn’t fair, I protest;
how is it that you can create
a dozen pretty iced-cupcake poems
a day and I can’t?

Honestly –
sharing is caring.
I don’t want it all,
just a little bit.
A tenth will suffice.
It won’t take much from you,
I swear! you’ll still be writing
ten-point-eight cupcakes
a day.
Now would that be so bad?

No? Well, then.
Be like that.
It’s not like
I need inspiration …
Anastasia Webb May 2014
January’s light is bright and sure;
Skipping, dancing, o’er river and moor.

February’s lamp is warm and yellow;
Prancing, jumping, like faeries so mellow.

March’s candles are orange and cool;
Autumn leaves drop into the pool.

April’s sun is starting to fade;
Slowly, slowly, trying to evade.

May’s moon is cold and bright;
Illuminating even the darkest night.

June’s glow is small and short;
So little present, so dearly sought.

August’s dawn is soft and thin;
But slowly growing from the dim.

September’s beacon is red and crescent;
Emerging from the darkness to be ever-present.

October’s star is hot and strong;
The days and shadows are growing long.

November’s torch is happy and loud;
Laughing and playing alongside the crowd.

December’s bulb is joyous and true;
It was lighted for me; it was lighted for you.
Anastasia Webb May 2014
Thank you for not writing
about the colour of my eyes,
or the warmth of my skin,
or the softness of my breath
in your ear.

Thank you for not writing
about the curve of my hips,
or the feel of my lips,
or the darkness of my hair
like damp earth.

Thank you for not writing
about the texture of my voice,
or the contours of my hand,
or the mystery of my smile
and my laugh.

Thank you for writing
about the way you fell in love
with my words.
The same happened to me.

(Oh, but I’m a hypocrite
of course).
Anastasia Webb Apr 2014
If I sung you to sleep,
what would you dream?
of mystery and madness?
of love and revenge?
of spiralling staircases, culminating
swiftly in a pool
of swirling fear?

Starfish –
sleep slowly,
sleep soundly.
Stretch bubbly limbs that
are kissed by the shore,
hugged by the sea.

This cove
of creeping creatures,
they slip and slime
like a plastic bag
of goldfish.

What will you dream?
of memories:
when you were swept
away from the sea
to dry on the sand
like a limpet?

Bubbling, giggling,
blobbing starfish:
sleeping, sliding,
slipping out of place,
slipping out
of starfish dreams.
Anastasia Webb Apr 2014
Poet for hire:
has a year-and-a-half’s full-on experience
likes metaphors
and similes that don’t make sense.
Will probably write poems about
weird things like grass, glasses
and corn.
Can write rhyming or non-rhyming
structured or not structured.
Will happily spend hours writing
and work overtime.

For more information, please call,
or send a note by
carrier pigeon.

(chocolate will suffice as payment)
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