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 Feb 2016
b for short
She’s been put together;
spattered with
handfuls of shiny warning labels that
no one ever took the time to read,
only to reside in a lonely wooden box—
sheltered, still, and safe.
Living unlit and knowing nothing but patience,
she’s unaware of all the wonderment
that resides just beneath her own surface.
When the box finally opens,
she’s handled carefully
by strong, gentle hands that recognize
all of her treacherous potential.
She doesn’t flinch,
when those trusted fingers
strike the match
to light her fuse.
She doesn’t fret
when the heat catalyzes
a chemical reaction—
one far beyond her control.
She only sings
when her own jolt sends her rocketing
a hundred feet into the night sky.
And when she can’t stand the pressure
any longer
she swallows what pride she has left
and explodes—
a million strands of glittering fire
decorating the dark, ominous unknown.
Just for a moment, she hopes
she’s the most beautiful thing
those hands have ever touched.
But as she fizzles out into a small cloud
of smoke and something that once was,
she accepts her purpose
as the short-lived,
soon forgotten,
spectacularly unsuspected
good time.
© Bitsy Sanders, February 2016
 Feb 2016
b for short
“Man is not what he thinks he is…”*

When the vessel is breached,
all of its dark matter seeps from
its fresh fractures.
No longer the secure transport
for such highly valued secrets,
its worth now teeters on worthless.
Weathered from unwelcome silence
and worn from
a thousand whips of the tongue—
it rests empty but easy;
never again to be admired
for its heavily cloaked mysteries.
And with every drip from every crack,
it finds solace in all of these
parted shadows;
it finds meaning in
all of this strange new light.

*“…he is what he hides.”
© Bitsy Sanders, February 2016
 Feb 2016
Cíara McNamara
Dear lonely girl,

why is it that you choose to cry
about once again not having a valentine?

why does a stupid date
fueled by cheap chocolate
and ****** cards
make your very core ache?

you don't even really like flowers,
why receive a gift of something
that's overpriced and already dead?

having a valentine
would just be another broken half,
of a stalemate love.

you don't need no Romeo,
you'll both only end up dead.

it's just another day lonely girl,
another day for you to be happy
that once again, you get to live.

Love, Me
(lonely girl)
 Feb 2016
Ericka Bernardino
You're about to lay and rest and
I'm about to keep awake.
You, to dream of her and
Me, to think of you.
While walking under the moon
Waiting for the right time, soon.

But looks like I'm just like a woman
Hoping for the stars to come
In sickness
Of rain in july.
 Feb 2016
Àŧùl
If you lost your feelings to the world's ways,
Then surely I don't look for your sympathy,
But there are few who understand,
I do look for their empathy,
And their kind words of advice.
A small poem for those who only have indifference running in their wayward veins.

Got my right side floating ribs fractured. Now I face difficulty in breathing, coughing, sneezing or blowing my nose clear.

My HP Poem #1025
©Atul Kaushal
 Feb 2016
b for short
“It,” not so easily defined,
catches and clouds in my throat.
Previously shot down
in a blistering passion, and riddled
with disappointment,
vague answers to important questions,
and the kind of wasted possibility
you’ve seen in a used syringe
abandoned by the park fence.
Although it may seem
wounded and unkempt,
I can feel its remaining life
writhing, wondering, and desolate.
So I let it grow, with no hope of air,
and with my eyes closed, it thrives—
sprouting fresh white plumage,
collecting its strength,
pecking, p-peck, pecking
at the back of my tongue
and ******* up my oxygen.
It’s the taste of blood
that makes me come to
before the riotous flutter of feathers
works its way
to the edge of my lips.
I watch as it lifts off, up, out, and away—
wings spread in a striking spectrum
of well-played deception.
It flies, now, fearlessly—
commandeering its own air,
and I breathe easily
knowing that it won’t die
with me.
© Bitsy Sanders, February 2016
 Feb 2016
The Dedpoet
I, who longed to be someone else,
To weigh my words in the scales
Of judgments, to read poetry,
To hand  out my own,
Will see the world invade even here
In this place, once thought to be
An Eden of words, a place to begin again.
I see that I am at last here to face
My destiny, carried by the ruinous envy
And hatred in a war of words,
The intricate labyrinth that are verses
Designed to weave their way through
A site where philosophical change
Of the human condition can be
Discovered and even nurtured
Through words is being held hostage
By those who would not sacrifice ego's
Grasp to better the world around them.

I am an honest man,
With my open book of lies
That my poetry is a kind of reflection
On the life I have been blessed to see,
That poetry is the key to dealing
With all my years, to see the perfection
In desolation that was the beauty of
Some mysterious higher power,
That in the lampshade I write the
Eternal nocturne and I see the world's
true faces, I wait for the circle to close.

And the war of self should not spread
To those whom seek refuge from
Inner shadows, to spar with words is a ridicule
To this artful mirror.
Bow the wars of the self have spread
To poets, and the truth of poetry
Is not that of hope, but something
Much more powerful, the true nature
Of the person, which is animalistic
No matter the pretty words.
And the truth crosses my throat
As a jaded knife,
Poetry wars, oh the humanity.
 Feb 2016
Chase Anthony
She used her skin as a canvas
She didn't want to be on this planet
Her emotions were void
Her heart was destroyed
If only I knew she had planned it
 Feb 2016
hannah andersen
her life
it is a book
not enough pages
for
her happy
ending
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