Within me screeches a woman on fire - consumed by a violent rage and doused in a fury like gasoline.

i’ve wilted in a void of fraught silences,
and danced amidst dark woods
and starving wolves.

but what a viridian gleam:

there are shadows that mingle through your windows,
and the glass,
just like your own temperament.

even the roses in your hair have their thorns,
but believe in the cracks in my voice when I say:

the darkest parts of the ocean,
will always be the prettiest.

I turn my face to the light
But the low winter sun
Is shrouded in unmoving clouds
Offering no warmth at all
The trees are stark and naked
Like jagged skeletons
With ragged crows hovering
And the world is breathless

For this winter
This of all winters
The air is crowded and heavy
With the ghosts of the painful dead
Their accusing eyes searching
For those whose negligence
In the blast of a plague
Caused their breathless deaths

                                         By Phil Roberts

Nymphets like me grow up,
and guess what?
I am not any scared or scarred
In a parallel world,
Angela invited Lester to her wedding day
and it's realer than death
There's nothing to heal - no sight of old pain

Am I really strong?
I am not sorry - I am not hurt
Even if I did break a few hearts
This nymphet got a job and she dyed her hair
She got to her destination -
but she's not done yet!

And I might have to leave
all of those nymphet, stylish things
no more daddies on the scene
but my inner fire still burns deep
let me resignify what I mean
when I wear my heart shaped glasses
when I feel all pink
that's eternal, it has no age or anything

It's true, I am not ******* anymore.
Isn't that a whole lot more fun?
I am a full woman now
and I am not backing down
(I always was this, waiting to come out)
So I look in the mirror,
and my inner nymphet eyes back,
"you're doing fine, I am proud of who you are"