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 Nov 2019 sophie
Hannah
A Marriage
 Nov 2019 sophie
Hannah
For you I will pick these flowers
and place their petals on our bed.
Singing birds guide the wind to my skirt
and you pull me close by the waist.
I have these flowers, these birds,
locked up in my heart for you:
a gift.
I will give you my tender heart,
and legs intertwined at night.
I will sing loudly and tone-deaf to you in the car
and run my nails across your scalp.
I have all this, just this, to give to you.

And is it enough? Can my love
be your guiding light, your gift beneath the tree.
Will you let me hold you, gentle,
and set carnations at your bedside
your ear filled with apologies?
Or if what I can give is not enough,
can I give you, instead, just this:
my forever.
Can I give you eternity,
and a thousand glittering sunsets.
All so you will know this to be true,
that my love, as imperfect as it is,
is what I want for you.
 Nov 2019 sophie
emm
you are sweet as honey
and warm like the sun

a gentle breeze on the plain green fields.


the light side of the moon;
a hotspring in winter.

you are the flowers that grow,
in a garden of weeds

you are the light that the world needs.
based on my girlfriend who i love
 Nov 2019 sophie
Sam
her
 Nov 2019 sophie
Sam
her
and i'm the guy. the guy who's calling
and knocking on the door
and she's the sky. the sky is falling
but who's she falling for
 Nov 2019 sophie
krm
Clothes have outgrown me many times over,
but this sadness never does.
One size.
fits all.
There should have been an obituary for cancer,  not you.
Wishing these slits within my skin could have been
replaced by a reality check from you, “You chose to exist.”

My name causes a sigh to escape from lips,
that do not feel like they belong to me,
the girl,
whose words always had to be special.

The schematics of hospitals like a birthmark in my brain,
born into sadness, a gut feeling as a child.
Never trusting time
due to what it delivers.

Death, being the only thing I desired.
But you, 
who I love,
endlessly-
robbed by it.
Whose ebb for life glowed so feverishly.
Stopped comparing depression to lace,
restricted the belief that suicide is poetic,
seeing things as they were.
More often than not, applauded for feeling emotions deeply.
Every second that dies, the shift of my heart quakes.

This world is not tender.

II. Sad.
I have known the flowers I wanted at my own premature funeral,
knowing how many bouquets honored you that day.

split open my veins like a dimension
reminiscent of days where I anticipated deathbeds.


My family wondered,
can we make it through another day?
Death scares me for what it has taken,
yet, I’m not afraid to die-
it’s all I deserve.
So I await the day pain erupts
from my throat,
acknowledging the days a soul
lived inside of my body-
footprints that walked,
belonging to me.

But I learned so well.
How to suffer with a smile,
dreading the beating of my heart
how unfair—
I don’t want to take these deep breaths
You deserved,while I masquerade as a member of the undead
Never outgrowing the desire to rot with the phantoms residing under my bed.


III. Jokes played by the universe.
punchlines delivered,
how could anyone to stand to be in the same room as myself?
How could anyone look over skyscrapers and sunsets,
and not be infatuated with concrete consuming them?
How I shared a sigh of relief during the thought-
of knowing people would thrive without me,
or the power of a belly laugh,
resembling a laugh track audience
drowning out 3 AM suicidal thoughts.
I wrote this in pink gel pen, maybe, that’s another joke.
 Nov 2019 sophie
Jellyfish
Therapy
 Nov 2019 sophie
Jellyfish
Therapy.
You've made me a walking travesty.
Always trying to trawl me treacherous.
My mind treadling to trench my trifling thoughts.
Only trickling off from the tip of my tongue,
As you're trolling my troublous trigger,
You're no friend to me.
You're only therapy.
 Nov 2019 sophie
MalakF
Sick
 Nov 2019 sophie
MalakF
Sadness isn’t a sickness but I think I’m coming down.
Doctor, doctor I no longer want to be around.
All that I seem to do is constantly breakdown.
Doctor, doctor I think it’s time for me to go.
Cancel my next appointment, I won’t be here tomorrow.
Doctor, doctor you say that sadness is in fact a sickness,
yet you aren’t advising me on how to fix this.
 Nov 2019 sophie
Lewis Hyden
Therapy
 Nov 2019 sophie
Lewis Hyden
A pale green Siren
With fair skin, and the distant
Aroma of coffee beans...

Behind her, a broad,
White-bearded old man
Grinning, stares through my head...

And above, the dull hum
Of an apple, a single bite missing,
Penetrates me with its glare...

My eyes sting with tears.

It's almost like they need
To force us to be human.
A poem about advertising.
#30 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
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