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Sometimes I write poetry
most times it writes me.

Showing me things 
I need to see.

Things I need to acknowledge
to be a better man.

Not to change the world, 
but to change what I can.

Most often times
it's a change in me,
A reflection of a man 
I don't want to see.

Sometimes I write poetry,
most times it writes me.

And the more that I write
the more I'll like what I see.

And maybe someday
if I write well enough,

The man in the mirror
will smile back at me.
He prayed for her pain so she’d crawl to his side,
While I prayed for her joy and love of all kinds.
He needed her broken to feel he was whole—
I wanted her shinning, with peace in her soul.

He loved her for him, for control, for his gain,
I loved her for her, through hardships and rain.
He smiled at her failure, a mask in disguise—
While I bled in silence, still wishing her skies.

For what kind of love would dance on her tears?
Rejoice in her downfall or feed of her fears?
I prefer to be lonely, with grief as my chain,
Than ever be cause of her fall or pain.
He prayed for you to fail...
I grieve for my soul,
For the number of times I let people walk over it,
I grieve for my heart,
For letting people in ,
I grieve for myself,
For allowing all the garbage —
The hateful disposal,
To get inside of me,
I grieve...
Yes ,I do ,
With great pain
I was just a little girl
Watching chaos unravel, helplessly
Confusion became a daily routine
Silence, my only defense
And I honed the art of observing pain.

Day by day
I saved up pieces of disappointment
Until the jar began to crack
Spilling exhaustion
Hardening into quiet rebellion
Sharpening into well-trained disgust.

We stopped looking, even beneath the bed
Where is the sorry we deserved?
Where is the responsibility you clung to so tightly?
Where is all the change you once promised?

But whatever
You're here, technically
And us?
We've mastered the art of needing nothing from you.
I'm sorry. It's tiring to keep it all alone. We tried to talk. But you're the only one who always ends up being the victim, as if nothing ever happened.
You still look like you, minus the fire
With your non-skid socks
Arms attached to barb wires

A robe drenched in dead skin
Eyes sunkin in
Slept for a year, but still tired

When you speak, it's eratic
Others hear it as static
I always know what you mean

You long to go home
Where you weren't so alone
But it's disappeared it would seem

For now, they still visit
But they'll drift and won't miss it
As it's all too depressing to see

You will disappear
No one gets better here
The next stop is eternity
I wore his vest,
trading stained threads
for something that smelled
just like him.

Bare legs, quiet room—
his eyes found mine,
and I swear,
time leaned in to listen.

"Just forehead kisses,"
I whispered once,
twice—
trying to stay soft
when my heart wasn’t.

But he looked at me
like I was still his,
like the ache between us
wasn’t ready to end.

His hands at my waist,
his breath on my cheek,
the silence hummed,
sweet and weak—

And then,
before goodbye could speak…
I kissed him—
once,
long,
slow,
like we forgot what leaving meant.
Save me, or **** me—anything but pity.
I only request: be swift, not soft.
**** Me Kindly Pt. 4
 Apr 8 Sherri Woodman
rae
Your touch etched beneath my heart
Sore and gruesome
Unforgettable hurt
Wounded thoughtlessly
Taunted by the absence that haunts me boundlessly
Suffocated by the depths of you
Captured by the heartache you burdened through me too
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