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The color of your hair smells confusing.
Folded inside its own beauty,
Writhing through its tiny follicles,
Screaming at those closest to their softness,
Wanting to break out of this scalp.
Those squirts of memories coming up
And making them sway this way and that.
If they could jump into my throat,
Wrap themselves around my voice,
Move the muscles to their liking,
Form a breath and push it past my tongue.
They would say...
A secret would finally be my light.
The part in your hair, just as all is clear.
My eyes walking that path from
The forehead to the end of your neck.
Under the impression that I will
Have to take it forcefully.
Stomp my feet around until you couldn't take it anymore.
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If I should die, who will cry for me?
Will there be people who would care?
Will it hurt anyone other than me?
Do you care that
I knew something was wrong
when they finally told me you ran away.
It wasn't like you in the least to not contact me
at
by Paul Roberts
There's a river that keep rising in this heart of mine
and that river keeps rising with each tear I cry.
Once you told
My Father
I yearn to walk with my father,
And hear his soft voice in my ear,
His calloused hands, his gentle strength,
The doctor gave me
A clean bill of health
The pathologist's report read;
'No pathogen isolated'.
The X-ray showed clearly
Nothing
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Poetry: Heartache
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