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A New LifeI should feel more, June thought to herself.
The pastor dragged on and on. She'd stopped paying attention to what he had to say a long time ago, and just stared at the ground.
That was all right. She was allowed to look like she was in shock.
I should feel something. Anything.
The turned-over ground was a different color from the topsoil. They'd tried to cover it with a mat of fake green grass, but it only sort of worked, and she could see the reddish earth peeking through the gaps and around the edges. It reminded her of Sam, actually, these last few years, right up to the way it seemed to spread like it had half a mind to take over the audience as well.
He'd been good at taking things over, Sam.
She'd called him her Sam, once, a very long time ago, and he'd called her his June. Only one of those had turned out to be true.
Her daughter prodded her with a bony elbow, and she started.
I'm not good at poetryI'm not any good at poetry.
When I speak of you, the words don't come
Measured in stanzas and sonnets.
When I look at you, I don't think
Of lilies or daffodils in spring.
Your voice, while mellifluous,
Doesn't make me think of song.
When I look at you, you're all I see,
My world encompassed in a face.
My universe is bounded by your skin,
Which bewitches me with a touch,
That I cannot think of does.
I can't explain the way I feel
When your eyes look up at me
With perfect rhyming similes.
I have no golden metaphors
To express the way your laughter sounds,
For when you laugh, it's all I hear.
No, I'm no good at poetry---
I love you far too much for that.
The slow entanglementI believe in love at first sight.
I was prepared for it,
the strong swift strike,
the sharp barb to the heart.
I saw the danger,
Locked it out,
Denied it entrance.
And when I wasn't looking,
when the lights were out,
and the moon was dark,
It stole around the garden wall
Like the slow vine that climbs and binds,
It encircled me,
And when I wasn't looking,
Then it struck.
First Impressions MatterThey say that first impressions matter. Well---
Mine was homosexuality.
Only gay men are so beautiful,
Correct? The second was when you so frightfully
Glared at me---such penetrating hate
For such little cause! Had I done
Some grievous wrong unknowing? It was fate,
I think, for from any other one
So fair I would have disbelieved your troth
When you came to make it---but having viewed
The change to love from terrifying wroth
How could my heart deny you? I won you
Over, and by winning I am lost.
Never have I so little cared the cost.
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More