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Poems by Breeze


Coronet

So glad to hear the sweet sound of nothing,
I told you not to fall apart-of me is holding on to the
blue balloon,
And it makes me blue.

Another wasted caterpillar, stepped upon, waiting for its
wings,
How can I fly away?
But her wings can take us places,
If only there were someplace to go,
If only there were someplace to go.

So strung up he becomes afraid,
To leave himself untied,
She finds him, rope still around his neck,
But she says she'll never speak of it.

And only the smell will tell us where to find him,
So that we may, for once, untie him.



Fara

A little girl,
Blondish hair, bluish green eyes,
Often left alone to pass the time,
Yet easily amused she whispers to herself,
As she plays the role of some else.

Why trace your hand when you can train your mind,
Not a coloring book around, she had never seen a line,
All of this freedom, but not one friend,
This is how her life began,
Fara only faced her own ghosts standing upright.

Mother left and father cursed her birth,
Too caught up with hate to feel her hurt,
Left alone to understand, understanding not a thing,
In her voice the dead did wake, As it killed her soul to
sing.

O' Fara, So pale, as death itself,
Has the light of day ever warmed your cheeks,
The rain ever washed your tears away,
Have you seen the moon, so bright and full,
Or a snowy winter's day?

Bring your heart and drag your shell, come see all the
things you never knew,
And I have never known a smile as bright to come from
anything so blue.




Untitled

A cigarette burns slowly, abandoned, left alone in its
pile of ash...
As I see an old man watching, waiting to sort through
this evening's trash,
The hustle and bustle of today has left his daily meal,
But the longer it takes for him to find, the less hungry
he begins to feel.

Just down a ways she sits and begs for change,
They call her filthy, they called her whore,
But everyday she hears almost the same,
She calls her man downtown, she totals up her daily sum,
Left to wait and hope, knowing soon enough he'll
come...
Two hours later...It took the police six,
Her stare, now glazed as she was caught somewhere within
her final fix.

Around the block a child of eleven sits alone,
Waiting for some bus to finally accept his ticket home,
"It's been so long", he thought,
silently speaking to himself,
Unidentified his body now lies on some morgue's
refrigerating shelf,
The toe tag read, "John Doe, age 11 or 12, no
parents, ran out in front of bus,
To old to be adopted because to old for most of us to
trust.

The headlines the next morning told about some girl that
overdosed,
And of some boy who had committed suicide,
And of some homeless man who starved last night and died.
..So, I lit another cigarette and cried...



Marigold

She stares into the mirror seeing lies,
Wearing them so tightly wrapped around her she becomes
transparent,
If only she knew we could see right through her.



Unmarked Grave

Stale remains,
Burnt flesh of the innocent,
I hear the cry of the victim is misunderstood.
Another twilight body past over unknown, No grave
for a sinner a pile of bones.
Born and fed the lie that tells us where the dead may
lay,
But regardless where the body lies, all is left is to
decay.



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Biographical sketch: Born 1-24-82, in Baltimore, MD.

Breeze recommends:

The Angry Clam by Erik Quisling
Reason: ..."It is ecstasy-and angst. It is life". (back of book) I found it as written above. I am the clam.

Recommendations for writers:

Be sincere. Let everything but your deepest feelings and darkest dreams free from thought, then grab a pen and paper and let nothing interrupt this state of mind.


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