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Mel. D. Poems
The red line slowly rises, Puffy and bold against my pale arm. Why must I make so many promises If I'm the only one that I harm.
We've always been the very best of friends, And I told her all of my secret stuff, Private matters she promised to defend, And I thought that her promise was enough.
You have eyes of chocolate Oh, so impossibly sweet. They're my absolute favorite, My most looked forward to treat.
Soaring through the air Back and forth I swing Reaching for the sun's glare, Listening to the wind sing.
Entering through the church door, I gain a sense of security. This is what I love to live for, Why I never miss a Sunday.
We had our first date tonight. I didn't know what to expect. It turned out to be alright- No, actually, it was perfect.
Maybe if I try really hard, I can lead a life of pretend, Because why should I be spared If with the devil I contend.
In The Corner
It was a pretty normal day, innocent, Going into the church's basement To get the signs out of the closet, Laughing and joking with him as we went.
In Your Arms
There is too much junk in my little world That requires my attention and care, Causing my sanity to come unfurled And yell at life to get out of my hair.
Daddy's Little Soldier
"Be a good girl while I'm gone, " Daddy told his daughter as he walked out the door, Leaving for three months on his first trip with his new job, Leaving her alone with the woman she's come to abhor.
With the night come fears, But I can't show my tears. Holding it in all these years Is harder than it appears.
If I told you I didn't like you, Would that fix my sin? If I were to say I wasn't in love, Would you love me again?
I sneak through the woods where everything is covered in snow. While walking as quiet as I could, I try not to let my panic show.
Dark things lurk in the dark; They come out to play at night. But I don't hide myself from them Even though the monsters can bite.
Comments about Mel. D.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The red line slowly rises,
Puffy and bold against my pale arm.
Why must I make so many promises
If I'm the only one that I harm.
It's my only escape from everything,
My salve for life's harsh burns.
It's for when challenges are flaring
and it seems as if insanity governs.
It's for when friends just don't understand
And are suddenly horrible at advising.
When there is no helping hand,
The pain looks its most enticing.
It's for when the secrets get heavy
And I can't risk letting myself shout.
When I need some relief badly,