Rhys Owens

Rookie (7 July 1982-? ? ? ? / Riddle)

Rhys Owens Poems

1. Darkish Fragmented Swamp Life Arabesque Moves 9/7/2012
2. Lethe 9/7/2012
3. On The Tree That Was Cut Down 9/8/2012
4. The Platonic Waitress 9/8/2012
5. It's Not Very Good But I Like It 9/8/2012
6. Guest Room At The Old Persons' House 9/8/2012
7. Oracle 9/8/2012
8. Sky And Earth 9/8/2012
9. Blue Moon 9/8/2012
10. Secrets 9/8/2012
11. Children Of Man 9/8/2012
12. Nervous Cough 9/13/2012
13. Building A Nest Much More Complicated 10/2/2012
14. In Promise 10/17/2012
15. Zooey 10/17/2012
16. Christy's Sleep 8/23/2012
17. Tongs 8/23/2012
18. Text Messages 8/23/2012
19. Tomorrow Is October For Me Too 8/23/2012
20. I Turn The Bar Codes Away From Me 8/23/2012
21. Alternative 8/23/2012
22. The Mad 8/23/2012
23. Guinevere 8/23/2012
24. Night Terrors 8/23/2012
25. The Female 8/23/2012
26. Laugh Of The Just 8/23/2012
27. A Dozen Plateaus 8/23/2012
28. Olivia In The Rain 10/19/2012
29. Narcissists In Love 10/23/2012
30. Eight Years 12/24/2012
31. 21 12/24/2012
32. An Abduction 12/24/2012
33. A Phone Away From The Computer 8/23/2012
34. Beyond 8/23/2012
35. Evolving 8/23/2012
36. To Hart Crane 10/17/2012
37. Food Stamps 8/23/2012
38. Body Count 8/23/2012
39. White Man's Burden 12/24/2012
40. White Tulip 8/23/2012
Best Poem of Rhys Owens

White Tulip

Freezing, alone, a girl within herself tends the ground;
Knowing the water does nothing but freeze, till around
The turn of the year, winter gives way to spring again,
Where cold, distant ice sees to mending; flowers begin
To grow; their petals moist with rain, and tears, left over
From cruel storms bold enough to haunt this cold December.

A hope in Hell, for those that still have the strength to dream
Of Heaven here on what seems to be a barren earth.
Opening her mouth, she still could not muster a scream,
And could not bear the memory of love's distant ...

Read the full of White Tulip

The Mad

only the women are loved.
with men, it's only the madness,
in and of its self that's used.-
and we are literary, too.
but you don't write it down
or even think it, any more.
it's just a desperate kind of feel...

yes, only women bleed.

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