Undead poetry

whispers of poems in every generation

long forgotten

bodies may decay and become rotten

But the words hang in the cold fresh autumnal air.

The undead poet from their grave may save

humanity still

it’s a battle of wills

selling poetry at bookshop tills.

softness and grace left in memories of one’s who knew them the most

although it’s his words live on like ghosts

a gnarled wizard staff

summons the poets craft

summoning words and stanzas

and questions rhymes and answers

Pulling them from sleepy faded ink

to relive times and make us think…

She’s trouble so they say

She’s trouble so they say
She’ll slay your heart
Tear it apart
Never mind her history
She’s a mystery
Neglected as a child
Emotional abuse
she hates men
Does she have a reason?

Behind her eyes lesions and cuts to her soul
Though they call her slut and say she’s out of control
She yearns and burns for a man who will calm her inner being
See the hurting girl inside who’s trapped in her own head
Instead of taking her to bed for a one night stand
A love that hold her through the lonely hours
A love that will never sour
Or grow cold
Or scold her for being her
A love that inspires fire
That comforts her
and talks her through agonising visions of the past
A love that lasts.