Posted in Writing

Six-Word Story- Year 12

Her sadness became her greatest triumph.

~~ Year 12, Cold War

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Posted in Poetry

When I’m Grown-Up…

I want to sit on an old, wood porch swing with you
wrapped up in a coccon of your love listening to your
heart swelling in your chest as you breathe–
feeling the warm, summer breeze on our smiling faces
watching the sun slowly make her way up the horizon
the sky awake with color, the darkest blue clouds
against a wave of pastels- pink, purple, orange, yellow
the clouds fade to light puffy, cotton candy the
bright yellow sun makes her home in the sky
we make eyes at one another like two high school
sweethearts over our coffee as we talk about the
children and listen to the birds perched in the tall, Oak
trees as they sing their sweet songs. I want to grow old with you
in this old country house. You and me. This old, rusty swing.

~~ When I’m Grown-Up LC  ©2018

Posted in Poetry

The House She Lives In.

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The House She Lives In.

His love waned like the moon.
Actions don’t align with your words.
Words spoken can become your house.
Your house is key to happiness.

His love made her feel ugly.
Ugly becomes all she sees until..
Until the soul becomes depressed, weary.
Depressed from withholding love, suppressing love.

No touch. No kiss. Nothing. Loneliness.
Nothing but verbal sparring. False faces.
False words. I’m wrong. You’re wrong.
You don’t come to bed, anymore.

© 2017 LC

I experimented a little with this one. Tried to keep it to six words a sentence and recycled some of the words to the next sentence though not with the first and last sentence.

 

Posted in Poetry

Mistress of Disaster

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Mistress of Disaster.
© 2017 LC

We are the masters
of our own disasters–
so I am to blame.

I walk on eggshells.
When you are angry. Shh.
Again. It’s my fault.

I lay in the dark
hoping it swallows me whole.
Than have to face you.

I wonder what I
have done to make myself
so unlovable.

One day I will be
stronger. My soul will whisper–
“It’s time to move on.”

© 2017 LC

 

Posted in Poetry

Damaged

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I hate arguments.
The way I’m always wrong.
How you raise your voice.
Incessant swearing.
I do everything.
I am Super-“You-Name-It.”
You say it’s My “Job” —
because you work “all day.”
So you are a slob?
You have no respect.
I am human. I get tired.
Wouldn’t you? Trade me.
The kids. My mom. Bills.
School. Laundry. The house. Tired yet?
You wouldn’t last here.
We are so different.
I love my family. You don’t.
You hate visiting.
You are on your cell —
if you go. But that is you.
“Winding-down” is it?
I love spending time
with my kids. You become bored.
Shhh! You fell asleep!
Eleven years now.
We don’t cuddle, hug, kiss– touch.
Sleep in the same room–
Anymore.
And you try– now. You
want to make it work. Like  the
times before– But it
never lasts. We are
damaged from the inside. Your
words.. they hurt. Broken.
How do you not see?

© LC 2017