If Everyday Were Sunday...

I would be very happy. But I would not get much sleep.

Tuesday, March 28

Seven Word Poem

  • A violent storm rages deep in her mind
  • Obsidian heart–the blackest kind
  • She wrenches is out in front of the mirror
  • Weeping like willows, releases a tear
  • She thinks of him and screams 'All is well'
  • Ironic laugh and a whispered 'Oh, hell'
  • Drained of all feeling, she falls in a heap
  • Closed eyes, muttered prayer, then restless sleep

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