Warren Gates Warren Gates
Recommendations: 23

I love the line "the woman whose eyes scream tears" That is powerful

Daniel scott Kilbreth Daniel scott Kilbreth
Recommendations: 2

I also think "the woman whose eyes scream tears" is complex/simple and yes, very powerful.

John Ramsbottom John Ramsbottom
Recommendations: 5

screaming tears is good use of imagery as a noisy outburst but I wonder if her eyes lit up seeing the Christmas lights would have meant that Christmas as a metaphor for happy family times and punning on the lights light up the room not just a chlds bright eyes. Still use the smiles though cos certain peeps do light up spaces

Shaunna Harper Shaunna Harper
Recommendations: 35

Ah the ambiguity of poetry, John...I'll let you keep guessing!

Hannah Myers Hannah Myers
Recommendations: 10

Love the second and third lines here.

Hannah Myers Hannah Myers
Recommendations: 10

Pardon me, the third and fourth! Very proverb-like.

Allen Clarke Allen Clarke
Recommendations: 17

The world will never truly understand what goes on in the mind of a writer. It`s a very complex maze with no seeming resolution.

Warren Gates Warren Gates
Recommendations: 23

"The friends you realized were as useless as the toys that lasted a week after Christmas" This is an interesting and perfectly realistic outlook

Hannah Myers Hannah Myers
Recommendations: 10

That phrase really stood out for me, too.

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Shaunna Harper Shaunna Harper
Recommendations: 35

Mirror, Mirror


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The Bonding

Who is the fairest of them all?
The beautiful stolen child
or the mysterious dead man of
your dreams?
The mirror can't tell you secrets
or offer you good advice.
It won't recognize that you've changed;
the hair, the hands, the face.
The corruption that beat the grace.
There's no difference between the child
whose smile lit up like Christmas lights
and the woman whose eyes scream tears. 5 comments


The mirror won't understand the new you;
the wiser eyes and wider face.
The years teach the mind well,
but the face suffers.
It can't bring back the memory of
the lovely fair-haired girl;
you hid together under the table,
cloth pulled down for cover,
stealing sweets meant for after dinner.
She went away,
to sit in the clouds, her mother would say.
Years later, standing by the grave,
you still found yourself looking up. 4 comments


And the pictures of headless grandparents,
their memories faded like the
yellowing snapshots that captured a
life you swore you'd never lived.


The mirror never changes unless it breaks,
but you do.
It sees one life;
though you try to separate the past
from the present.
The glass will reflect what you want to see,
the person you desire to be.
It will let you believe you are something
other than what you are. 1 comment


In yourself you see the mother
you despised and loved,
cuddled and shoved
and dreamed was somebody else.
And the ghost of a memory of a father,
who's existence you rejected
for the importance of pride.
And the friends you realized were
as useless as the toys that
lasted a week after Christmas.
And the days under the sun,
that led you to believe that life
would always cater to your
unreality. 2 comments


Existing now somewhere between
youth and tender old age,
trying to gauge the awful recesses of the mind
long after the truth left you
stumbling behind.
The promise of the return
of those letters you once burned;
the loss of the good,
the sharing of blood.


The mirror counts its cracks
but you refuse to spot the damage;
ignorance is an easier form of acceptance.
Still the glass sees you for
what you really are,
after all, it watched you grow.
It comprehends what you don't know.


And he'll be watching from somewhere,
that irrelevant father figure you once craved.
He's only here now because
he couldn't be there before,
and it doesn't matter that you
don't need him anymore.
You just keep closing your eyes
and your heart against the damage


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