Shakespeare’s Sister

Hazel eyes on the Avon…in ravaged jeans.

She had just been so…sanguine

so masterly

so supple

gone…too soon.

In this land where William took Anne’s hand…

Swaying…

‘Have you got it? Do you get it?
If so how often
Which do you choose
A hard or soft option…

How much do you need?’

If only I could plead.

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Erin understood more than eighteen years could ever understand.

Of course, these were infant moments when I had no grand plan.

Skinhead rock atop of tie dye undertones.

Far from home, I had been willing to bathe in her ocean.

Waters once ashen or stark turned tenderly…vibrant.

Fingertip to skin…

a medley of liquors…

strokes…

soon assertive and grand.

Hearts and secret thoughts will fade away.

Hazel eyes on the Avon.

Black tea, a bed, a breakfast, an English kiss, on the Thames.

Alone by Teresa Baxley

 

As a writer, poet, photographer…wanderer of life.  There are no ‘pretty’ words to truly express how the journey has brought me here.  Here…many years later.  Here after fighting so hard on the inside.  Here, after fighting so ardently, on the outside.  Here…here…here.35629067_2249133408436668_420788717767098368_n

I have offered up a wonderful young writer before, Teresa Baxley.  Her depth and compassion, I beg to say, remind me of….myself.

Life or turmoil.  Life of struggle.  Life of inner and outer demons.  Yet, young, gay and proud.

What a struggle it is for all of us?

How simple the notion?

Be kind!  We never, ever, ever, know, what someone has just gone through.  What they are currently going through.  What is still on their plate for the day!

A simple kind word.  A simple kind gesture is far more precious than anything money can buy.

Therefore, without further adieu.  I present a day in the life of a young, out and strong teenage girl.  Struggling, moving on…speaking from the heart.

 

Alone

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No matter where she went nothing felt right. She had been to four different schools and she was always the outcast. It didn’t matter what she would do to fit in, nothing ever worked. She would wear the clothes that everyone else was wearing. She would make her hair look all fancy. She would put a ton of make up on, but no matter what, nobody payed any attention to her. Well, that was until she began to make herself look skinny by making herself vomit. She stopped eating, and she would always make herself vomit until she had nothing left to throw up. Despite how unhealthy her actions were, all of the boys at school started to pay attention at her. All of the girls at school admired how slim she had gotten. Her parents finally told her they were proud of her. Until one day she was found dead on the bathroom floor, and that was when everyone started to truly pay attention to her. That’s when people started to truly understand what she was going through. Her struggles, her pain, they finally started to notice her cries for help, her constant fear of being forgotten. Isn’t it unfortunate how taking one’s life makes everyone open their eyes and see beyond the surface? 
I don’t know how to explain the feelings I feel inside. One minute, I can be the happiest person ever, then the next i just want to stop breathing altogether. Waking up in the morning is one of the hardest tasks for me to do. It used to be the highlight of my day. I used to be such a morning bird, but now all I ever want to do is sleep. I don’t want to wake up anymore. I just want to sleep for the rest of my life, and not have to face reality anymore. I don’t even remember my childhood. It’s like it never even happened. I think I finally understand the term “time flies by when your having fun”, because I don’t remember the happy times like i remember the bad times. I always thought the good times would make all the bad times worth it, but its like all the bad times overrule the good times. It doesn’t matter how much effort I put into enjoying life, because I never will. So what’s the point?
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Joanna

I begin a verse…

I hesitate on a word…

I lose what written freedom there is.

To a life years ago…pictured in a daydream.

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She had smelled of Henna and Poison…and, and, and…

She had come from the south…

An urbanite in flowing skirts, cotton piled upon cotton

earth tones among simple Aztec design.

Her smoke rings, gentle and meaningful.

Made menthol circles around a crowded granite tomb.

An odd figure among provincial settings…

ancient walls, ancient floors…soon to be filled dorm rooms.

Had I known of flirting…it did not provide me with a guide.

Young and bare footed…I wore, yokel…with pride.

She taught me of love without borders…

sensuality without touch…

She taught me…ever so, much.

I think of her from time to time.

A southern belle adjoined with sophistication, Cat Stevens and…

lust playing between…hours, minutes, seconds.

I think of her from time to time.

When my youth took a delicious, decadent, memorable ride.