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Verbiage

7/30/2015

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Edit me
like copy-text.
Paste me like
blog content.
Double space
and double check
all of my various typos.
Tab Tab Tab until
I'm right where you need me.
Align my margins
            until you are pleased.
Fiddle with my fonts.
Control-Alt-Delete.
Enter.
Print me on BOTH sides.
Escape.
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Imaginary Girlfriend

7/28/2015

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He tap-tap-tapped on the window
ever so slightly, lightly so
the dogs outside would be quiet.
He tap-tap-tapped on HER window
but SHE pretended not to notice,
and slowly began to undress.
HE liked that about her.
He also enjoyed the sheerness
of her drapes,
until the cops came.


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Selempathy

7/24/2015

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He hugged me as if
I were his daughter,
and in some kindred way,
I had wished that I were...
at that exact moment.

He was in mourning,
and his soul ached from
the inside out.
I wanted to reach in
and remove his pain;
to elevate his comfort.
I tried...
but his ribs kept getting
in the way.

Someday,
when the cleaners
have done their job,
he'll hug me again.
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Shivers

7/21/2015

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The air smelled like
the taste of ripened melon,
hotter than Hades' scrotum
and smothering at best.
There were holes in the clouds
and the crickets buzzed
but whatever...it didn't stop me none.
Even if God had hollered out
through the holes,
or stuck a hand down
to knock me around,
I wouldn't have felt it.

I just kept digging.
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The Plan

7/17/2015

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I'll meet you at the
Old oak stump,
just after the kids
go to bed.
Bring the lantern and
blankets so we can
watch the stars.
I'll wear my denim jacket
in case the bugs are bad,
and you wear that fedora
that belonged to your Dad.
I'll meet you at the
Old oak stump,
where we held hands
as kids.
I'll be there,
I promise, before we're dead.
You bring the shovel,
and a bucket of chicken.
I know I'll be hungry
cause I'll be schluffin him.
Meet me at the
Old oak stump,
after the kids go to bed.
He won't mind,
I promise...he'll already be dead.
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Once Upon a F*$ked Up Time

7/16/2015

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I wanted, once upon a
fucked up time,
to believe that anything
could have been possible.
I wanted to shine my rays
upon your face and bask
in the radiating glow.
But, what did I know?
I knew you weren't content
just then.
I knew you were excited,
with possibilities packed
in your suitcases.
I knew that I had wanted
to crawl into the pockets
of your backpack
and travel next to your socks.
I knew that I had wanted to crumple
next to your jeans and slacks
and hand you your toothbrush
right when you needed it.
I knew that I had wanted
to cook you late night
dinners of pork chops
and baked potatoes
and ask you to open the
sparkling wine.
I knew I had wanted to
eat greasy burgers,
sitting in the dirt on the
side of a road somewhere
while you smiled at me.
I knew I had wanted to savor
watching you-watch the world.
I knew that I had wanted
to dance with you,
barefoot in the grassy fields
with the boom box blaring
beneath the midwest moon.
I knew I had wanted you
to feel happiness,
in the form of whatever it took.
But, I had wanted to feel it too.
Once, upon a fucked up time,
I thought that life would
play out like cards
and that the Universe would
be gracious in its trumps
and bowers.
I see now, that it always was
and that I may have passed
my hand too soon.
Maybe I could have made do
with a few off suit
and said "ok" when you
found your spot
and the dust had settled down.
Once upon a fucked up time,
I had no clue
what I was doing.
I had packed you away.
I had stowed your memory
and placed it between the
rocks that I had collected.
I had put your picture
and note in boxes,
and pulled them from
my closet when Six Pence
played on my stereo.
Once,
upon a tender sweet time,
maybe I should have spoken
a little louder.
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A Friend

7/6/2015

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Birds are chirping this morning,
and the smells of summer abound.
Freshly cut lawns,
dew dripping from
the garden...
Hosta blossoms and
tiger lillies floating their
nectar sweet breezes,
bellowing faintly for the bees.
The morning feels so light.
But my mind, and my heart
are weighted with thoughts
of a friend,
a Father,
a son,
            gone
before the
morning light
ever graced
him again.
May heaven smell as lovely
as this morning does.
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    Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.

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  • Home
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  • Audrie Bretl Roelf
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