| Poetry |
| The Many Forms You Take Samantha Elizabeth Meyers I placed you so high upon a pedestal And expected nothing less Yet you continue to fail me everyday And my love grows unchecked I picked a grain of sand, just one, Out of a billion on the beach No matter how intense the weather was I held it in my hand Might I go my whole life without a drink? Spend an eternity an inch From a drop of that pure water Withering away alone The sun is so close, still so far away And I can feel the warmth no matter where it is But if I left and traveled from here My heart and soul would become ice I should have never been introduced to you My life would not know this pain But it has been bitter sweetly dulled By the pure pleasure and blissfulness of you |
| Curiosity Alastair Reed may have killed the cat; more likely the cat was just unlucky, or else curious to see what death was like, having no cause to go on licking paws, or fathering litter on litter of kittens, predictably Nevertheless, to be curious is dangerous enough. To distrust what is always said, what seems, to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams, leave home, smell rats, have hunches Cannot endear them to those doggy circles Where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches are the order of things, and where prevails much wagging of incurious heads and tails Face it. Curiousity will not cause him to die- only lack of it will Never to want to see the other side of the hill or some improbable country where living is an idyll (although probable hell) would kill us all. Only the curious have, if they live, a tale worth telling at all Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible, are changeable, marry too many wives, desert their children, chill all dinner tables with tales of their nine lives Well, they are lucky. Let them be nine-lived and contradictory curious enough to change, prepared to pay the cat-price which is to die and die again and again each time with no less pain a cat minority of one is all that can be counted on to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell on each return from hell is this: that dying is what the living do that dying is what the loving do and that dead dogs are those who never know that dying is what, to live, each has to do |
| To Spiral Samantha Elizabeth Meyers If I cannot have him Then no one else can. That means you. Especially you. You are the one who restricts me. Denies me the love I so rightly deserve. Just when I am about to win him over You show up at the perfectly wrong time How convenient. You will stop at nothing To prove what I already fear: That he will never be mine Every tool is at your disposal. I don't exactly hate you. I hate that you own him. I hate how you handle him. I hate how he talks about you sometimes And other times (which is most of the time) He gives me hope. I don't see how he could love you. He doesn't. I know him and I can see That he is not happy when you are around. He becomes a completely different, beautiful being Without you. And that is the man I love. I will fight for him. I will die for him. All is fair in love and war. |