Water Droplets

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The drops fall, silent

As the darkness of the night,

Caressing the soft

Plains and curves of the green land.

It will ne’er again be hers. 

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Mother Earth

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We are born of her,

Each and every one of us

Without exception. We

Are nourished by her.

Her milk is our water, her breast

Is the land. She gives us air to

Breathe, trees to shade us from the sun.

When our time comes, like it does

For each and every one of her children,

She will welcome us back into her bosom

And care for us until we become one with her.

And how do we repay her? By cutting down

Those trees and dirtying her waters

With the worst possibly mud.

 

Cherish your mother. She’s the only

One you will ever have.

Prompt for April 22: The shoe

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[prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/]

If the shoe fits…

That’s what she always used to say to me. As if she could do nothing wrong. No matter what I would do, if it didn’t meet her approval, she’d mutter some ugly word under her breath (usually one starting with b or c) and I was forced to ask her what she said—or tell her to stop—in which she would always say if the shoe fits…

I wanted to rip her ponytail out of her head and stomp it under the stupid shoes she seemed so keen to talk about. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs that she wasn’t so fucking immaculate as to be free from the same phrase.

So, against my better judgment, instead of taking the high road like I knew I should have, when her boyfriend actually started calling her those names under his breath as she jealously tried to keep her claws in his skin, keeping him away from his friends of the female persuasion, whenever she tried to cry her sorrows to me I would simply turn my head and mumble in her ear if the shoe fits…

And when that drove her over the edge, when she couldn’t put her shoes on their proper feet because she didn’t want to hear those words that she’d taunted me with for all of our friendship, when she finally decided the only way out was to take a handful of pills and sleep away into oblivion, when the time came to visit her new and forever satin bed, I noticed her toes didn’t fully reach the peep toe of her black heels. Instead, only slivers of nails could be seen.

That’s when I realized that the shoe didn’t fit her, just like it didn’t fit me. The shoe never fits anyone.  

Curious Fickle Society

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‘Tis a curious thing, society.

How a woman was thought of as

Being possessed of great passions

Unequal to any a rational being such as

Man could ever have. Yet these great

Hysterical emotions were no match to

The great Poets and Playwrights who

Enslaved their passions in ink upon paper.

 

‘Tis a fickle thing, society.

How the weakest, fairest, purest sex

Has always been thought of as capable

Of possessing the strongest and darkest

Of thought and desire. A pity the

Women of old failed to use this fact

To their advantage.