Mermaid Verse

music flows from lips and as words meet sound bound and found me, your eyes wide open, soul sprightly greeting thee….


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My Heart is Set on You (or Never Ever Fall in Love with a Rockstar) by Megan Seaman

Heart on fire

Heart on fire

My heart is set on you

My heart is set on you

Though you do not care that I exist

Though I send you lollipops like you wish

Though my fragile tissue may gushingly bleed

Though you think you have all you need

Though she sings the songs you passionately sing

Though you’ve given her that diamond ring

Though what I say might sound disturbing

Though I’ll take a hundred years discerning

Though the truth is yet disappointingly unknown

Though you won’t call me on your telephone

Though we live miles and miles apart

Though the distance is long to make a start

Though it rains cold drops on Monday morning

Though it persists through evening violently storming

Though when the sun comes it is wondrously warm

Though the light reveals the drapes now torn

Though what I might say doesn’t mean a thing

Though you care not for gifts I bring

Though I will never feel the touch of your hand

Though we will never go the places I plan

Though the Universe is wide and wild and expanding

Though I’ll see you on that street corner standing

Though our eyes will meet in some seraphic way

Though at a moments pause you will turn and look away

My heart is set on you

My heart is set on you

My poor old lonely heart is set on you.

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It hurts so good (8-2-14 to 8-3-14) – by Megan Seaman

Something golden below the surface

Something golden below the surface

It hurts so good.

You run the sharp nail over the raw and tender surface and it hurts so good. It is the feeling of nothing; a faint scream, or some noise six billion years away. But you hear it anyway. It is the trickle of water from some cracked pipe, in some wall, on some floor, in some building, in some city, in some country, on some continent, and it leaks and flows in the darkness. But you hear it anyway. It is the glimmer, shining, thirty-six thousand feet below the sea, where Spanish dancing cucumbers can’t even survive. But you see it anyway. It is the honeyed smell of spring, some one hundred and seventy-nine days after the first leaf falls on autumn’s ground. But you smell it anyway. It is the flavor of the pomegranate in the dark red depths of the wine that grew from the grapes nourished by the land, which flourished an orchard of Persephone’s fruits nine thousand years ago. But you taste it anyway. It is the aching feeling under three (thousand) layers of skin, wanting to be exposed and touched, wanting to be acknowledge for the sensation it brings. But you feel it anyway. And though it is tender and raw under the piercing metal,

It hurts so good.