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       #Post#: 3--------------------------------------------------
       Poetry - March 2018
   DIR By: tbrandall
       Date: March 6, 2018, 7:16 am
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       Feel free to post general poetry (unrelated to any writing
       prompt) here, for the month of March 2018.
       #Post#: 6--------------------------------------------------
       Re: Poetry - March 2018
   DIR By: tbrandall
       Date: March 6, 2018, 7:27 am
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       "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery and today is a
       gift, that's why we call it the present" - probably a Family
       Circle comic
       My yesterdays have been full of ups and downs, light and dark, a
       variety of directions and shades. My yesterdays are marred by
       bias and preferential treatment, blurring the lines between
       pleasantries and terror. Filling in the blanks with fantasy,
       erasing moments too painful to bear. My yesterday is a dream,
       sometimes a nightmare, not to be repeated as most histories. My
       yesterday is a prelude to greatness currently undiscovered.
       My tomorrow will be the climax to a predictable movie. I long
       for a twist ending after all of the suspense and drama, but the
       plot points have been leading in a direction I picked up on long
       ago. And short of changing channels I will live the ending I was
       handed.
       And today. Today is a hand knit sweater from an unskilled great
       aunt I've never met. I can tell it was made with love but it's
       definitely not the gift I wanted. Today is a gift I will never
       willingly wear, but I can appreciate it with its loose threads
       and uneven stitching. I will put it away for safe keeping, to
       one day look back on with aggrandizement, or not look back at
       all.
       #Post#: 7--------------------------------------------------
       Re: Poetry - March 2018
   DIR By: bethiebee811
       Date: March 6, 2018, 9:27 am
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       Exhaustion
       A Pollyanna smile makes
       a quickly cultivated guise
       that hides
       nicotine stained fingertips
       and red-rimmed eyes
       that are too tired
       to contribute more tears
       to the dried streaks
       of lost and broken
       yesteryears
       where the marrow of life
       was sucked away
       from each and every bone
       needed to carry the day.
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