I am an ordinary woman with an extraordinary passion for writing. Read my work and catch a glimpse into my mind. The author of 'Simple But Deep', a diverse collection of poetry. Visit my my website @
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Jessica Hughes Poems
In the air, omnipresent... The stagnant smell of an uncanny demise.
Acquaintance, we should have not because I despise your knowing. Hate is too good... For lessons of you were hard
We were in the sack, causing the sheets to sweat. They moved about as an orgasmic spasm. But what affected me the most were the dramatic: moans, groans, pants.
In the green garden, our love lingers, as we lie between the lilies and camphire. In our pure
Cool morning breeze soft echos that whisper a canvas of tinted hues diamond shape decors
I was asleep at least I thought I was.. nothing out of the ordinary just a common dream
Highway 85 (a memory)
We rode along highway 85, I saw a tear wailing in the corner of his eye. I kept my mouth shut, didn't say a word. Focusing on the nice scenery on that
Mended shattering of a mirror descends bit by bit,
reservoir for a tear drop thinker among the heavens for what is beyond is far too down woven
One could describe our relationship as a basketball, bungee cord, or yo-yo. You bounced when the pressure elevated. Here I sit in a fetal position.
Upon my captivity, I changed the locks and hid my keys. Somewhere safe___
The Devil On My Heels
The devil on my heels... I ran...looking back... I thought my body would turn into a pillar of salt.
Apple pie was promised to me. As a kid, my eyes were filled with glee; I could not wait for my slice. Crumbled Dutch was my favorite.
Sometimes when the day is lonesome I think of you... And tears roll from my eyes. The reasons why: injustice, prejudice,
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
In the air,
The stagnant smell
of an uncanny demise.
Where the butterfly
lies and crickets chirp.
There it is found amid
the moss trees encircled
by kudzu vines. The
cries, the echoes, the
voices, the sounds of
wander that rings
throughout the night.
A prize to be searched.
Why leave ghostly
memories for the ones
who killed the zeal of life?