ProvidenceA lone feather,Caught in a warm summer draft.Where will it lead me?
Back to GrayStorm clouds rolling in.My treacherous mood returns,As the room darkens.
Incidentialsole morning glory,loops itself through the brass gate,and into mine heart.
Too LateGolden sun drops low,As shadows begin to fade.I couldn't find you.
Reflection PoolWhy will nothing hideThe jumbled distorted truthsI've come to despise?
GuardedA single teardrop,Breaks the surface of my tea.Like a snake, you smile.
SeashellsI feel as ifWe are two seashellsOne darkOne lightThat Fate tossed togetherOn the seashore of life
EnchantedWaltz lost in the dark,His skin against satin gloves.Cloud of her perfume.
Mouse's OrdealLeave maze?Can't.Desire more cheese.
OneI can remember exactly when i first met you.The slight crease in your face as you smiled.If one thing could say something, then that did.I can remember everything.You shaped me. Made me.We grew into each other. We fell apart with each other.I cannot remember anything without you.I can remember exactly when we first kissed.The way your lips felt soft and curious, against mine.If one thing could say something, then that did.I'd live a million miles away.Another life and world away, with you.If I know what love is, it is because of you.
Broken WordsI am nothing butA crippled heartAnd broken words,Lost forever inA dark empty room.
*Possibility*PossibilityLove will flower in summerColour blooms and diesGrey days encroach, love withersMemories sublime.2014 Delice19412nd March2014:iconrosablu:
Stubborn Love (2/20)I'm mad at myselffor not despising you witha burning passion.
My DiseaseMy fingers bleed wordsthat my lips cannot say.When they try to trickle out,I scowl and turn away.It may not be contagious,but it is a disease.Holding myself deep inside,it's getting hard to breathe.Lies come so easy,to cover up the truth.It’s like my second nature,grown from my very youth.It’s deeper than conviction,more earnest than a thought.It’s my wayIt’s my lifeIt is my disease.
WritingI am a writerI write whatI wish I could sayTrapping my feelingsOn paper everydayI am a writerI write whatI see around meMy eyes; wide openHave set me freeI am a writerI write whatI need to doClear and confusedJust give me a clueI am a writerI write what I feelAnd I feel what I writeBut when I stop feelingI stop writingAnd my little worldStarts reelingI am a writerWho writes to find reasonAnd maybe even some treasonIn this worldWhere insanity rulesBehind a piece of paper marked:"Here are the fools"
Cold CoffeeThere’s a cold cup of coffee on the table by his hand. He can’t stop picking it up and tasting the liquid within, only for it to slide out again with his breath. The man sitting across from him wrinkles his nose at this, but won’t stop talking about the very important Paper in front of him and how everything would be so much simpler if Mr. Staden would just sign, thank you very much and enjoy the rest of your coffee without me.Mr. Staden just looks back at the man and the papers, feeling the pen that he holds loosely in his left hand. It’s heavy, but looks cheap. He scribbles it against the napkin coaster and it doesn’t leave a mark, moving it faster back and forth just tears the paper.“This doesn’t work,” he says, and he watches as the man—the lawyer—reaches inside his bag—his briefcase, where the other Papers are—and produces another pen, this one lighter, blue ink instead of black.“Here, try this,
She smells like flowersThe young boy just wanted to hold her tight As he felt her amber hair flutter about in the breeze Looks scattered timidly, unrestrained heartbeats faded away This young adventurer finally found the fragrance he'd die for. Putrid seas of despair became Twilight's holdings Here comes victorious Dawn, hammering her flowered flag into The possessed boy's skull. This new Freedom he was blessed, Kept running through his mind as if he has lived thousands of lives.He craved her all night long, a fellow bottle in hand Waiting made his night last longer than eternal Oblivion Howling as a lost soul, until he smells her again, Beautiful hangover.The shy boy was reeked of youth's insouciance, On his fresh field
Preventedi could've been anchored awaybeneath the frost and floecomatose in the river mud.i would've been mortifiedice crushing my lungs into sushinothing but the taste of dirtcurling over my tongue.i should've consideredthat i wouldn't havespoken any last wordsonly bubbles would slip throughmy teeth.
The Value of WorkYour art is beautiful, unique, horrid, terrible...What does it take to dignify value?The ability of my mind to comprehendPeoples creations through the lens of my own.We can all demote or praise works made by the peopleBut where does this process come from?A line on a portrait capturing the essence of simplicityOr the detailed work of a landscape settingWhy do we put so much effort into finding the value?Materialistic in natureCreatively hollow.Maybe this is the wrong thing to sayPerhaps anything I say is false.So then, I shall ask againWhy?
YouI can't describe you in any form,But you're the sun that waits for a single momentTo shimmer down the warmth that I need.You're the fiery flares that peel off the sunAnd brighten up the darkness that I have traveled through.You're the rippling ocean on a tranquil night,The cyan tides that wrap around me instead of drowning me.You're even the depth of the oceanThat I wish to adventure downward and discover what you hold.You're fire and water interlaced with each other…And yet have a mellifluous personality that shines enough that can give sight to the blind…I can't describe you in any form,But you're the tranquility I oh so desperately need,And the light that can help me exit the darkness.
i'm not good enoughI had a dreamthat I woke up without acneand that you wanted to date melike in the movies but I'm sorrythis is not a dream and I'm sorrythat I am waking up with flaws this timeand I am sorry
DivineI’m wanderingDeeper into the depths of my mindI’m roamingFurther into the darkI’m whispering…Whispers of despairWhispers of agonyWhispers of crueltyVicious wordsA revolting incantationRottenAbominableDiabolicalI’m fallingDeeper into the depths of my soulI’m sinkingFurther into the blackI’m screaming…Screams of revulsionScreams of tormentScreams for bloodSpells of repulsionHymns of the damnedDecayedSpitefulDivine
For YouI don’t know how many wordsI’ve put into poems.Or how many conversationsI’ve had in my head.They’re all directed right at youThough we’ve not met.Maybe once we finally meetI’ll haul them out.Show you the lines of my heartThere on paper.And if we never actually meetThey’re all I’ll have.A life that could have been livedCharted in ink.
Tribute to Edgar Allan Poe...The dark daunting whispers ofspectral strangersbounced off the whitewashed walls of mybedchamber.And shook me from my resting-ever-so replenishing!-reviving reverie.And stole my soul back into the world-the rest of the lonely dreaming world-of trouble; chore; of melancholy burden bore.I paced the floor to and frow;my heavy awkward stepsslightly out of sync.My oafish unfacile feet-my entire body!-wanted and wishedto waltzwith the dancing shadows.To twirl in adept unisonwith the tinkling of footfallslightly treading upon the tufted floor.However, my timing was as raw as my talent.And as for my balance-my lack-that!Could not be ignored.And so I weaved ‘round the black withering forms.Profound finesse: a fake façade I worewhilst my lower limbs quivered and quaked,and to my knees-Thud!-I hit the floor.And alas!With faltering fiery flame;altering ardor.I accomplished poiseupon fluctuating knees:Locuson the blanched floor.My will to rise aga
NostalgiaUnworthy of you,All I can hope to possess,Is this memory.