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I think the last time I got a decent amount of sleep
Was when I was in my moms belly
So don't complain
If I'm a little tired
Cause I didn't ask
For life to turn out like this
And from the fire that had burned her
So many times before
She raised as ashes
Unbreakable as ever
And flew like a falcon 
To hunt down and ****
The ones who incinerated her
I opened a book
A book full of my feelings and emotions
But when I tried to show you
All there was
Were blank pages
You are like a corpse flower;
Beautiful and rare, but with a hint of death
In case you do not know what a corpse flower is or how it looks like, then I suggest you should Google it. It's a very unique and  beautiful flower, but with a foul smell.
  Oct 2016 Katja Sunny Darre
Nicole
We were never a fan of dialogues.

At the other end of the street I would watch her

Each Monday, carrying a new book every time.

I didn't like to read.

I preferred music, in my opinion
Was the equivalent of a book
Each telling a story.

The cup of coffee in my hand felt as warm as my heart
As I blew the hot liquid from the brim of the cup

And take a picture of her with the smoke that frames her body.

I wrote short poems of how captivating her beauty was
On the greasy table napkins provided for the coffee tables

Producing a different piece each time.

Her mouth would move as she read the words,
Mumbling lines of incoherent sentences I could not decipher.

At times I would see a smile break out on her face
And I would find myself consumed in slight envy.
Would she have smiled at the words I've written for her?

She was a song, I was a poem.

She was first written on smooth paper,
A thoughtless idea jotted in messy handwriting
Soon expanding into a verse and chorus
Written over and over again,
Revised by experts, reviewed until perfection,

Interpreted by bassists, guitarists, drummers, and vocalists
Appreciated repeatedly through the stereos of listeners
As they capture each beat and tempo.
She was flawless.

I was a poem.

I was rewritten in a single document copy
Renamed and revised
From the greasy fingers tapping away on keyboards
Typed and deleted,
Typed and deleted.

Frustrating the writer as they could never get an idea out of me
Leaving me in a file hidden in the folders of an old computer
Unfinished and waiting to be opened.

I was a mess in unorganized stanzas of ideas,

Lines which no one will have the audacity to read,

A waste of time,
Flawed.

She was the perfection in every imperfection
An artwork that you could only love through the eyes.
A piece which I
Wanted in my own.
I watched her again silently and wondered
Is it possible to love someone you've only admired from afar?
She was the artwork you could only love through the eyes.
A pocket full
of sunshine
to share some pure delight,

A pocket full
of shiny stars
to save for a really dark night.

A pocket full
of fairy dust
to sprinkle on the needy,

A pocket full
of dragon's breath
to fire at the greedy.

A pocket full
of raindrops
to wash away any impurities,

A pocket full
of umbrellas
to protect you from your insecurities.

A pocket full
of rainbows
to brighten up your skies,

A pocket full
of moonlight
to reflect the magic in your eyes.

By Lady R.F ©2016
Repost
Floating heads
Means floating thoughts
But to many floating thoughts
Are to heavy to be floating
And heavy thoughts
Means a heavy head
It hits the ground
from where
it rised so many times before
maybe it can do it
once more
Just because pt.1 isn't enough :)
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