love is probably hidden in the most profound corners of the harrowing edges of a human heart. the soul craves for something that makes you want to see another sunrise. it's death, but clinging to it with with such desperate pertinacity. you see yourself disintegrate to a different form until you forget who you are.
love is a series of tragic uncertainties but it is something you would still risk for. it is what keeps us alive, probably what we're all made for. it's seeing the ugliest parts, sharp edges and the most dangerous curves. seeing them drenched in salt water but still choosing to grow old with them.
love is completing the other half, being an extension of his limbs and doing the things he can't. it is whispering and holding hands in half dark, giving all that you have and more without expecting anything in return. using a whip for the first time but don't know who ends up getting hurt.
love is someone you prayed for every night but it could hurt to a certain degree you couldn't take and would make you feel alive at the same time.
- love is a paradox, a nostrum humans take desperately waiting for it to work.
Dont be afraid of the leaves,
Because they fall today
From the promises she kindly keeps
Deep down in her bird limbs
Pulled apart for you
On the night of cries, hot and wet wings
In her lack of arms, metaphisical swings
The part of our hearts that forgot our first breath
In those blowing winter winds
Smile down the path
For there is no truth or doubt
Just got down the weeping Road
Walk and walk, dont shout
And you shall no longer,
With her, be without.
It is such a funny thing
how love drifts back and forth
between tangled limbs;
amongst a mess of sheets;
through bruised kisses,
and; alcohol-riddled breaths.
She rolled over
and nestled herself
in the crook of his arms.
seems to have grown
into the comfort of routine;
that their bodies have created,
quietly speaking the words
that were left unsaid.
"The night is young,
and beautiful;" she murmured.
"As are you," he returned.
"I think this is a poem you wrote on my phone (or it is something I wrote). I can't remember. It is from a time period when we were in the desert and both had working phones." - Sarah
If you thought you had met the love of your life- what would you do? The heat is up our chills up and down, and the faces the old women make in drug-induced ticks, heavy noisome smells mixed with the best greatest sweetest smelling true love you've ever known.
And five times a day now you spend hours and hours entwined and touching and being touched by the greatest and softest skin cells your skin has ever been against
And with perfervid excitednees, a cold chest, but tepid limbs, you avoid blinking to extend the lifespans of us both.
Head and Shoulders, knees and toes
That's the way the story goes
Here is something no one knows
To lepers...it's important
It's the inventory song
You may think that this is wrong
Put me back where I belong
But, lepers need to do this
Count your digits 'fore you leave
It's a fact you must believe
They're not out for to deceive
They need to inventory
If they count and all is there
They face the world without a care
They lose their parts, but not their hair
Their day will be successful
Head and Shoulders, Knees and toes
That's the way the old song goes
I've got four fingers and six toes
I guess I'll put some gloves on
The inventory song is neat
It teaches them, they need two feet
Or they can't walk down the street
It really is important
Gripping things is kind of tough
When digits...you've not enough
You know your fingers' with your stuff
You'll go and find it later
So, if you think that this is wrong
And you do not like this song
Put me back where I belong
I think this song's a service
Head and Shoulders, Knees and Toes
I've a friend with half a nose
Now you know what no one knows
Inventory is required.
Sometimes I think
of what a tragedy it is
for us to build towers so tall,
that we couldn’t see.
That it was not a home
but a barrier of walls.
Stacked so high with bricks.
With my weakened state and
I could not crack
Nor chip away
At aggregates and paste
to see even the slightest trace
whenever I meet someone new, I inevitably check their limbs for scars.
they are almost always there, some solitary little wisps, some like a cross-hatching, a pattern, a score...
...and I find that the stories written there are irresistible, and the wounds run deeper than I can kiss.
I always fall for the broken ones, whose scars travel further than I've ever been.
I started with the last line a long time ago, and it's been flitting around in my head, with the rest of the words just out of reach. It finally made sense tonight.