abigail-miller
American
A music history major at the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston, MA, Abigail takes special pleasure in writing, be it about music, heartbreak, sex, or nature. Many poems are melancholy and often work best when set to music played in minor tonalities.
If love is a garden, growing green,
And lock'd away, to be ne'er seen,
Then mine is dead and abused,
Neglected and disused.
For while you toil and labor,
I seek only favour.
For Love is only cruel;
Life's unpleasant gruel
And pleasure should reign,
As forthwith we gain
And stride to endeavor
Ourselves to find pleasure.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
Fever clouds my muddled mind,
I toss and turn, but cannot find
The cure for this, my ailment cruel,
And you, my love, are but it's fuel.
Your absence in my heart does ring,
And sweet release you will not bring.
For though we live in different worlds,
I crave you, and your love's sweet pearls.
The time we have together spent
Does naught but leave my heart in rents,
And though I know you mean no harm,
My happiness is in your arms.
The thought that we will never be
Serves only as torment to me;
And while I crave your passion sweet,
You'll only knock me off my feet.
The love I have for you is dead
Before it can hold up it's head;
And all we've shared will come to naught,
Yet still, I am in your web caught.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 1:55 PM UTC
Be still my heart, why dost thou turn?
Thy beat is fast, thy passion burns.
Thy flame dost strike within my breast,
And now I cannot find my rest.
Thou fillst my head with hopes and dreams,
Yet naught can come of lovesick schemes.
Alone I rest my head at night,
And still thou beat, to mock my plight.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 1:03 PM UTC