ashley-sutera - Hello Poetry

These are just words written on paper which was once a living tree thus words bringing it to life once more and if we are to **** and in doing so not obtain the resources of this earth by creating images that dance on the tips of our minds the death is in vain it is only through words that this leaf this tree which once bore fruit now baring knowledge is eternal

0

Feb 4, 2011

Feb 4, 2011 at 10:08 AM UTC

Rules to becoming eternal

These are just words written on paper which was once a living tree thus words bringing it to life once more and if we are to **** and in doing so not obtain the resources of this earth by creating images that dance on the tips of our minds the death is in vain it is only through words that this leaf this tree which once bore fruit now baring knowledge is eternal

13

The tiled floor is cold pressing into my feet. The only warmth comes from the steam of my tea resting on the nightstand. I’d like to know how I survived the winter months without you where my only friend was a good book and maybe a casual cigarette. By candlelight, the tea and honey is finding it’s way all the way down, coating my throat for temporary relief. What I wouldn’t give for a kiss right now. You could stir my tea. I’d lick the sugar clean from your finger, and it would somehow taste sweeter.

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Dec 9, 2010

Dec 9, 2010 at 3:01 PM UTC

December

The tiled floor is cold pressing into my feet. The only warmth comes from the steam of my tea resting on the nightstand. I’d like to know how I survived the winter months without you where my only friend was a good book and maybe a casual cigarette. By candlelight, the tea and honey is finding it’s way all the way down, coating my throat for temporary relief. What I wouldn’t give for a kiss right now. You could stir my tea. I’d lick the sugar clean from your finger, and it would somehow taste sweeter.

10

To die and sleep within a world of dreams, is but to live in my reality. There are few who endure the true nature of things, without methods of escape. We call those people realists. I call those people sad. To envision the world through their eyes, is a menacing chaos. Without divine order or inspiration. Set yourself aflame and rise from the ashes of the material world. Live as though dreams can be touched, and music can be tasted, smells can be heard, and love can be seen.

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Nov 24, 2010

Nov 24, 2010 at 1:54 AM UTC

The truth about lying to oneself.

To die and sleep within a world of dreams, is but to live in my reality. There are few who endure the true nature of things, without methods of escape. We call those people realists. I call those people sad. To envision the world through their eyes, is a menacing chaos. Without divine order or inspiration. Set yourself aflame and rise from the ashes of the material world. Live as though dreams can be touched, and music can be tasted, smells can be heard, and love can be seen.

16

I've become what I promised myself I wouldn't a zombie writing these words onto this sheet of paper I had to reference the 110 bus for the date November 5, 2010 floated across an electronic screen it's grown colder colder than before The leaves no longer on the trees have adorn the ground in various shades of yellows and oranges but mostly brown The dampness of the air only makes things appear more ***** It almost makes me long for snow at least then things will appear clean only I will know that underneath it's surface lays the dirt trash and clutter making my streets a swamp residual poverty The Mystic River almost looks appealing today I wish I could bathe in the decadence of it's slime and dirt and blown tires and shopping carts an urban soup The station is full of it's usual assembly line of rude people who's lives are far more important than yours "No thank you", man who gives away the paper There's no good news today The rain is falling in a pattern on the train window all around the head of a man directly across from me almost in the shape of a halo maybe he is God or at least and Angel "Stand behind the yellow line doors are closing"

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Nov 19, 2010

Nov 19, 2010 at 5:08 PM UTC

November 5th 2010

I've become what I promised myself I wouldn't a zombie writing these words onto this sheet of paper I had to reference the 110 bus for the date November 5, 2010 floated across an electronic screen it's grown colder colder than before The leaves no longer on the trees have adorn the ground in various shades of yellows and oranges but mostly brown The dampness of the air only makes things appear more ***** It almost makes me long for snow at least then things will appear clean only I will know that underneath it's surface lays the dirt trash and clutter making my streets a swamp residual poverty The Mystic River almost looks appealing today I wish I could bathe in the decadence of it's slime and dirt and blown tires and shopping carts an urban soup The station is full of it's usual assembly line of rude people who's lives are far more important than yours "No thank you", man who gives away the paper There's no good news today The rain is falling in a pattern on the train window all around the head of a man directly across from me almost in the shape of a halo maybe he is God or at least and Angel "Stand behind the yellow line doors are closing"

42

Bits of tar rolling down my throat and into my lungs used to make me feel alive His lips tasted of metal and his of cinnamon and hers of freshly picked strawberries I would bring food to my mouth and ingest hoping one day to feel full To bite into something that would not leave me wanting for something Drops of burning liquid would numb my wet lips and then my heart the tartness of meals led to an aftertaste of bitterness until I brought my lips to yours

0

Nov 19, 2010

Nov 19, 2010 at 4:39 PM UTC

Taste

Bits of tar rolling down my throat and into my lungs used to make me feel alive His lips tasted of metal and his of cinnamon and hers of freshly picked strawberries I would bring food to my mouth and ingest hoping one day to feel full To bite into something that would not leave me wanting for something Drops of burning liquid would numb my wet lips and then my heart the tartness of meals led to an aftertaste of bitterness until I brought my lips to yours

19

I want so much to remember. All I can recall, is her face, which felt like paper. So thin, crisp, and white. Like a sheet of snow, over hills and peaks. A raisin. Drained of its juices, but still sweet as ever.

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Oct 26, 2010

Oct 26, 2010 at 7:31 AM UTC

Lilian

I want so much to remember. All I can recall, is her face, which felt like paper. So thin, crisp, and white. Like a sheet of snow, over hills and peaks. A raisin. Drained of its juices, but still sweet as ever.

11

I suppose all I can really say is that I love you, in this simple way. The way that children cherish treasures and secret places. “All the things I’m feeling don’t seem to come out right.” were the words you said to me. You held me under a pale sky, that got brighter with every word. All of those jumbled feelings twisted up into fragments from your lips. They were the sweetest my ears have ever heard, and I held onto them, like blades of grass on the edge of a cliff. I was bruised, and so were you. But like a healer, you touched my face, and replaced my frown with a smile. It wasn’t too late for me, and it wasn’t too late for you.

0

Oct 5, 2010

Oct 5, 2010 at 4:21 AM UTC

Fragments from a best friend.

I suppose all I can really say is that I love you, in this simple way. The way that children cherish treasures and secret places. “All the things I’m feeling don’t seem to come out right.” were the words you said to me. You held me under a pale sky, that got brighter with every word. All of those jumbled feelings twisted up into fragments from your lips. They were the sweetest my ears have ever heard, and I held onto them, like blades of grass on the edge of a cliff. I was bruised, and so were you. But like a healer, you touched my face, and replaced my frown with a smile. It wasn’t too late for me, and it wasn’t too late for you.

21

I love when it’s cold. I enjoy seeing your breath in the air. It helps confirm that you are real, and not someone I’ve concocted. Dark eyes, dark hair. A tenderness, a shyness. A perfect recipe, for the enjoyment of a young girl.

0

Oct 5, 2010

Oct 5, 2010 at 4:16 AM UTC

Delight

I love when it’s cold. I enjoy seeing your breath in the air. It helps confirm that you are real, and not someone I’ve concocted. Dark eyes, dark hair. A tenderness, a shyness. A perfect recipe, for the enjoyment of a young girl.

10

I'll paint my lips red, so that every kiss leaves a trace on your face, and all the girls will know that you are mine.

0

Jul 9, 2010

Jul 9, 2010 at 11:56 AM UTC

Lips painted red

I'll paint my lips red, so that every kiss leaves a trace on your face, and all the girls will know that you are mine.

3

I know I may be young but I want it all with you. I want a house by the sea. I want a family and a person to wake up to every morning, when the sun rises. I know I may be young, but one day my face will droop and my bones will ache. I know that want that with you.

0

Jul 9, 2010

Jul 9, 2010 at 11:37 AM UTC

I know I may be young

I know I may be young but I want it all with you. I want a house by the sea. I want a family and a person to wake up to every morning, when the sun rises. I know I may be young, but one day my face will droop and my bones will ache. I know that want that with you.

10