wake yawn sigh look curse move go run slide sit wait think wander hear startle look blush speak hush nod see think stand walk climb sigh breathe look cross go wave look see recognize smile touch shiver blush flutter laugh hold
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
today leaves hold fast to your boots, my love
where have you wandered?
to you, my love, to you,
I cannot wander, my path leads to you.
today snow collects along your collar, my love
where have you wandered?
to you, my love, to you,
I cannot wander, my path leads to you.
today your cap is wet, my love
where have you wandered?
to you, my love, to you,
I cannot wander, my path leads to you.
today the sun has scorched your brow, my love
where have you wandered?
to you, my love, to you,
the path is changed each day I come.
yet I come each day, and I come for you.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 11:36 PM UTC
mother
lily of the valley
I weave it with you
I fill it with you
I carry you and I carry with you
I carry myself in you
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
Your lemon slice smile
Already a 4
I feel the tremor
Like sitting on a washing machine
Its turning under me
But I barely move
I see the balloon of your scream deflate around the room
6.3
I spread my legs for a crack in the floor.
Tap. Choke. Slap. Stroke.
8.9
The sun falls and shatters
Shards of light cut my knees
I’m under the table of my consciousness
My heart beats in seismic waves
I love you
I smelled the lies on your breath and they gave me a bruise
The feathers of my words choke me until I let them out
they cry like vultures around the decaying room
they pluck the lemon from your lips
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
My feet are planted
but still I turn to face you.
Sunshine, I am yours.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
These words, were written before pen kissed
paper, etched in my soul, a mediocre martyr.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 6:28 PM UTC
My eyes are not celestial suns of light
But pools reflecting woods mossed green and brown.
The common lip not coral like by sight
But pale as mine, and pink-soft as a gown.
If ******* be white, no woman’s wheat compares.
And women who place roses in fair cheeks
Win heavenly false prize of golden hairs.
My breath, like all who path to heaven seek,
Resembles no scent floral nor my sound
An avian tune rather my words be sweet.
‘Tis true my feet do grace the common ground
Though none I know descended to our heat.
I think my beauty worthy yet and rare
To covet not mock by poets unfair.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 6:18 PM UTC
Love is a recondite matter.
For Her love is an abysmal lake
Of tears and unrequited adulation.
His love was once a duck
that kissed the lake top,
that skimmed the adoring water with its capricious plumage,
that tended to the lake,
and nourished by feeding on the reeds at the waters edge.
Until season changed,
Crisp air blew ripples across the lakes surface.
Yet the lake remained deep and unchanged
And the duck flew south and away
to another, more shallow pond
Remained there.
Leaving Her in want.
She no longer belongs to Herself,
But desires to acquire her souls counterpoint in him.
Her eastern waters warm with each setting night
Her depths and hopes, endless
That one day he will dive among her waves
and this time,
stay.
She begs the wind to keep at bay.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
Electricity to commence the lesson
Shall we start the heart of a selfish man?
For She is the flame that will spark the love of his heart
The match that will ignite the passion
Which already lies hidden within.
She longs to take his boreal love for the Moon
That bleak, frigid, misled, infatuation he deems love
And bring it to Her summery affection;
The southern ardor of Her passion.
Her heart beats a solo nocturnal anthem
to his fleeing step,
his narrowed eyes, and lashing tongue.
With hope of an aubade
to waken his affections with the dawn
Her heart sings on.
She covets the charm of the Moon
Whose commensurate beauty is looked upon by him
With more favor than a rose from eden
Or any part of Her own.
He thinks of the moon as he falls asleep
And each day he wakes,
Weeping to see another dimple upon the moon's teasing face.
Yet as he sleeps he dreams
And never recalls
Until the lightning shakes his house
And he wakes to thoughts of Her
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
A match strikes not for limbo
But for tepid coruscations to warm a soul.
By assumption she is not her own.
The quintessence of a life when received--
A curio to collect dust and fissure.
What will you do
with a heart that is not your own?
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC