soft, pale lips | forest dark eyes glittering in the stars | shaking hands
whispered poetry | collarbones | snow falling silently
string music | constellation tattoos | frost blooming on glass
aerial dance | kissing your partners fingers | burrowing in a pile of warm blankets
cocoa in over-sized mugs | the sea | cheeks pink from the cold
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
leaves burning orange and red like fire | curly brunette hair tumbling past your shoulders
the taste of pumpkin on your tongue | the wind becoming colder
gray sweaters | old books
cats | the feeling of old wood on your fingertips
burnt matches | the smell of parchment
chill rock music | bonfires
flannels with the sleeves rolled up | halloween
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
seashell pink lips | blankets spread out on grass in the middle of the night | stargazing
roadtrips | strawberry pop rocks | laughing with your friends
fireworks | the warmth of sunshine | ice cream melting on your tongue
kissing | bathing suits under clothes | holding hands
drunken giggles | campgrounds | cooling off in lakes
the feeling of freedom | melting marshmallows over a fire | movie marathons
long walks with your best friend | adrenaline rushes | soda fizzing in a glass
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
fields full of jewel-coloured wildflowers | curling up in your partners arms
sugar cubes in your tea | acoustic guitars
lyrical dance | baby blue skies
fluffy clouds | the feeling of hope in your chest
ripped blue jeans | lemon candy
watercolour paintings | floral tattoos
birdsong | picnics in the woods
dew in the morning grass | sunrises
polaroid photos | fawns
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 12:59 PM UTC
my voice is spun glass,
as fragile as the wings of a butterfly taking it's first flight out of it's cocoon.
so long my voice has remained unused,
drowned out in the voices of others,
whisked away in the hurricane that is my thoughts.
my voice is weak and unfamiliar,
even to myself.
it's not as strong as the sea.
it can't sustain life, or drown it away.
the force of it alone is not crushing;
it is feather-light
the secret about poetry is that it changes things,
just as the ocean does.
when you hardly ever speak,
it can give you the power to transform your voice into something better.
a fragile voice,
frail with disuse,
becomes a force of it's own.
it becomes a gale.
i do not need a voice like the ocean.
i have a voice of my own.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC