To my dearest
I didn’t mean to pluck
The petals off your flowers
I’ve come to find
The garden of thorns
And dead roots
Seem to suit you
Better than any blooming
Colors could ever do.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
I am a picture without a frame,
not hanging on a wall
but my image still remains.
I am matte not glossy,
postcard size for convenience.
You can have me with you,
take me wherever you wanted to.
I am a pretty picture honey,
a picture without a frame
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
Love as a bird flying free
dying daily to un-cage
attachment.
Snipping
cords binding unwinding
expectations only hold
a box of memories,
only
those moments to
sleep more on satin
sheets in cotton thread.
Im not sure if he loves me
or if I read, a reflection
in the mind of me
love
as the bird flying free.
Come what may as
it leaves the warmth
of winter awakening
spring. Till summer
speaks from my window
to the bird thats flying
free. Detaching the cords
uncage my soul, his soul
our soul.
Upload to cloud
in memories.
Moments.
Quilted in the silken sky.
Love as a bird flying free
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
I haven’t been writing much lately
my muse has gone with a flutter
and flourish of wings
a post-apocalyptic shell of a writer
left in the dust, feathers falling like
snow like a mini avalanche
**** word to the wise:
don’t get too attached to your muse.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
I have been walking
for a very long time,
but it doesn’t matter
how far away I travel
or which path I take
-
every now and then,
I still discover bits of
you in my shoes,
like fine gravel that
I just can’t seem
to shake out.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
October is my month.
You will not take my heart.
You will not make me cry.
Autumn belongs to me.
Please excuse me while I
shake you off
and pull on a warm, maroon sweater.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
We all grow into
forests one day,
songbirds in our branches
and children hopping from
root to root shrieking and
our toes will still know the earth.
This is certain:
the sun rises, magenta and
orange at seven oh two
am on the dot and
the gala apples are
ripe red and round in
our fists, fingers.
The air we breathe is
entirely composed of stories
and it settles around our ankles like
fresh spring mulch
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
We all grow into
forests one day,
songbirds in our branches
and children hopping from
root to root shrieking and
our toes will still know the earth.
This is certain:
the sun rises, magenta and
orange at seven oh two
am on the dot and
the gala apples are
ripe red and round in
our fists, fingers.
The air we breathe is
entirely composed of stories
and it settles around our ankles like
fresh spring mulch
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC