You are the primary colors in their purest form. The following argument explains why:
Red
People tend to associate red with danger,
but you are not a warning sign.
You represent the russet in a robin's
breast feathers, the imaginative crimson passion
only humans can produce. Constantly moving,
thriving, your brain is multiple shades
of garnet gems - I can feel it in your skin
when I finally get to massage your heated veins.
Your flaming vermilion soul is
the only one to match my own.
Blue
You are the calmest turquoise ocean, yet
you pulsate with every breath.
There are so many varieties of blue
found in nature, and I can hear all of them
when your fingers tap an instrument.
Your music turns broken energy into
waves and waves and a soft, steady breeze.
I will take a dip into your teal silk arms and
stay for eternity. Sapphire isn't a way to the blues;
it's a realistic path to tranquility and the deepest skylines.
Yellow
You are golden beyond all other beings.
The warmth of your smile, your
soft eyes are a glowing reminder
of your effervescence. There's a child-like
wanderer in your heart that's seeking ecstasy
and the opportunity to bring us absolute bliss.
This is the part of you that makes you part of everything.
You are daises and sunshine. You are in
my favorite yarn and the amber streak
on an otherwise empty canvas.
Overall
You are a prism of idealistic intensities,
saturation and pigments
that are lost on the unexceptional.
Your arc of varied hues gleam beyond what a
human should be capable of mastering.
You are incredible illumination at its finest.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 9:55 PM UTC
There's something magical
that happens when my fingertips
finally reach your surface.
The heat of your miraculous
charm and allure radiates
past your muscles, veins, and skin,
emerging through an enchanting
symmetry that can outwit
every downplayed olfactory
my mind creates.
Your pulse is pure beauty
that you couldn't possibly understand.
But it doesn't matter if you know --
you shine and glow as
wonderfully as any of the stars.
You have the warmest skin.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC
STOP TREATING EACH OTHER LIKE ****
Country to country, person to person.
What does is matter if we lead distant life styles?
Each human has his or her own path to amble along. Why are
we stomping on each other's feet? Because
our lessons may contradict? To advance ourselves? Fear?
Living is the adventures you jump into,
and taking in the stories of every soul you encounter
will teach you how to initiate euphoria.
How are you going to hear the beautiful symphony
of 7,000,000,000 hearts beating with your fingers in your ears?
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 10:37 AM UTC
I don't believe in destiny and I definitely don't believe in God.
I might believe in fate, but I can't define it.
I don't know if I know anything when you look at the big picture.
Maybe I believe things happen for a reason or if they don't,
they happen anyway and it matters. It all definitely matters.
What I'm saying is, I'm sure that I've finally climbed to the highest cliff I could find
and the hike was **** sometimes,
(although the days of glory still permeate through my smiles),
but I'm finally at the peak and there's a ******* valley of evergreens and daisies below me,
and it's like every rock that pierced through the lines on my hands,
and the gallons of run off that kept my bare-skinned feet from solidity,
scraping my shins daily, had to do so; for the lasting.
No other hill could have led to a clearing as beautiful as this.
The valley is you.
The valley is you.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 3:29 PM UTC
I started writing a poem and somehow found myself
comparing your traits to that of a sweater,
and there might have been an allusion to buttery clouds,
So I decided maybe love metaphors aren't my thing,
but I don't need analogies to tell you that
your eyes make me think of tree houses and that
kneading your skin like dough is just as soothing
to my own soul.
If I could, I'd compare your lips to something
life-sustaining, your hands to the sole thing that
grounds me, but I can't think of
anything clever when our foreheads resting together
makes me see stars. When your breath heats my neck,
those stars explode.
You make my solar system change rotation,
planets straying from orbit, which is a stupid metaphor
because I'm not the universe,
just a dandelion in a field of assorted weeds.
You're a bumblebee hovering, maybe, or a cricket
lounging on my petals. That's
dumb, too, because I'm not rooted to the ground;
I have legs to run, maybe wings. Point is, I'm not going to use
comparisons to tell you what you do.
Every line has been used before and your love is like no other.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
Sometimes, right before drifting off,
when your leg's planted against my cast-iron limb,
your arm's length cradling the fear of deprivation
I can't shake without at least a teacup's worth of
bourbon or whiskey or patient caresses,
I forget the ground and find myself
circling the rings of Saturn, using the friction from
your fingertips making patterns to flip to a moon,
Titan, where the dirt feels like cotton on my skin
when I try to make angels out of the dust.
You once told me that you weren't quite
sure this isn't all pretend, an alternate reality
conquest that everyone's in on but you,
and trust me I've thought that, too, but,
baby, I'm sure now this is blissful actuality.
I don't know if you're up for perpetual
ventures in dry humor and messy tabletops,
but I'm willing to build some shelves for
my multitude of flowered vases, and, like you
said about this game, at least we're winning.
I'll crochet us some covers with crazy colors,
to blanket the trouble we'll sustain in
burnt suppers and getting the hammer to
do its job when it doesn't want to mar the
beauty of a freshly painted wall.
You can entertain any aches; I'm well-versed
in phoenix tears and have a safe ear for wilting
daisy petals that you should throw in the soup.
It's tomatoes and old *** and some carrots
(for the eyes), a meal to eighty-six tremors.
Our exploits are easy because your toes
are catapults to another galaxy at least,
and your shoulders cradle my war stories
so well, like a warm rug after cold tile,
like a spot on Earth that's never been stood on.
You've fanned my simmering flame with your
kisses like raindrops, light and heavy, and I
can't be sure if I'm still masquerading or holding
a candle with a spotlight's incandescence,
but I've stopped spending pennies on worries
and instead free my palms to keep my hands
in your hair. I see your smile at the train
station and I'm willing to bet my stash on
our chances at breathing freely (why?) mostly
because of your leg, still firm against mine.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 9:10 AM UTC
To start --
being an adolescent with autumn eyes,
seeking a prophecy for long-standing bravery
to further the spinning spokes for minutes, five more,
I burned the drapes to reveal a humanity only I could see.
The expectations were elaborately existing, unsatisfying. Sons
and fathers, years refrained from matters
that reverse reverse reverse curses and maturity
without purpose.
Those idle accepted neglect, and the existence of an
unsalted bridge was quickly detained. Alone, the foolish described
to search for the future in geometric formation and coffee ring
stains fading the desk.
But the sense proposed in my decided equality drank dignity
straight from the bottle. The road that lead me between two cliffs,
Propriety and Statistics, with the rocks already pelting down,
could not diminish my enthusiasm for necessary absurdities.
There's no flesh in declared mediocrities.
I became a luminary for pleasures of eminence, hope with resolve,
opportunities in destiny. Blind gambles obliged the fear of exacting
sensibility. Passionate follies created no-regret-consequences,
satisfied stability. Only the **** are granted victories in eternal gaiety.
Mortality is irrelevant if you let mystery be your urgency.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
The world in failure is success.
Attend the international footstep's fire.
Words are abused for idol envy.
Every action sums the Earth's final.
So --
Swallow scream strike!
Realism is never ashamed of precipitation.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 11:30 AM UTC
The dusty light filtering through the thin
orange and red scarves covering the window
draws a hazy, tinted mirage on the tiled floor
that the cat can't help but curl under,
his fur heated and shimmering, although
I overlook all of this as my hopeless mind is
drawn to the shadowed spot in my perip-
hery where you kissed me yesterday.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 8:36 AM UTC
Publicly, in a place where language and liberty are
held by egotists, teach the limits of minutes.
Remind the esteemed that speed
is a fool for popular belief.
Twelve months, twelve jurors, twelve perhaps.
Trees have grown in sadder conditions.
If you want the confidence of indifference,
then amaze nature with offensive styles and time with substance.
Paranoia is perfect in a nit-pick of cages.
Birds and children depend on the weather -- the size of
your plate is positive protection from detection.
Man is born trumpeted by eliminations,
so provoke the simple and the neccesary.
Wisely, allow falls to perfect your aim
and let submission be it's own masterpiece.
Devote yourself to purpose and exacting hope.
Increase living with boyhood wonder,
and always love -- transform.
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC