seekingsunsets - Hello Poetry

*when do i stop roaming? should i never find a place or someone enough to make me stay? are we all meant to be wanderers that's why it's easier to leave than to remain?*

0

May 3, 2017

May 3, 2017 at 10:32 AM UTC

settle

*when do i stop roaming? should i never find a place or someone enough to make me stay? are we all meant to be wanderers that's why it's easier to leave than to remain?*

9

take me to rurality no boundaries when it comes to the nature of reality. take impressive— yet not excessive— pictures of what you see we're to feel home anywhere because it's you and me. take me to rurality we smile before we're back to normality. we'll be there ashore overboard, we'll adore the strangest things. until our personal judgement of what beauty is wouldn't be how is used to be.

0

May 3, 2017

May 3, 2017 at 10:28 AM UTC

exotic escape

take me to rurality no boundaries when it comes to the nature of reality. take impressive— yet not excessive— pictures of what you see we're to feel home anywhere because it's you and me. take me to rurality we smile before we're back to normality. we'll be there ashore overboard, we'll adore the strangest things. until our personal judgement of what beauty is wouldn't be how is used to be.

19

one day i would no longer travel alone driving nowhere farther and farther from home playing pretend that i have a friend or my lost brother by my side instead

0

Jun 13, 2016

Jun 13, 2016 at 11:22 PM UTC

:)

one day i would no longer travel alone driving nowhere farther and farther from home playing pretend that i have a friend or my lost brother by my side instead

4

i guess in this wrinkled age our love is still untarnished but now you're cremated your sweet spirit my beloved, is kept in my sunroom to stay. you still linger in a jar of glitters that our children joyfully play

0

Jun 13, 2016

Jun 13, 2016 at 11:18 PM UTC

undying

i guess in this wrinkled age our love is still untarnished but now you're cremated your sweet spirit my beloved, is kept in my sunroom to stay. you still linger in a jar of glitters that our children joyfully play

7

A shy, quiet girl inherits all her grandmother's vintage belongings. "Amelia," whispered the thinning, cracked lips of a loving woman. "My lovely girl. Have all my finery and jewels, for I've always known you're an old soul. Show them the other side of you. Get yourself out." Before Amelia repels, Lady's hand loosens against Amelia's grip. This memory looms in her dreams, awake or not. She grows into an elegant woman, rich and not easy to touch, lonely and a doll. People adore her, but only her vintages and fashion. Grandmother, she thought. I am in a trunk of old riches, but I have no one. Would I die an old soul by myself? Maybe Lady's last words didn't mean she should've been born before 21st. Not even close. Perhaps it wasn't because of her taste of jazz and frills and laces and pearls and Audrey. Maybe all this time, it wasn't meant as a praise. All the while her grandmother could see, even before: she would die an old soul, alone and no one to cry on her grave. A little luxury might make her feel better. Dearest grandmother, nothing did. Dearest Amelia, all I wanted was for you to step out. Dearest grandmother, they only liked my facades.

0

Mar 24, 2016

Mar 24, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC

facades

A shy, quiet girl inherits all her grandmother's vintage belongings. "Amelia," whispered the thinning, cracked lips of a loving woman. "My lovely girl. Have all my finery and jewels, for I've always known you're an old soul. Show them the other side of you. Get yourself out." Before Amelia repels, Lady's hand loosens against Amelia's grip. This memory looms in her dreams, awake or not. She grows into an elegant woman, rich and not easy to touch, lonely and a doll. People adore her, but only her vintages and fashion. Grandmother, she thought. I am in a trunk of old riches, but I have no one. Would I die an old soul by myself? Maybe Lady's last words didn't mean she should've been born before 21st. Not even close. Perhaps it wasn't because of her taste of jazz and frills and laces and pearls and Audrey. Maybe all this time, it wasn't meant as a praise. All the while her grandmother could see, even before: she would die an old soul, alone and no one to cry on her grave. A little luxury might make her feel better. Dearest grandmother, nothing did. Dearest Amelia, all I wanted was for you to step out. Dearest grandmother, they only liked my facades.

8

I came across a thousand youths who climbed with pride with their wisdom tooth. Who knew no more or less through hindsight Footsoles sore searching and trite. Renouncing joy, forgetting, neglecting The simplicity, they overlook at all the truth in children's books.

0

Mar 24, 2016

Mar 24, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC

wiser?

I came across a thousand youths who climbed with pride with their wisdom tooth. Who knew no more or less through hindsight Footsoles sore searching and trite. Renouncing joy, forgetting, neglecting The simplicity, they overlook at all the truth in children's books.

12

sparkles and laces and all sorts of frills, my nail polish is still on and it all felt surreal. i cannot suppress the way it felt to have my dress perfect for me like how the night would be. for i've never felt this beautiful as the hairspray made everything fall into place, and the makeup that perked me up with whatever i would face, through the night of waltz and dances and prances, the music and flow as he froze me in trances. someone, i can't believe, could tell you how wonderful you look tonight just by seeing his eyes focused on you as if you are the solely contrast in the one canvas where everyone is beautiful. he will look at everyone but then not for long just to come back to you

0

Feb 20, 2016

Feb 20, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC

prom

sparkles and laces and all sorts of frills, my nail polish is still on and it all felt surreal. i cannot suppress the way it felt to have my dress perfect for me like how the night would be. for i've never felt this beautiful as the hairspray made everything fall into place, and the makeup that perked me up with whatever i would face, through the night of waltz and dances and prances, the music and flow as he froze me in trances. someone, i can't believe, could tell you how wonderful you look tonight just by seeing his eyes focused on you as if you are the solely contrast in the one canvas where everyone is beautiful. he will look at everyone but then not for long just to come back to you

11

Give back the time when I was longing for someone truthful. Not a liar to pretend that's everything's better.

0

Nov 20, 2015

Nov 20, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC

can't go back

Give back the time when I was longing for someone truthful. Not a liar to pretend that's everything's better.

3

Our souvenirs. In a little box I've stowed— a secluded veneer. A lot of times you bestowed The prettiest things. A deck of just kings, Lilac seeds. An anklet not a ring with rolled paper as beads. A painted sycamore tree and a carved partridge. A butterfly, unfree and a rusty London bridge. Many more, I have burnt A simple jewelry box, a medical syringe. A vintage, whimsical clock, ripped pages, a stockage. But this last one, I gave away It wasn't mine for a keepsake. The most special, an epilogue; crucial— the last smiling photograph of us. the last reeling scene of us. It was candid it was real. But look at what you've done. Look at how all these objects— merely flashes and ashes— are perpetually gone. Look at how you never talked about leaving but did anyway.

0

Nov 4, 2015

Nov 4, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC

to keep or not, the things that leave

Our souvenirs. In a little box I've stowed— a secluded veneer. A lot of times you bestowed The prettiest things. A deck of just kings, Lilac seeds. An anklet not a ring with rolled paper as beads. A painted sycamore tree and a carved partridge. A butterfly, unfree and a rusty London bridge. Many more, I have burnt A simple jewelry box, a medical syringe. A vintage, whimsical clock, ripped pages, a stockage. But this last one, I gave away It wasn't mine for a keepsake. The most special, an epilogue; crucial— the last smiling photograph of us. the last reeling scene of us. It was candid it was real. But look at what you've done. Look at how all these objects— merely flashes and ashes— are perpetually gone. Look at how you never talked about leaving but did anyway.

37

*when you no longer give me flowers my heart began inking roses*

0

Nov 2, 2015

Nov 2, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC

saudade

*when you no longer give me flowers my heart began inking roses*

4