In a silken stream
soaked in sweat and sadist sun
wearied women wane.
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 10:13 AM UTC
A fickle finch's heart
always flitting from limb to limb,
its gaze always fleeting.
But colors worn so proud,
gold in the green and blue in the briar,
so like a fool I try to fly.
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 12:23 PM UTC
Along an unknown path
Distant from the place you call home
Voices summon you in the distance
Edging you to claim your destiny
New legends unfold and lessons learned while
Traveling to new lands
Under the strings of fate
Reach out to that light within and
Escape through your dreams to release your inner self
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
Brooding busy boys
dewdrop grass in muddied dirt
bent-back summer day
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 12:45 PM UTC
The scent-hungry hound
Unthinkably finds what's lost
That's meant to be found
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC
I find comfort in reveries
written by men who barely breathe,
or by women who find power in paper
cast out because they lack political favor.
Stories by the wealthy and bored
fortunate but ****** enough to find life a chore,
the pensive folk who peer and pry
**** our thoughts into newfound high.
We guess that they have measured motive
to gorge on fame until they're bloated,
or make their mark on mortal minds
in desperate ploys to outlast time.
Some riddled and ruined by reality
who write to quell not critics but poverty,
knowing that genius might swim in scribbles
that earn a few pennies little by little.
All cut from the same curious cloth
willing to lay naked every thought,
for everyone and no one to see and savor
but for at least a single soul to find some flavor.
God forget the queen and save these paupers
the indifferent financiers of mind's coffers,
the absent yet ever-present teachers
the ones who give new breath to life's creatures.
And every ****** or rosy rhyme
owes its rhythm to well-spent time,
of imperfect souls and fearless fighters
the poets, the storytellers, the righteous writers.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
Chin pointed to the clouds,
her face
following the soft sunset
saddened by the disappearing daylight
as if she will loose a sense of hope
when the sun
goes down.
Pineapple and Malibu
stains the bottom of her cup
that she stole not seconds ago
from the bar on the corner.
Oh my love,
how she doesn’t care to live
doesn’t fear consequences.
Face still scrunched up with disappointment
as if I need to convince her to stay-
her thoughts flowing out of her head
into the skies above her.
She observes them,
Dark blue
Reds
Orange
Hints of purple.
Eyes sunken,
fists full of cloth
arms around her knees.
She turns to me suddenly,
breaking the flow
of her daydream.
Only 18,
hiding behind that baby face.
The only color left
in her big blue eyes
is the white of her pupils
in the moon lit
cigarette winds.
“Do you want to get out of here?”,
the words escape her mouth as she
looks for reasons to stay
checking under the table,
rustling through her bag.
But she’s tired of
knowing not which way to go.
So taking off for the night,
escaping her worries for one more day,
she sighs
and gets up,
only taking with her
the sand on her feet.
Sophia Hadeshian
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 1:56 PM UTC