victoria-reeder - Hello Poetry

There’s a void in my heart shaped like you. When your scent fades from my bedsheets, I sputter like a car without fuel. Without you, it’s hard to keep going.

0

Jun 21, 2012

Jun 21, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC

victoria-reeder

Grey

There’s a void in my heart shaped like you. When your scent fades from my bedsheets, I sputter like a car without fuel. Without you, it’s hard to keep going.

4

Tip toe quietly, Mommy sleeps after her special drinks, all crimson. The pink fruit of my imagination peeks out at me as I peel away the thick outer skin. I wish Mommy would wake and play. Dark liquid smells like the bandages on my scrapes. Bitter Sweet voices sing away sorrows and scraped knees. Mommy wakes angry at the noise of my playing. I think of days gone Before. Mommy in the garden singing to the sun. Daddy watching. Orange-pink globes hang then fall.

0

Jul 22, 2011

Jul 22, 2011 at 5:28 AM UTC

victoria-reeder

Grapefruit Sundays

Tip toe quietly, Mommy sleeps after her special drinks, all crimson. The pink fruit of my imagination peeks out at me as I peel away the thick outer skin. I wish Mommy would wake and play. Dark liquid smells like the bandages on my scrapes. Bitter Sweet voices sing away sorrows and scraped knees. Mommy wakes angry at the noise of my playing. I think of days gone Before. Mommy in the garden singing to the sun. Daddy watching. Orange-pink globes hang then fall.

20

The words have gone— Fleeing like refugees from a war-torn mind, Like stars receding from the quickly rising sun. A pen weighs heavily between my fingers— Burdened, full with the ink of words unsaid. White paper shouts—accusing, judging With its brillance—a vast, vacant space. Pressure builds— The desire to create, to share... The restless tapping of my pen Mimicks the anxious rhythm of my shoe.

0

Jul 18, 2011

Jul 18, 2011 at 8:21 PM UTC

victoria-reeder

Mute

The words have gone— Fleeing like refugees from a war-torn mind, Like stars receding from the quickly rising sun. A pen weighs heavily between my fingers— Burdened, full with the ink of words unsaid. White paper shouts—accusing, judging With its brillance—a vast, vacant space. Pressure builds— The desire to create, to share... The restless tapping of my pen Mimicks the anxious rhythm of my shoe.

11