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 Nov 2017 Sarah Elizabeth
Adrian
There is a strange
Tingly sensation
In my stomach
When you are near
And when you speak to me
Or touch me
A sensation often described as butterflies
But they are not pure enough
To be butterflies
Because I know you don't feel them as I do
So they are moths
Moths
Because they are crowding your light
Moths in my stomach
Flying up
And up
And up
Through my windpipe
Choking me
And trying to reach you
And your blinding
Fluorescent light
~~<@>~~

The tears of a rose
Will soak and stain
They're from her heart
They're stored up rain

They come from heaven
To flow down thorns
They sing in screams
From her lips torn

They can be acid
To burn the bloom
They can be crystal
Reflecting moons

The rose will open
In dead of night
The tears from petals
Refract the light

They cascade down
Drop from the leaves
For her soul
She sits and grieves

For her soul
The drops fall down
They feed her roots
Under the ground

They bring her back
The legend goes
There's healing in

Tears of a rose


SøułSurvivør
(C) 10/3/2017
I was talking to a friend this evening. Praying with her. She just endured a tremendous life setback. Said she couldn't stop crying. This metaphor came to my mind. This poem is for my dear friend. It is my sincerest hope that it brings healing.

I'm really sorry i haven't been reading. I have excellent reasons, of which some of you are aware. I just don't want you to think that I don't care. I do. I just have a lot on my plate. Thanks for understanding.

♡♡ LOVE YOU ALL! ♡♡
Crushed flowers are more beautiful
Than those that are not
They tell a story
Much like the scars we carry
Be it on our skin or in our minds
Our tales are what define us
And not our appearances
That wither just as the flowers
That are in bloom and shining so brightly
Give them a few more days
And they'll be no more
Than a fleeting memory
when i'm sitting alone at night
     in the quietness of my large and aging house
i hear so many noises i'm oblivious to
     during the daylight

the clicks of the air conditioning
     switching on and off,
the creaking of the floors and walls,
     the subtle squeaking the fan makes
in the living room

it's as if my house is sighing
     it's sighing at me
disappointed in me
     he asks why i don't notice him
during the day
     why i only notice him late at night
when i'm lonely
     and there are no other noises
to entertain my ears

i tell him that i'll try to listen more closely
     in the morning, but then i fall asleep
and i wake up and i do not remember
     what i promised my sweet house
so he continues to sigh all day long
     hoping that at some point
even if it's late at night when i'm lonely
     and there is no other noises
to entertain my ears
     i will notice him again

if only for a little while
Your lips tasted
like the stars
i never got to see
because of the cities
bright lights.
And once our lips connected,
Meteors fell down to earth,
And the ground beneath us started crumbling.
For it was the end of the beginning,
And I couldn't have been more un-afraid.
There's twenty five million people in the city tonight
They each breathe fire, like flames they ignite
They're a city of saints, they're monsters, they're warriors born to fight
Although diverse, their hearts beat in time to the city of lights
I don’t know if you know
I carry you
in an involuntary sigh
in a constant exodus of yearning
and in the frantic deepness of all
nostalgic thought, shaking time and distance
to place me near you
in the closeness of your warmth
remembered

I carry you in sorrow
precipitated
in the absence of your voice
and in the memory of your rib cage molded
in the shape of ardent weakness
my embrace

I carry you, the braille at the tip of my fingers
life drawn in lines on my left palm
and in the carcass of calm interrupted
by the pounding of a heart’s ill-time

I don't know if you know, but
I carry you in the crown of memories consoled
and in the spine of excess
where I fall, between involuntary sighs
defeated
in your skin remembered
from the confines
of the heart
On a night...just a night.
sometimes when i'm asleep i hear whispers.

ghosts of all the men i let decimate my sanctuary

thinking they came to worship.

the men who came with flowers,

fragrances and exquisite offerings

who left with my sobriety.

many pieces of me are

somewhere in the world

being given as bounty to other women

expecting to be loved as i did.

— The End —