*******,
I'm done.

12/3/12 16:15pm

The painted lady waiting in the wings
Now parts her lips to sing her lover's name;
She enters, arms spread outwards as she sings
Like some fantastic orchid made of flame.

She scatters fragrant petals in the hall
And yet more petals round the master bed
Her sweet song echoes like a linnet's call
Her swirling silks are edged with golden thread.

Then comes a telegram from overseas
To say her love will not return again
The lady falls, still singing, to her knees;
Her heartbeat speeds, like wings beating in vain.

Such is the way of love made through a lie;
Like chloroform, to **** a butterfly.

Dear Mister,
Do you hate the world so much?
What could have hurt you so bad?
I want to know because I tried loving you
But you were always living in the past.

Dear Mister,
Do you know everything?
Or are you just fooling yourself?
I think you put to much blame on the world.
Instead you should worry about your health.

Dear Mister,
You smoke too many cigarettes.
You should go for a run.
Maybe trying being nice to yourself
You're a mean son of a gun.

Let's meander down this
road
         flustered so wonderfully flustered by
you, taking the
time to pause and appreciate each little
intricacy along the way

so that some day, when we're older
we can breathe in and pop
evaporate, travel
only as vapor can, spread out and cover
(a part of us in everything and everything
apart from this)

say it louder and louder still, echoing
off your ribcage and shaking my throat
I believe in your words and
nothing slips away without so
much as a nod
that's not the given (not
even close)

My feet are planted
but still I turn to face you.
Sunshine, I am yours.