When the world sleeps.
And your hair like water drizzles down my rocky callus hands.
I'll feel your love asleep with me.

When the pressure dissapears.
And I can glide my hand across your Everglades cheek.
My serenity will be put to rest.
And my assurances will know no fear.

And when I can lay my head on your lap.
Attracting magnets jealous of our attraction.
I'll shut my eyes with yours.

Because the time the world tells is determined by us.
And I'll never stop loving you until the world stops turning.
So let the moments like these stand still and mean everything.
So long as I lose myself with you.

towers of clutter
block the halls
make a maze
of an old abode
and an old soul lurks
somewhere within
it was never any good
at letting go.

I am sewing a dress
with the thread of strength,
And knots of ambitions,
And when it’s ready,
Then will iron it
with the remission,
I am sewing my broken soul!

By: Nida Mahmoed.

Bow legged ******* boaters bombard a busking Baltic with berzerk bands of bonafide belligerence. Bravely he bolsters a border of boulders. "Begone brigands, before I bust your bulkheads!" Feeling browbeaten and bullied the ******* beat for a buffet. The Baltic beaming with brashness boasts of his burdensome backbone.

You might say I'm like a pouch.
Possibly a pocket.
I hold onto things.
Not physical things.
Never physical things.
Moments.
Ideas.
Sounds.
Swimming in a pool of moments.
Problematic with letting things go.
Not in the way of a pouch to let things go.
If only my pouch had a hole.
Not a physical one.
Nor too large a hole either.
Most people have holes.
Which I guess makes them more like socks.
Possibly tubes.
Oh to be a tube.
Not a physical one.
Got that covered.