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 Jan 2015 Sarah Davis
Jake
One wing dipped in gold.
One wing dipped in blood.
The pale cheeks house a forked tongue.
 Jan 2015 Sarah Davis
Jake
But this house is so cold,
and the walls are starting to speak.
Cracks in the floor are staring at me.
Shouldering the world, I'm growing so weak.

Though..

There's mud in my veins
and salt on my tongue.
There's songs in my lungs
that have yet to be sung.
Weaker knees have carried worse.
Lesser minds bare the same curse.
But.
They haven't the privilege of watching you dance.
Their wide eyes blind, but mine still in a trance.
I haven't forgotten the amber and honey swirl.
You're still my favorite girl.
 Jan 2015 Sarah Davis
Corina
you
you're not a poet
and no matter how hard you try, you'll never be one
but what you are, is even better
you're a poem

everytime i look in your eyes
i see new lines, freshly written

when i touch your face
echo's of ancient words are heared deep inside my soul

i haven't made love to you yet, and i can't even imagine
the poetry i will feel that day

so even when you will never be a poet
you'll be the only poem i ever want to read
Life is the only drug I take
and
**I overdosed
Resolution is my delusion
Nothing gets done
Distance comes the warning
Minutes turn to none

We wish to the event
Time takes it's course
Calculating all the pressure
All forsaken remorse
Failure of a resolution
I've been teaching people
how to be poets.
Now, even to me,
this sounds like canned *******.
But I believe that there is more to it.
It sounds so elitist to think
that you were just born with poetry
in your heart and mind.
That it could ever be so hard to find
inner meaning where there is none.
Even love is an illusion
the same way color never existed
outside the eye,
your beauty never existed
outside my heart.

Now before I start,
let me go back to square one.
I find it hard to believe that someone
can't be something just because... they aren't.
Poetry, like all art, is a skill
and like all art, you don't need to be good.
No-one is judging your art
unless you ask them to
and if it ends up in front of their face,
you've asked.
It's a skill, you get better and worse,
good days and bad days,
but some people just need to realize
what poetry really, really is.

It's not about rhyming, or even sounding good.
It's about meaning.
What's the deal with this flower?
This flower is art.
It's a piece of chlorophyll, who cares?
Because the flower is beautiful.
What makes the flower beautiful?
Because I choose to believe that this flower is more
than what my eye percieves.

Boy, this art **** sounds like
a bunch of crap.
*It really is.
We are but leaves upon the wind,
folly is our master and we, the slave,
never believing our story's been spinned
until we go smiling into our grave.

Our bliss is our youth, our youth, our bliss
and we revel without knowing why
but there is no morale to all of this,
choice truly is the greatest lie.

None us will ever reach the stars
or the heavens or anything up above,
we serve our lust in clubs and bars
but we go our lives without serving love.

...and if just rhymes could change the Earth,
maybe then, we would have some worth.
But we will not find it, here nor far,
because worthless?
That is what we truly are.
I do not know what the future holds
any more than any other man,
but if I can somehow picture
that you will be with me,
your hand in mine...
Then who the **** cares about crystal *****
and tarot cards?

You are my stability.
My steady footing.
while you are here,
all else fades into the background.
Your voice,
makes all else white noise,
and your touch
melts all false pretenses.

When you leave, I will be destroyed,
but I will never forget
or forgive
myself for letting you go.

— The End —