Into the old cold ground a body planted.
Within the deceased body lay memories.
Silently asleep.
Maybe mother Earth emits, the mental words that once upon a time existed.
Thought patterns linger always here.
They haunt the deathly hallows.
The breeze flicks the branches upon the trees,
carrying ancient recollections.
Smell the essence in the air,
Previous graveyard lovers who once lived there.
Feel the attentive chill of the past,
Floating errant souls hang low.
Impromptu glow.
An invaded atmosphere.
Breathe in the air of inspiration.
And slowly walk away.
Glad that living, onward curls.
(C) Livvi

These words don't have any significance,
I see your eyes light up
as I say this once more.
But the taste is too familiar.
These words are razor blades
cutting into my throat.

I wrote a poem about you.

I hate to see you smile when I say this
because honestly,
I am the Taylor Swift of poets.
I have written poems about you
and five "yous" before yourself.

I know it is hard to believe
but I mean every word scribbled on this
ink filled,
tear stained,
coffee marked
napkin,
that I wrote on our first date.

and I mean every word neatly printed on that
water damaged,
slightly wrinkled,
late in arrival,
card,
The I wrote on her 16th birthday.

I mean every word I have
scribbled,
printed,
typed,
into neat little lines
for you
and her
and him
and her
and you
and him
and her
and you were not the first.

A man without hope
A man that barely speaks
A man on a mission
Who battles till his defeat

A man who has heard it all
Seen a bit to
Nomatter what they say about Louis
He's a man that stays true

A man who stays to himself
But stands for the ones he loves
He wishes others will be themselves
And one day hopes to fly away like doves

a man who fights for respect
Speaks upon peace
This man is even a reject
Now he came from his best to his least

Regardless of the people he had to face
Because he always came back to embrace

"Can I offer you a drink sir?"
He didn't flinch,
Reacting with such demur.
He resembled grief to the last inch.
Maybe he didn't hear me.
"Sir? In need of a whiskey perhaps?"
Maybe it needn't be,
But it seemed as if he was ought to collapse.
Cigarette slipped between his teeth.
Leaking wounds along his hands.
I soon noticed the blade beneath.
I knew then that he is one who understands.
His head stayed down,
Hidden behind a defence of stubble.
Long last, he came around.
"Make it a double."