If you were broken, and i had the parts to fix you
i would work on you both night and day
but, i'm afraid the parts that i use would mix you
and take the best parts of you away

Sacral, sacred, ******, sensual, satiated, subtle, superior

Svadhisthana entwines. In and out. Creativity and ***.
The more you engage yourself with another
the stronger the bond becomes in your sacral region
So the stronger the bond,
the harder it is to break.

Firsts especially. First love. First ****. First whatever.
Orange and bright and with long creeping fingers
reaching into you and wrapping around you.

Do you ever wonder why after
a bad breakup...
you can't seem to do anything?
Your creativity is gone.
Any motivation. Everything aches.
You have guilt and a sinking feeling of loss.

It's Svadhisthana. It's your sacral being
which has been entwined with something
too much
too deep
too intense

and now you're stuck
and forever you're stuck
in this place where each person
you sleep with
is constantly
there
somewhere
in
your
head

I was never the type
of child that obeyed
much  of anything;
not even the many
times  I was told
not to stare into
the evening sun
when I felt
alone.

when you have each other you have everything

love and happiness this to you will bring

sharing life together with a love so true

that is there forever for your whole life through.



happy and content you will always stay

when you have each other life will be that way

sharing life together forever and a day

and the love you share that will never stray

I know not where I shall find love
By the foots of the mountain or on the plains of clove
Where the oak trees shed their green blades on the brown grass
Perchance by the deserted road where lays the heap of trash

I know not when I shall find love
During spring when April showers bring may flowers
When wintry chilling cold bites the white earth
When the woods glow of amber in the hearth

I know not how I will find love
Through divine appointment or by strove
Whether from a recent friend or a foe of past days
May be from stranger met by labyrithine ways

I know not why I will find love
Whether possessed passions will cause me to move
To seek the friendship of some lovely lass
May be just another ritual of life to pass

Whether in known or unknown places
Whether in familiar or strange faces
Whether time is constant or flies like a dove
I one day shall find love

What happens to the rose when it dies?
When it is chocked by its thorny foes
Does it green blood soak the earth to water more plants of love?
Do its crimson leaves fold their petals in pain?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
By the hands of a stray lover in search of a gift
Do the lovers drain all their tear wells?
Perhaps they merry as its mortal remains
Passes from his hand to her hand, from his heart to her heart

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Is it ever eulogized and its memorials held
Or is the emblem of love left in pile ash of bygone?
Is the rose ever buried and how does its epitaph read?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Does it body like man’s decay leaving nothing but dry bones?
Is it folded and placed inside an old love book?
Who knows what happens to the rose when it dies?