Write the word
No need to rhyme.
This is my home,
Please take a seat and have a cup of tea.
Sometimes the words flow like honey,
So sweet and lovely.
The ink is my solace from this mind,
However mostly healed,
Spill the peace upon the pages.
My pen is my heart,
With black ink blood..
Please sit with me a while longer.
Speak a toast to the everlasting sonders of this beautiful life we live,
This sacred space of ours.
My mind is restless.
Invested in which what wherever I breathe,
Once I awaken,
I will truly enjoy this place and times therein,
Please come again.
Stay the waves of doubt,
Away from the endless days,
Of famine and drought.
The helpless mind may wander,
To short-lived slumber,
No longer to squirm and squander,
Among the days and sonders of yesterday,
But will yet stray and ponder,
His ways to gaze in wonder,
His safe and sound,
His pain asunder.
I've built my wall so tall such even the most relentless assault could not topple it it all.
I've planted forests on either side so long ago they have grown and now I know,
Not even where I built my wall,
Or how tall.
my wicked falls turn'd from stone,
dissolved to nary a diffid tone thrown by ******* bones.
An amorphous form born from the aimless mourning that now has no space to face and call my own.
Telltale swarms of which I myself did warn would come,
Once and again I crumble from what once which I would succumb.
Myself. Dear. Gone.
afloat in limbo forever struck with what,
I Left only to silence my mind until once again,
I would find the cut.
My totality revised,
Scratched through like the words unworthy.
Smoothed over the rough draft,
Nary writing another day's pages.
Stumbling across the periphery,
Escapist tendancies surface henceforth and again.
Deafened heartbeating thunderously infectious.
Caution to the wind.
Caution, in the brittle spirit of intermittent heartache.
Slanting sideways in the wind.
Battered yet standing have,
Caution. The winds of change blow away.
Strung along the periphery.
Tighter than pianostrings.
Pluck, pluck away,
And listen to my songs for,
My crescendo has yet to come
Muddling through the days nary yet to be realized.
The dreams of ensnaring rose-water skies.
That faint red,
Want to be alone.
Want to be at home, I,
Know I can't go now no matter how much it grows,
It shows it's face time and time again to make me pace back and forth to forget what was said and cut the cord or where and who I am!
who am I?
Rather go hungry than speak to someone right now,
I'M ******* STARVING for a piece of this peace that it seems that everybody but me can just pick up and breathe....
But I can't see me...
So how could I possibly know...