Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Flowers rest in peace
Lilies droop in the moonlight
Waiting for the sun
La petite mort, French for "the little death", is an idiom for ******. This term has generally been interpreted to describe the post-******* state of unconsciousness that some people have after having some ****** experiences.
I've seen this girl named Ana,
She's pretty thin and tall,
She has the smallest frame I've ever seen,
And not one single flaw,

I met this girl named Ana,
She introduced herself today,
She seems so very nice and kind,
She says she wants to stay,

I know this girl named Ana,
She's so perfect and it's true,
I'm so fat compared to her,
But she'll make me skinny too,

I'm friends with this girl named Ana,
I've started eating less,
Hating the person in the mirror,
My life's becoming a mess,

My best friend is this girl named Ana,
I want her to always stay,
All my other friends have left,
But she will never stray,

The only one I listen to is Ana,
She is so smart and full of advice,
I'm starting to get smaller,
My health is the only sacrifice,

I'm scared of this girl named Ana,
I can't get her out of my head,
It finally occurred to me,
She wants me to be dead,

I hate this girl named Ana,
She makes my life a living hell,
Someone please hear my silent screams,
Cause she won't let me tell,

My worst enemy is this girl named Ana,
She is a demon in my head,
She seems so very nice at first,
But I was so mislead,

I'm a prisoner to this girl named Ana,
I'm captive to her wall,
I can't help but to do what she says,
How can I be so fat still,

My murderer is this girl named Ana,
She starved me to my grave,
My heart finally stopped beating,
I just couldn't continue being brave..
Help me..
It’s a perfectly golden day
she isn’t loving you less
no obstacle on your way
eating up your space

though fine on surface
you feel inside unrest
of a sighing emptiness
weighing on your chest!

There’s a wind blowing strong
no speck clouds the blue
your ears get birdsong
and you don’t have a clue

what stirs the ache
that finds no easy heal
but for you to break
lose strength of will!

The petals burst in bloom
crowned in sprightly leaves
yet shrouded in gloom
you wonder why heart grieves!
Another old tomcat is sinking
all over him is the scar of weather
and I know it’s about time
death brings him a breather.

He was never my pet
but mingled with them
to live on their crumbs’ diet
and be loved
without a name.
I should converse more with my son
stop him recede wider from me
should lose no time to hold him strong
we haven’t exchanged much recently.

Our morning tea must find me a way
to draw him to talk and look at my eyes
seize I must some time every day
so I succeed after a few failed tries.

Our dinner shouldn’t pass silently dull
but spiced with jokes and diary of the day
must break laughter the hardening lull
and ensure on the table a longer stay.

I should converse more with my son
grab all the time could be together
days are shorter and crying to be gone
but the bond we leave must be worth a treasure.
Next page