Never had roses touched my lips
and left the sweet taste of morning dew

And never had curls entangled my mind
holding my inspiration captive

Never had words choked my tongue
like a spoon full of cinnamon

And fingers chilled my hips
even freezing time

Never has a sun melted
and the stars raced for a glimpse of a first kiss

And never had eyes reflected love
or has a heart warmed the depths of the ocean


~~~

Forget anyone who doesn't make you feel like the only rose on Earth

You've moved on
You're living life
I'm still counting days
Since my heart died

the pain
the numbness
the subtle suffering


I've lost track
How many days?
I know you're gone
Never coming back

the lonesome tears
the fragrance you left on my heart
the empty beds


Just know I miss you
My wish upon stars
Sparkle of gold
Killer of my heart

the shock of loss
the bitterness of loss
why did I lose you?

some people never leave.
they're always inside you,
crushing your glass bones,
and setting fire to your paper heart

©rainecooper
 Jun 2 Astre Wynd
ryn

It's not about going back
to the start.

It should be about
pausing,
rewinding
and going back to a point
where things made sense.

It's about understanding
why they mattered then.

And think if they still do.

If acceptance is
securing personal victory
by conceding,

then I accept.

 Jan 13 Astre Wynd
Ar Bazian

It is a wonderful thing, when the willows doze,
at the stillness of a winter breeze.
The season settles, and it never goes,
with the passing dues at ease.

The heart so stale... the dreams so pale...
But she would dance a-still!

She would turn the world around,
and she would would bring the walls to sound,
and she... would run the waters still!

The stalemate arises, all so subtle,
and the wind in willows, hurdled in muddle,
would fly no more, until...
She sings to be, she sings to me...
And then she would cry, and I shall cease to be!

A.r. Bazian
January 1st, 2017

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

The meaning of leaves in
a refreshing cool wind
He chose to live
for friendship
Not for that
other thing

Refreshing cool wind on a cross and died. He chose to live for friendship, live for survival, not for that thing any more. This is the meaning of it clung to her old leaves new myriads? Of lingering leaves
[coco, 11 nov 2011]
 Jan 12 Astre Wynd
JWolfeB

He told her

It is the beauty on the inside that counts

Her response

Then why do my insides continue to find themselves in the wrong place
Lifted into white porcelain gods
Asking anyone to compliment my withered self
Please make love to me
Tell me I am better than the acid on my tongue
The regret powering my mind as I struggle down my dinner
Inside is where I find these thoughts
Thoughts powering my actions
Into a spiraling pit of self loathing
Tell me I am pretty one more time
And I will show you my insides to prove it

Bulimia is gnarly and all too often hidden under the facade of everyday life.

Love poem
Never read
In a letter
Never sent.

Self-inflicted torment.


-- Eleanor

10W
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