Occasionally I come across a person with brown eyes,
and I compliment them on those peepers.

More often than not, they laugh and say,
"Oh, they're just brown."
Or
"They're **** colored."
Or
"I wish I had blue/green/hazel eyes."

I want to grab them by the shoulders,
pull them close to me,
look into those eyes and say,
"Your eyes are alluring, deep, and warm."

Eyes the color of delicious coffee,
of which I want to gulp every last drop.
Eyes the color of ancient leather,
the binding of the best books.
Eyes the color of the soft soil,
from which everything good grows.

I say,
"Love your eyes, it's how the rest of us see into your soul."

Brown eyes are my favorite eyes.
Brown eyes make me feel like I am home.

I love tea but I've never actually drank it before;
Every time I make myself a cup I forget about it,
It goes cold before it's poured down the sink.
I wish it was like that with bad memories.
When I was younger and infinitely less distressed, my mum would warm me some milk to
Calm me down, now
Every night before I go to sleep I drink a piping hot mug of 'memory milk,'
Sprinkled with cinnamon
To enrage the fire,
But softened with a teaspoon of sugar to
Sweeten the burn.
I want to **** myself but I don't want to die-
I don't want to live the way I have to-
I guess milk could be replaced with bleach but then again
My soul is pale enough as it is.
I never know what to do,
Where to put myself,
Or even what to drink.