Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 3d misha
hair standing on end--

wick sailing amber head.

saint's aura bursting

the bubbles of flowers--

garish rich to slithering

breezes enchanting a

native son.

unborn like Maharaja

said...without worded


The Self watches drops

slip the rim of the bucket

as it's drawn up the well.
choosing to be a poet,
to spill like this,
bleed like this,
cry like this,
my pain becomes an exhibit.
an exhibit for people,
people to walk through,
to walk and admire,
to admire and then leave
when they are ready,
leave and go about their day.
the thing is, no one
cares if a museum
is okay
when I was young
I had big eyes
full of truth
full of youth
full of dreams

brown like the soil a flower grows

eyes that saw the
infinite sky
stars swam inside
carried sunshine

Where's the love
Where's the color
Where's the vision

I've always listened

I can't see
what you're trying to show me

when I was young
I saw the world

now my eyes are small
I don't believe anymore
I looked upon her
The glow on the lake
Long and vast

I looked to her left
The deep blue
Makes me feel small

All I saw
Was beauty and despair
Whispering in her air

I cried to her
I talked and pleaded
Her glow did not answer

Oh sweet beauty
She's but a msytery
And I fear my life

Even while staring upon her
Is but misery

Soft like petals


Likes cloudy stones

Covered in soft soil

I like to watch you

Dreams like clouds

And roses

And rain

I think

You are pretty

And I like to watch

Your hands move

Your pencil,


Your eyes, moving

I like to watch
days by the water, covered in dandelions
 6d misha
reading bukowski
with the light
on the page
will the world
for me,  
if i just sit

of the stolid  
ticking day
the equally slothful
and i'm  

dying for and of
how much more time
will i

loathing around
and doing nothing
in particular
is what I do
how soon is now?
Next page