Shake dreams from your hair My pretty child, my sweet one. Choose the day and choose the sign of your day The day’s divinity First thing you see. A vast radiant beach in a cool jeweled moon Couples naked race down by it’s quiet side And we laugh like soft, mad children Smug in the woolly cotton brains of infancy The music and voices are all around us. Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones The time has come again Choose now, they croon, Beneath the moon Beside an ancient lake Enter again the sweet forest Enter the hot dream Come with us Everything is broken up and dances.
square ;rectangle rhomboidal shapes a special safe to hold memories in place magical contraption hanging on walls look long enough and you'll float on little paper planes carrying you to another time in space which once lived now seems surreal bringing you back to the moment the present is all you have for real yet you may traverse the memory lanes thanks to photoframes...,
Best are those whom you meet by chance when you cared less and free from heart everyone stood equal and no one apart it was easy moving with flow with no draft
through the happy and through the sad from chirpy loud to silence you withstood by me immense patience bottled inside you had
nothing did I leave to not turn you upset out of mind and puzzled in my own quest like a rock in cold and night I am indebted with your gestures of not taking a flight
I have never seen discontentment in you you had been so constant in my life Words fall short to explain somethings so I'll just say a Thanks to you
I'm tired, But I fight it, I struggle with my head, I occupy myself, To keep my weary eyes open, Long enough to convince myself, I won't dream too much, Long enough to believe, I'll make it, Without descending, Slowly but surely, Into my own hell.
She wraps herself up in a blanket and tucks herself in at night. So alone in the world, as the cold creeps around her, and anxiety possesses her body.
She's watched her sister poison her body with candy from the gutters. She's watched her mother paint her own wrists with a knife. She feels helpless and at times hopeless, aching for a positive change and a chance to be free.
She sees the world beautifully and that light burns inside and flickers in her eyes, yet the pain she sees around her takes her hostage, and drags her around like a puppet on a string, and like other weary souls she slips through the cracks of secondhand pain.