Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
A couple of broken words
Laying crestfallen
Unhappy by the shore
You touch them with your kiss
And the water with your hips
They become a poem that drips from your hair
Lay with me in the sand
And the unhappy words
With their crestfallen syllables
Will join hands
As the ocean finds its mermaid
Living is difficult
Easy is simple
Love is felt
Living is love
Living is difficult
Easy is simple
Love is felt
It isn't easy living
Without love
Being simple is difficult
I'm a vagabond
I'm a bag of bones
I'm your skeleton
Held up by a beating heart
And flowing blood vessels
Carrying a steady mind
On an unsteady brain
Shook by the wind
Untouched by the rain
Nite owls on fragile twigs
A sparrow on the edge of a flowering branch
A crimson rose bush in full bloom
You notice this

Your laugh
Your hair
Your kiss
I will remember this
A short poem for lovers.
I'd like to believe that our bodies
Are made of stardust
But, when I'm without you
My love is lost in the vastness of space

It will take lightyears of searching
And the cosmos shall bid our lonely planet
Farewell
Being apart in body and soul.
It is the process of revealing oneself through which one can understand their infirmities and their powerless nature. Successful people will always build their lives around others. Because they are people who want to hear what they want to hear. But, being rich doesn't mean you automatically subjugate yourselves to the weaker philosophy and opinion of the crowd.

But, when we realize that we are different from the rest, therein lies our uniformity. In that clarity, you can see that your life is a search for individual truth. What is being unique?

Instead of a truth that is of cosmic proportions, we find ourselves in an abyss.

A child akin to his parents will think of how he can model himself. Notwithstanding, the parentage of a child becomes a vital factor in the moral upbringing of children. But, a child should be allowed to lead a life among the forests, oceans, and leaves rustling languidly. Thus, pursuing an education in the caprice of the divine and the grace of Earth.

That grace is not available in strictness of the cane, but it flows in the wings of birds.

Instead of forcing conformity on an infant, the perfect mother should propose that a child chose a path. They will react to the stimuli present in schoolyards, playgrounds, social gatherings. Later, a child explores a form of conscious intelligence. Here are places where children feel pressured to excel and become self-aware. But, that self-awareness comes from how close a child is to his parents. A child will never model his behavior to his parents unless he loves one of them more than the other. In other words, he respects one parent the more. It is enough for his subconscious to devise a manner in which he finds a partner similar to the parent he loves. But, the sole burden of pleasing the parent he respects forces him to model himself to the parent he respects.

In some ways, the partner a man chooses is someone he can never be. Free in the ways of the world, one with nature. In short, a child at heart.

This individual is made up of his prejudices, influences, and his little world of interests. Yet, instead of following the footsteps of the kinder parent, he replicates the behavior of the domineering figure of the house. A child's mind is made up from the moment he is born.
Small essay on the psychoanalysis of Freudian complexes and how they govern a person's future relationships as well as ****** endeavors.
If we lay in a field of grass
I will still love you
As I look at the stars
And you'll be up there

I on Earth far away
Writing this poem
So, distant from you
You will be so close too

In the crevice of my heart
In the lines of this poem
I shall grant you a space
In songs, books, and art

You flee like a rainbow after showers
And I still remember you in those little things
Even though my poem won't feel the same
But, in our memories we are still in that field

In the grass, carefree and restless
Youngsters looking at the sparrows so far apart
That the clouds can almost fit into the picture
Ah yes, the cloudy sky, the rusted leaves, and that old shack

But, I am uncertain of my memory
You are no longer there to correct me
There must have been a tire swing, my heart knows
I may not remember much, my mind is old

But, the puddles on this sunlit street
Have they gotten bigger or I older?
Unable to jump over them
Like an agile fox

And as I part my hair like you once did affectionately
I keep saying old habits die hard
But, why do
People always leave?
I posted this poem on Facebook and asked people to suggest a title.
One alternative I used for another poem. And I have one in reserve.
Seems like random friends are better at coming up with attractive titles than I am. Like what?
Next page