Write a song and give it my name.
Write a poem, give it my beauty.

Oh beautiful flower, full of thorns, you so smells good in spring.

Write a song and sing it..
Scream it until you lose the voice.

Soft rose, you are so pretty, but you pricked me the fingers.

Writes this poem, shout it, whisper it.
Writte it, erase it, do it all over again.

So soft and fragile but so dangerous, you touched me and got pricked.

Write me a song and gives it my name.
Not love song honey, write a song which looks like me.

The pretty flower pricked you and now you want to burn her for that.
Boy, looks at what you made.
You want to burn the most beautiful thing that you saw by pride to have found stronger than you.
**Sadness.

The flight and call of the birds imbues us with the future. Our past comes from a well. The present lies in a river. Our elders are now gone in crumbling stone. If the bough of the Oak is as wide as 3 men all boundaries can be broken and our souls can pass on.

It's raining
And somehow the rain always brings me to you
The chaotic way it falls on the roof
And the calm way it falls on me

I don't think of you because you're the same as it
I think of you because you're not
You don't wash away a part of me
Neither do you envelop me into who you are

Instead you pull all pieces of me together
You turn my scars to tattoos
You let me be my own puzzle piece
That fits with yours

You're not the rain, you aren't
You don't hide the sun and conquer
Instead you lay down with me
And let our skins get sunburnt

You aren't the rain.
You're everything, instead.

Tears come from the heart
Though through our eyes flow
To sadness impart
So others can know....

Regret.

Nibbles away at the tiny corners of the conscious mind.

Preoccupying ones thoughts with remorse and somewhat desire.

Remorse over what is done
and what is to be done.

A desire
to do it again.

Regret.

Not a feeling rather a trait.
Its characteristic
embodied within the human

Its here, and its here to stay.

There is a new roof fitting itself to the sky,
sea-roughened and grey as the vast paving
I dropped teeth on as a child, lightheaded

and living faster. Outside, a steep hill drops sweet
like the dip of a spoon, and in this life I see
my own reflection. It may come from narcissism.

It may come from gut. But its momentum is trapped,
a statue on one foot, it asks to be uprooted. How can I
carve this future into something soft and creaseless?

If I was an artist, I could catch its outstretch—
I would pull the army by the hand, out from the dark
intrusive damp, and ask it to stay.

On the line, a white sheet takes hard gulps of air.
I'm quick to learn its rhythm.
But in the morning it has lost its breath;
in the morning there is a small damp circle
under my cheek.

Find it hard to believe that our eyes will  never meet again.
Tears sally forth as flowers do in rain.
This morning you entered my head.
Another day of wishing dead.
Not sure who.
Me or you?
Never can tell.
Abandoned in the land of base of wishing well.
Always wishing well.
As if you couldn't tell.
There's scent in the air as if you didn't know.
My suitcase is packed.
Off I go.
At tangents and right angles.
Confusion fixed.
Witches brew created.
Everything's mixed.
Magic and muffins.
Ice cream and cookie dough.
Time to call upon fairy snow.
(C) LIVVI