facing the same
this strong complexion of the
The human life
on one side of
frame of mind.
mean so much
more, my dear,
look at him.
it's the next thing
quite as satisfactory to me.
Someone once told me
there's an exception to every rule
In my clear cut world
Its hard to believe a paradox like you:
Like a snowfall in July
And the moonshine at noon
But All I know is when
I look into your eyes
I want it to be true.
I've been a sojourner in all the wrong places for all the wrong reasons
But I have no intention to stop because through every season
All the clear pathways were barred and locked
So I just stumble along out of rhythm with the tick of the clock.
But hardly living
Because her painful thoughts slow her down
As everything seems to carry on around her
Passing her by, speeding her up
Beyond her comfort zone
Because the words don't come
The feelings don't form
The thought races won't stop
And the monsters never die.
But **** is she
Her inner life glows
A light so pure and rare
It's easy to recognize
But hard to find.
There's a symphony no one is attuned to hear
A work of art she's longing for someone to appreciate
And it's lonely
It's ******* lonely feeling like everyone's light is recognized
Everyone's is shining so bright
That hers is overshadowed and insulted.
But it's killing her.
I live in a world of over abundance and overprotection,
With two little gates keeping me in and holding me back,
Like the harness around the sidewalk-dog's neck.
His owners stroll down softly rolling roads,
Passing the cookie cutter stucco homes
With the porch lights that never flicker imperfection.
The pedestrians amble with fingers interlocked
And kept behind their backs,
Like a secret they can't help but hide
From whatever may crumble or shine outside the gates.
The early years of the
Had been quite
Ardent and steadfast.
He called her his
And she, in turn,
Shared completely his devotion.
She had a great deal of
Bitterly resisted the
Desire for a dispensation,
As early as
Died the next
Blackout poetry from The Life and Words of St. Francis of Assisi by Ira Peck
I'm told I could never save you...
that only the scarred-hand man could love you so.
But by stringing words together...
it seems I've given you immortality.