it is so hard to know what you want, what you're trying to say. you're like a little bug with wings that won't quit bumping into my eyes and buzzing in my ear. but a cute bug one that reminds me of the ocean and summer camp and being in love. i would put you a a mason jar with holes in the top, so you can breathe. (duh) and i would take you to my favorite fields and alleys and stores. show you all the things that make me happy and try to make you happy too.
but i dont think you would like being in a jar. even one with holes in the top.
repost ~ because i **** now but i was cool then ~ cute lil' bug
chaos has a silver lining don't be afraid and quit your whining we're all in this, at the very same time we will get through this but it's a tough climb wash your hands, don't touch your face distant yourself and keep the pace the bug won't win if we do what it takes let's kick it's *** and put on it's brakes
Ink is the heroine and pen the needle that moves guided by my fever. The ink pulsates within transmuting into words and phrases. My heart expands racing with visions. The side effect... a written poem that perhaps will give some peace. Peace from my addiction to live before it starts all over again. It is an addiction many a poet had to fight over centuries. Their lesson let it flow let it grow.
I wrote this in response to Suzanne Berlinsky response to my other poem Writing Bug (part one) Thanks
The newspapers say the poetry bug is spreading. It started from a stain of HP. No cure available. It starts by going into the eyes and than a tingle starts in fingers. Breath gets heavy with anticipation and Heartbeat races until it is calmed by a write. If it persists just have a cup of tea and accept it.