DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, the burdens that we hold are for our backs to curve years of wisdom---to reach peace:}


hard for me to express

the things you left in me are in mess

the buildings so high scared to my *******

believed things come now to their bests

acceptance of the unknown faces that bloom on the yellow stairs

moments I found it a burden to bare

then you another ranger in those brown tiles

made me drink that blue liquor made me smile

laughter in the wooden walls I will uncover soon

even when the visits brought a past gloom

searching is something I was meant to do on those borders

never will I know or remember unless I read the folders

feel the flies in the green lands

a tingle plastered on the hands

but nothing more than that stance you ******

put a lot of grace because of a simple caring lace

is it okay if this while took a late

that mere second has been stuck written on my fate

those arms gambled with my noes

even though a little lie

didn't hurt

didn't go

far from the beyonds

that red sweater

a path to the wallpaper

to the given weather


                                                                                  -------ravenfeels

She called out severally
And cried out bitterly
Wishing for a hand,
To untie the band.

The bars stood still,
And stole her skill
Leaving her in pain,
With nothing to gain.

Darts stroke her mind,
Deep enough to bind
And sculped her sight,
With strings of fright.

The past was awake,
Sharpening its old hake
And spreading its sheets,
Engulfing her in ****.

No one
Will understand
That when they complain to me
I don't tell them of my burdens so that I can
listen

No one
Will understand
That when I offer advice
to them
All I want is for them to listen to me, too

Poetry.. The bed of repose.

He once thought.. He has forgotten the pathway to the bed of repose, where he deposites all weight of his troubles, uproar, burdens, aches and miseries, a bed of repose where he finds peace, a reflection from the divine stir. But literally not,  cause even a blind man will not forget the scent of his bed of repose, a place where he has no worries of crashing, stumbling or falling.. Despite all the constant tumultuous stir, the gigantic upheaval upon upheaval, Quasi-typhoon from the resulting uproar beneath, aches and miseries, he always creeps, crawls sometimes even rolls and feel his way to his bed of repose. There he lays all his burdens, cause at the end no room or heart is actually enormous enough to accommodate his burdens.