I imagine colored dye Floating through my brain Showing the inconsistent chemicals The lack of even concentration A dose of something unexpected And my eyes turn round like saucers I feel everything so intensely I can understand the inner-workings Of the feelings I never understood My obsession with lost love Finally whispered it's truth I do not regret where I am today I simply miss feeling the happiness That accompanies the memories that haunt me I must come to terms with the fact That happiness will return to me If I stop hanging onto the past And embrace the beauty of the unknown That will bring me more happiness Until then I will allow myself to connect with myself No judgement No fear No regrets Just acceptance and No expectations
There is a storm gathering in my **** soon to explode into a thousand crimson stars lighting up my veins with fire and unraveling deep-set, knotted scars and the gentle rage outside my window presses on, inside my head as I lie here, my thoughts twisted in a cozy, yet empty bed my thoughts unfurl in misty haze curl into smoky rouge as nightsky thunder rolls into creamed saxophone deluge the snare drum beats in firelight ripple sheets in silky flutter as my fingers strum my womanly instruments into loamy, primal butter my voice in quiet utterance as the heavens open to heavy rains that liquefy my desert hydrate my bare-soul caves so I electrify my echoes into fruited, crystal drips frothing up my cherry wine upon these moistened, hungry lips
All these emotions move in waves https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v6TP-M3dKcY
She smiled, those eyes of greeting, Doors opened with moving breeze, I entered the drawing room, amused As I crept with creeks from the hard Wood floors at the foot of the stairs, Throughout her abode, finery draped And sheer linens played with the sun Round her body. We drew the curtains That led the light and waited for dark, A kettle broke in and filled our cups By the bay windows that burst, pierced Into her lovely gardens, we had some Tea and talked of travels and seasons Huddled in the glassy mirror of nook, Of her white conservatory, at the table Already made with silver and crystal And song birds sang in the open airs.