Though I style my curly braids with ribbons bright, and colour my sweet moist lips with royal red to look as bright and fair as a newly wed. Though I stand on two towers to get a better height, with eyelashes that beckon at each gazer. Though my trendy gowns make me a trailblazer with great designer labels that distinguish. Though I have curves which men wished they could relish, revealed slightly through my ******* clad frame. Though I have this charm which could hardened hearts tame, making vicious criminals to dream and lust, still I am nothing more than organic dust.
Beauty is like a Flower. It blossoms for a while and then fades into oblivion.
Make a wish, and then its gone A curl of smoke now a spent dry wick Happiness held for a moment
Then the sickly spittled cake For the birthday boy, mum loads him up And jealous friends crowd round Skirting round the edges, Dad takes a snap at mum’s request Happiness held for a moment
Further out, against the wall Elderly relatives watch it all In prickly jumpers, sovereign chains Fisherman’s friends and pocket change Slow and still, they watch it all
I unpack the plastic crap my parents bought Parents doing all they ought to get me hooked That plastic smell like sniffing glue The cheap thrill of something new Happiness held for a moment
Party bags at the door and then its over Thanks are forced from mouths By parents with an eye on the morning Outside the orange October light is fading On streets the lamps are lighting And the hush of school tomorrow hangs there Among conkers and chimney smoke
Back inside my home the smell of boys hangs in the air; a fug trapped in deep pile and double glazing The telly’s on now and **** are burning in the ashtray Now they’re asleep, and its over
I sit surrounded in my room at the back of the house The orange light is coming in through thin curtains I can’t move for presents yet I feel I am imploding Like a crinkled balloon, expelled of everything Feeling everything and nothing Happiness held for a moment
Rhythmic Tearing Cow on grass Settling rooks Cross sky All around Sound playing Scent On wind Descending Sun Gold leafing The horizon Obscuration Veiling arc And furrow Crop And shadow Poplar lined Fields below Quiet here Above A moment Passes Contrast sharpens Trees recede Into darkness Sun bleeds Into Earth
Is this what writers do? Conjure the worst then set you there, contorting to listen for the beauty that sings in suffering? Your boiling body fights, trembling and next to you in darkness, brooding I see the struggling and the worst and imagine your beauty
as a memory that enters a room full of mourners- sunlit breeze captured in billowing fabric which turning and holding you there for a moment lets you go as the tears and the chatter go on
The river has pressed its sleek back Beyond the bank Forcing walkers back From their path Giving ducks new horizons Opposite me here, wet-footed on the bench A bare tree is troubled By some submerged thing Making a frail and trembling hand Of its upheld branches Water moving through this place Like a dark serpent Water that fell on hills Yielded from ice A hundred miles from here Passes me now And passes the willow Hanging in the last orange light of day Trailing its fingers In coils and eddies It is all framed here Indifferent and alive Alive and forever passing
she's got eyes blue enough to swim in, deep enough to drown in. she'll make you want to get lost at sea. i didn't know it was possible to love the undertow until i met her. she will draw you in just like the moon pulls the tide in an attempt to keep the two bodies together. yet she will ward you off, keep you at bay. it's hard to fall in love with a sailing ship from the dock. she is a beacon of light too bright to observe. her hands are the coldest you'll ever hold; i think her heart is too. she's always been too scared and unprepared to let anyone get close to her.
the girl that carries the weight of the world on her shoulders but isn't strong enough to walk away. j.c.
around the bends of my mind lies some memories of uninhibited realism of high fidelity to myself in letting myself go somewhat joyous somewhat chaotic somewhat musical but just there to feel and see things for more than what they mean through my own eyes seems rather unusual but I go back in time take a deep-dive to recapture these ephemeral bubbles of blissful euphoria as if singing to my alter ego 'We can be heroes, just for one day We can be us, just for one day!'
Heroes by David Bowie seems to be the perfect song to relive those high-on-life moments.