Imagine.
Imagine that everyone knows
About a brilliant golden rose
And they know where it's from.
The journey isn't as steep
Everything you have, you can keep,
To the Rose, everyone would come.

Suppose.
Suppose this object was in fact real.
People would get it despite how they feel
Tricking the other with a rose of gold
The rose's trek was one so lame,
Every lover had given his love the same
What value does the rose now hold?

Now see.
See now why the rose is hidden?
From fake passion, to keep it forbidden
And to keep it pure as true love
It doesn't matter if your life's a wreck
The rose is nothing without the trek
And this is why it is seldom heard of.

to see, taste, touch, hear, feel, laugh, cry, know, walk, run, skip, jump, care, love, heal*

Now look at all you can do,
just by being alive.

I always thought that love is madness,
Wrapped in blessings,
Ribbon tied with curse,
Poetry as greetings,
Written on a card heart stamped,
Pixie dusts and magic as glitters so you would glance.
You would glance.
Once.
And that is all it takes.








I always have been so sure that he is love.

He is love.

But the address written is not mine.

Takes a real woman to realise that womanhood is not all about impressing the opposite ***,
Or doing all it takes;
To grab attention,
Its not all about having curves or ***** for attraction,
There's more to it,
There's love and care to it,
Integrity,humility,
Meekness,intectuality,
There's beauty,.
Every woman possesses great beauty,
Takes the right people to see it truly,
Womanhood itself is a beautiful gift,
Embrace it,
Live it,
Love it.

this is how i travel,
with a paperback clung to
my chest, fingers wrapped 'round
like birthday gift ribbons

i sail on the syllables,
the music they make.
how many homes i have,
nestled in the spaces
between paragraphs and phrases.
each chapter an
island
where i'm somebody
else

this is how i learn,
how i journey -
between pages
and tales.

do not come to
find me

Just look at me now.
All gift wrapped, and such
Do you like what you see?
Cause I don’t, very much.

                    As the lying won’t cease
                    And my truth is horrific,
                    You don't want to ask me
                    To be more specific. . .

So I’ll say goodbye
And tell you to go;
Don’t look for a truth
You won’t want to know.