I took the stars, plucked one by one And gave to you, but all in vain: I blew in storms to block the sun; The bane of time now child’s proclaim: The spin of earth, too fast for fun, Oh poor woman, do you hide pain?
Is it behind your summer eyes? Perhaps beneath that honey hair Or creeps between those pleasant sighs Which sound so smoothly through the air? Or stuffed below witty replies That come by the night without care?
O such beauty! She’s no evil: Laugh too innocent, heart too pure, A walk so calm impatience boils Under her seductive nature. Rapture in my love’s perfect coil! Alas, she is all, all is sure.
her hair was messy in an artfully, mesmerising way she had an accidental class that she was not aware of possessing she would answer your questions in a way that kept you guessing when she would speak she would make you believe that she created language in the time that she had free her hair was messy in an artfully, mesmerising way
she created language in the time that she had free
I wish my mother would let her hair go gray, but she says it makes no difference black or silver-streaked. It won’t shine like a young lady’s, an ivy-league beauty on her way to biochemistry and it won’t bounce when she laughs at some charming church boy’s jokes or cascade down her shoulders when she shakes it from its pins. It’s too sparse now, I think. Thinned by two children, dulled by one husband. Only scattered locks to cry behind, wispy memories from darker, warmer days that fade with the dye like overexposed polaroids stashed in the back of a dresser.
that red hair that burns as bright as the love i have for her the red hair that i fell in love with the first time i saw her that red hair that i search for every time I think of her that red hair that has cause me so much pain that red hair that caused me so much happiness that red hair that i want back in my arms, loving me that red hair that i see with someone else that red hair that has moved one, leaving me behind that **** red hair.....
i reach out and touch golden - golden, not blonde - locks of hair, spiralled into ringlets with small dewdrops (the size of baby mouse eyes) scattered atop and it kind of resembles honeysuckle after the lightest drizzle
my hair will not spit sparks if you brush it it will cling onto your hands the brush your shirt and shorts the ones that ride up against your thigh my hair will not curl lovingly around your fingers it will grab onto anything put through it it will keep you here a part of me forever, the way it should be my hair will not remind you of flames but maybe of a lion though easily tamed is it when it's sprawled across your lap your nails gingerly scratching my scalp no my hair will not cascade down my back ever so gracefully masking the scars from my past teasing you in its waves it will claw against my spine, it will dare you to draw near my hair will not remind you of an ocean spread out so perfectly as I run, molding against a perfect sunset it will be a beast, sneering at you luring you closer, begging to be chased it will make you its prey no my hair will not be brushed out my favorite knot will be entertainment, lack of motivation in its calligraphy, you see it as a cry for help, it is my declaration of power. my hair will not spit sparks when you brush it. it will be the forest and flames all in one, and when you're choking on the smoke, you'll remember that hair is power. to touch it is to drain it. so I empty all into your talons because my hair will remind you of a monster and your breath will be its leash.