I was young and full of dreams
Wanting to be with you always
So I let my black hair grow long
'Til it would reach your heart
You glanced at me many times
And I was too shy to confess
I looked at the skies everyday
As I brushed my cascading mane
I imagined your hands on me
Your fingers were so soft
Telling me that you adore me
As you ******* my long hair
The sun gave way to the moon
Silky black turned to gray
But still my hair is flowing
Past my untamed bitter heart
I look sadly at the starlit skies
When I alone brush my long tresses
Remembering regrets of the past
And knowing you bind up her hair.
This is my first poem in 2018. I got inspired with the Beautiful Chinese Music - Binding Up My Hair. The melody is so beautiful and melancholic.
You choked on chariots raw. Red egg yolk suppers, churned of the milk oceans this morning you kept.
The lintel of stone turned toward dusk. Some great dynasty of submissive spirits catering your morning
Out on a cart of muse, forms of heaven cannot even hear you. You are a soporific knot in the tale of your Old womanhood. In this infinite Tuesday morning your small black eyes, like an oil tanker toppling over The intense azure sea- shipwrecked, and lost.
Departing from your childhood you slurp Coca-Cola from a silver straw. From the corner store and inside Winter yawns. There is no face, only strikingly beautiful black hair. The body under you is at home in all
My hand's fingers have to fill. All the clothes that you could carry for the two-way adventure. There are
Never enough bubbles between your lips and the glass bottle you have. Only the score of the whistleblower. And the poor symphony you had prayed for into the dial-tone phone, the deep Wilderness, that stiff forever-ago budding from your coffee cup. Neurogenesis lifted from your Fingerprints and emblazoned into this lump of human ingenuity. The hopeless octave that cut us all short.
Every short story that was left untold. There are the brief deaths recoiling in your spiritual architecture. The ****** of morphia has bourn me awake. Inside you are often unscathed, vanishing as some of Tonight's parts assemble you, on you blue is a beautiful color. The sweet retreat that gave you life or the bountiful deaths that counted you too cutely by your side. You are the sun in my black coat. Here is my sea, your sea, you'll see.
Written for Anna Farinola
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