"What's mine is yours,"

I wish I could fulfill your life with mine.
The feeling of two as one, nothing left undone,
Touch my things and leave oily prints.
Move them around; I'll find them again.
Or do you remember where you set it? I think you said you used it by the phone.

"My days are yours,"

The same sunrise glossing over slitted eyes.
They pull me in even when you've seen the worst in the night.
The shouting right beside me, or from the other room
As we go about routines, disturbing but not disrupting
It's okay with me, if it's okay with you?
Living together with someone--that comfort of being in a home and sharing your things. Even when they misplace them and it irritates you, the little things aren't a bother when you can unroll your skin around them.
AS- Apr 14
Girls don't really talk to me
because i'm ugly.
I'm not tall and handsome.
I'm short.
I have big lips.
And small eyes.

I'm not jealous of the other boys
merely melancholy.

Those good looking boys get the pretty girls
and then they break their hearts
and move onto the next one.
But i'm so different.
I'm kind and caring.
I'll bring you chocolates and surprise you
with flowers.
not the store bought ones
how ridiculous would that be!
I'll pick them myself ofcourse.
I'm sweet and sensitive and strong.
When i make mistakes i apologise
I like kisses
and sunsets.
Imagine kisses and sunsets at the same time!
I like reading.
I wonder if you like reading.
Shall we read together.
Shall i cook you breakfast whilst you're sleeping
and then wake you up to the smell
of breakfast and coffee
I wonder if the pretty boys do that.
I don't think they can love like ugly boys.
Deep insecurity manifests itself in strange ways. let us embrace our insecurities and become stronger better humans. Thank you for reading.
ethan gaskill Apr 14
here i have this riches
but they're boring alone
what good is a television
if you don't have a home?
what good is happiness
if you keep it to yourself?
the only complicating factor
is that my home is someone else

we fit intertwined
i want to make her mine
oh my, she's so divine
she's one of a kind

i have all this happiness
that i want to give to you
want to help you forget
how to feel blue
it's not just your looks,
you deserve it more than i
yeah you're pretty but i'd love you
even if i was blind

we fit intertwined
i want to make her mine
oh my, she's so divine
she's one of a kind
just some thoughts i was able to articulate this morning
Lily Apr 5
Everyone has a story, a reasoning behind
Their actions, their words, their thoughts.  
They have a prologue, which sets the scene,
That reveals important things if you bother to read it.  
Their first chapters are important,
Telling you the basic things about
Their personality and sense of self.  
Most people read these chapters,
But the further you get in someone else’s story,
More people lose interest, willing to keep the story,
To put the book on the shelf, but then
They forget about it. Or they just don’t care.  
The last chapters, which bring us to
The point that the person is in their life right now,
Are the ones that are the least read,
Except by those who are closest to them.  
If you truly care about someone, you will
Read their story from beginning to end,
Word for word, line for line.  
Yet there is danger in knowing a person’s story.  
Whilst reading someone’s story, you could
Fall in love, like a soft breeze on a warm day that
You hardly notice, but when you stop and
Think about it, was there all along,
And you should never have taken it for granted.  
When that happens, embark on a new adventure,
Creating a new story with them,
Starting with the prologue and not ending until you
Type the final letter.  
Because no one likes an unfinished story.
My bleeding here like this -
May it never stop until I have
Taken my very last breath.
And in that last breath may I
Somehow take up my pen
Thrusting it into my chest once again
To make way for the release of that last
Phrase which still anchors itself so
Damned deep in my soul.

Oh, to feel it finally ooze from me
Leaving me void of its painful control.
Of which I both love it and I hate it too.
Its double edged influence like God
Himself on the one side giving me hope
While the devil is on the other,
The destroyer of all that I ever hoped.
Oh dear Lord - is not my pen like
A multi-cartridge-d vessel containing
More than just one color?

At times to be blue
When the pain of life draws out that color.
Spilling all my tears
To anyone within my reach.
At other times my pen writes a crimson red,
Letting go of all the love that is in me.
Then to click it yet again to find the black
Darkness that also lives somewhere in my soul.
But there is another color, isn’t there Lord?

Yes, one so silky white in color
That when I write in on this page
No one can ever see it.
That is, no one but you Lord.
So if I leave a white page
With my last dying breath
Perhaps you’ll understand that it’s
Just another note from me to you.

Pulling my pen from my bleeding heart
While taking the last breath I shall write to you:

With the tidings of my fate squarely in your hands oh Lord,
My bleeding has not quite yet stopped.
Here you are to come to administer
Whatever consolation of thy affection
That thy Love has for me.
Dear Lord, receiveth my parting breath
And close my eyes within your blessings.
And when I reawaken let me find myself
Somewhere in the midst of your framework.

Thou hast undoubtedly numbered all of my tears
And placed them in a bottle for safe keeping.
Dear God, thou has always been the framework
For all these words that I bleed upon these pages.
They were all my fancy embracing my feeble knees
Hoping to raise my eyes to bid me into your comfort.
They are all my own blessings like the child within my heart.
Never more so than when I am bleeding here like this
In these words – only then do I feel your principles
Ever present within me.

So take me Lord when my bleeding has stopped
And please don’t be alarmed if even then
My soul dips its finger into my own crimson jell
And one last time with that finger I write

In the name of Love……
This is a repost. I think this is my favorite piece that I wrote many years ago. I still feel this way. Even when I’m not writing I’m always thinking of what to write. If you are as infected as I am about trying to express whatever this is inside of us all - I think you’ll appreciate this piece.
Meg Howell Mar 21
A daily riddle has come to mind
Where abstract words break an abstract mind
Things once healed
Fall apart
After the moon hits the golden mark
Dilapidated eyes hear harsh lullabies
But no baby cries
No baby cries
Just you and I
Cries fit for the night
The dubious night
The doubtful night
The dangerous night
Our bittersweet night
Brent Kincaid Mar 21
I want to write such words
That can reach out and teach,
And share with the world
What I have found on beaches
And mountain passes, in cities
And the countrysides, like music;
Lilting songs without tunes
But such that please any critic
And help them learn to sing
Even when there is no melody,
Experiences that changes them
To symphonies from threnodies.

I want to help everybody hear
The jigs and tarantellas here
Made from words that keep
Their lively memory very near,
That we may subtly hear it
And love it and treasure
Every beat, rest and thought
In every verbal measure,
So they can ride along with
An orchestra often unheard:
The precious gift to us all,
The magnificent spoken word.

I have set my sights on this,
The mission I have chosen
And shall make it my quest to
Insure my stride is not broken.
Not everyone is given the gift
To say what they deeply feel,
It falls to those who can speak
To show others what is real,
Or what may just be tinsel
And what is golden, or wrong.
Thus is the fate of our poets
To parse it in poetry and song.
I wrote this for you, but also for every poet you will ever know.
Will you join me for a nice cup of tea?
Mom's china cups from the special shelf.
A tea for two beneath the cherry tree.

Faded linen tablecloth so pretty,
Set with cream and sugar in blue delft.
Will you join me for a nice cup of tea?

Shortbread cookies baked by my friend Lily.
A little twist of lemon for good health.
A tea for two beneath the cherry tree.

The Primula pattern appeals to me.
Victoriana rose mug for yourself.
Will you join me for a nice cup of tea?

Bone china cups rattle pleasantly.
Sweet simple pleasure to share such wealth.
A tea for two beneath the cherry tree.

Let's stay awhile and read poetry.
Fragile cups tell a story themself.
Will you join me for a nice cup of tea?
A tea for two beneath the cherry tree.

© 2012 Verlie Burroughs
I have an older friend (Lily in this poem) who lays out a memorable tea quite effortlessly on a moment's notice. It is always a lovely treat to sit at her table. The cloth, always something crisp and colourful and vintage, the cups, works of art, and the cookies to die for. I've not been there once in the hmm (indiscernible mumbling) years I've known her that this has not been the case. Tuesday is always ironing day, she's very organized and still hangs her wash on the clothesline, so things get that natural fresh air smell that you cannot buy in a can. Anyway she, and my Mother's beautiful china cups inspired this.
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