My tongue could never keep up with my thoughts,
And I stutter.
My thoughts could never keep up with my ambition,
And I falter.
So it just makes sense my works will forever be untitled,
And I shudder.
Sometimes I wonder,
Why do we need each other to be happy
But then the emptiness shudder
And I think I get it.
Dewdrops on the grass
Shudder in the new sun
as they disappear
Quiet flows the river,
Ripples gently caress the banks,
Ravaged banks shudder!
He touched her
This random stranger
His rough hands slid up her bare thigh
He wandered higher causing his desire to amplify
She gasped and shuddered
His words making her feel more revolted
She pushed and she ran
Picking her burqa up with her hand
They turned and the spoke
All these women who saw everything as a joke
"She deserved it" one said
For what she was wearing proved just that.
A girl gets ***** and the fault often falls on her. " She was dressed like a ****, she deserved it." No she did not that is not how **** works, people need to learn before accusing the victim.
Beware of what's inside--
A vast emptiness, cold and dark.
Because it's rainy season here.
I often get this shiver
Running through my body.
Some say it is a person
Walking over the place you'll one day die.
But that's a little morbid,
And a tad bit worrying too.
For on that premise,
I shall die in a open, public place.
So I thought of another idea.
A brighter idea.
What if that shivering shudder
Was your soul mate thinking of you?
Just a thought.
Dulled bright blue as last of light
but time is night.
Where are the stars?
The Summer has eaten the refuse
What is want?
Blame people for the worst.
What is left?
(thick skinned upright shells like cars so well developed for speed that the time they took to make is now time we save with quick cuts with content cut from cloth for your hands romantic now only in dream)
This emptiness makes me want to write
a song, a poem
i could care less
I want to write something that will make someone feel something
what if i were to write
His hands don't hurt me anymore, which is why he chooses his words more carefully
Each word melds into a knife that stabs my spine, making me shiver
He doesn't have to say he loves me and he doesn't say it either
But every word hurts me
It doesn't matter if its good or bad; his love hurts and not getting his love hurts
So when he says I miss you, my spine shudders because it should be true
But it isn't