struggling childhood, infinite smiles, dashing youth, amazing life, the wrinkled eyes had, treasure of memories to share, but none in the old house had ears to hear, so the treasure was buried, deep under the soil, with the wrinkled eyes....
I am a pole dancer who knows a lot of love stories , even more but than many churches have heard .
And I never felt no one goes quietly when the subject is love no one predicts the disillusion As no one knows why the disappointment life is mortal but everyone wants to be accepted but and love?
Unfortunately the love I feel for you still is hot in my veins . I know he still shines inside us I do not want to be your friend What do I do with so much love I feel? I do not want to whistle to the moon I do not want to be barefoot in Saturn What do I do with the love that I still have for you ? Blow as the dust? I can not be your friend I'd rather wait to until December over the sun. I know that everything has the end that lovers can become friends but what do I with love ? I’ll Use gravity on the sands ... I’ll Make poetry without senses I’ll whistle to the moon. I’ll go down to the sea I’ll slide my body over the fire But... I do not want to be your friend because I do not know what to do with the love That I still have for you.
My up coming death, you inspire me to write. Never satisfied even after me last breath. I hate the way you roar, slither and scan. Invade me mind day and through the night. waiting, dreaming ‘bout your cunning plan. I Idle at your foul play. You are more able, violent, and deep. Ice bites the debris of may, and wintertime has the eternal sleep. Oh who I hate you and your ways. I adore and hate your personality. Your stage style fills my days. The way you destroy my mentality. My hate for you is the sarcastic ties. Now I must away with a stunning heart. You get us in the end. how are you so smart? You’re taken my best friend, my brother, and my health. Once I leave The works I’ve weaved on the paper will grieve.
'Tis an old sorcerer Searching for what hath lost Amongst the sands of time Wondering Scratching thy ancient beard Grey. Dust. Smoke. Darting eyes watery from The dew drops Amongst the pain of what hath left him behind Forlorn. Ole Joe had long gone Josephine, her tiny fingers last But Thameena, Andrena, Guam. Them stuck as The last of the flames Took the blame for the cranes Too cruel for a willow. Too cruel for a willow. Years had gone by the millennia