I'm finding it hard to digest these seeds planted in me
It's just not the right climate
For these sprouts to form rigid
Skins, and protrude through the dirt
This *** is barren and desolate.

Once in the spring I felt a bud bloom from these
Sweet caresses, oh I leaned in to soak up the medicine
From this foreign sun -
Light I'd been swimming in.

It grew and grew
Rose and slouched when it needed to
When these kind words faltered with truth
And this wind was too strong to master
Flower, subdued
For the night;

If I knew of the petals that would grow, this sweet flower
Sticking to you - inclined towards you
Would wither and grow grey,
Jasmine loses its color when the season doesn't stay, we grew fond of you.

The new, the pollination, my roots
This milk ran clear - oh, it grew and it grew
Wild flower in me is hard to digest because it's meant for two.
What can I be and what can I do?

Jasmine will always be fragrant and rich
Roots entangled, petals upturned
Growing in bunches, leaves left to spare
No room is wasted
But overcrowded, but
No one is in need of perfume.

Time is dwindling, nature is blue and patient
Bees are forgiving and gentle in hue
But no sharp words
No love so cold helps these seeds grow
My garden is land that cannot produce, or
Waken these seeds that are buried, and scared to brave the temperature

Flowers stay hidden, too.

Truth be told
We walk pass each other without a single word.
Stubborn to the presence of each other.
Yet we look with secrecy, afraid to be noticed.
Terrified of becoming strangers.
Unknowingly judged by thought itself.
The grief of lips unspoken. The sudden appearance of a familiar feeling.
Afraid to speak, the sudden urge of hey.
Today but one of a million.
Disguised as a single moment
We but two people lost in the same moment.
Yet nothing is familiar.
The distance between us grows.
Truth be told
I miss you and can never tell you
While today is but one of a million more
That I moved my mouth
But nothing came out
Normally, it's easier to open up to strangers

What is it like to think with your brain?
What is it like to think with such a mind like yours?

I want to look into your soul, to see who you really are.
I want to explore the depths of your beautiful and complex mind.

How does it feel to have such intelligence?
Is everything about logic and rationalizing ideas?

I wonder how you feel.
I want to know your emotions.
I want to know your heart:

Who do you love?
What do you love?
What are your interests?
What are your passions?

I want to know everything.

How is it that I have such an amazing person presently in my life? How do I not know anything about them?

You're such a mystery.
A lock that won't budge.
Why is that lock so stubborn?

© 2018 Omni Winters

I will write
Until my fingers bleed
And the angels beg me to stop

Here I sit,
watching the reflection of my past grandeur mock me from within it's folded paper pages.
The ink letters dance a mirage of bittersweet enjoyment in the face of my frustration.
The drawings of flowers twist and curl over the lines in the book,
clutching onto every word,
every syllable of woe written amongst the leaves.
Faces fall from petal soft whispers,
and within their atramentous eyes
I find myself lost.

There are the two choices. Wicked, wheel-men curving towards that which I wear in the evening when I paint on my black suit. The pitter-patter of organic matter, the Metropolis ground fresh. You tell me raspberry, I tell you I am not impressed. And then from the inimical lips, those bards from distance, sand spots and hordes of watering holes I place fresh Republicans on- and they were stealing the magazines.

Jury on.

Four devils they figure some, four devils. A anthelmintic potion to square away the worms. The pink worm, who takes long-distance telephone calls on your roommates only moments before the red worm, his head shriveled and his limbs crying from ******, she the blue curly worm; she is what we've been looking out and everything about this evening has slipped in the pattern we expected. Red light in fact,

They used the concatenations of frog legs(this was the big deal since My Mother loved the chelura of some tropical varieties of frogs and funny-legged), banjax the first one before the weather catches the summary being the news. Going as far as the the ecstasy of officials leaving the scene. The species catching its last names of life- genus and family alike racing towards safety.

And so I build in the fly zone. I haggle for President, and make sacred the realms of figures; denaturalized are the entanglements of humans, even whatever the mephitic and bellicose shadows shend and fordo their greatest powers.

I lull  and lust, my pugnacious frazil, just like my recalcitrant logomachy that I ****** and slide angrily and profusely with m and everything I try to do. Just so long as you can see me usufruct and lobby forthright the message.

Mine. Hate. Anxiety.