╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ '✿⊱╮
Deliciously sweet street treat
From dough unsweetened
Usually long, thin or thick
Deep fried, golden-brown
Sprinkled with sugar
mixed with cinnamon
Chocolate dip
Aaah!
╰⊰✿⊱╮

I've been reminiscing over pictures
of a time I'm missing
strayed so far away I can't
fathom the difference

I'm not dead, I'm alive

six feet under terra firma
that's a fathomable distance
and I could take it further

an unrestrained mind makes
for a quick learner
not all pain is physical
but we've all felt it

that's our reciprocal

life is about coming and going
ebb and flow
a continuous state of reoccurring

rises and falls
trips and stumbles them all

The leaves that are attached to a tree, slowly moving from the wind that is blowing softly.

Leaves whom we do not think before we take their lives just by taking them away from their home, a tree or a bush.

The texture on the front and behind, deep and lime foresty green, the vessels that are highlighted by the Sun.

All they give is a simple thing to keep us alive,

air to breath.

And what do we give them in return?

No ability to grow forever, no ability to just, live.

We cut them down.

That's "thanks." to them.

Not all people hate nature or dislike it in any way, or even don't cherish it and protect it, but there are some who don't
care about its beauty and its power.

Trees, flowers, bushes, grass, they all do the same.

We only keep them alive by watering them or the rain waters them, or we simply like every human being, breath in return for
them.

Only a few realize that nature is so important and the only way to keep it alive is to protect it, but are we really,

the ones who must protect it?

It is now, but it will not be forever.

Nature lives with us now, but it can also live without us.

lines,
the curves of your neck, your eyelashes that flutter.
color,
the brown in your eyes, the barely there pink of your chapped lips.
texture,
the bumps on your cheeks, the smoothness of your hands.
space,
the width of your shoulders, the space between your eyebrows.
shape,
the way your shadow looks as the spotlight's on you.


van gogh, da vinci, munch, and michelangelo,
they'd all be ashamed,
for they could never make art in the form of you.

Memories prickle your lazy morning thoughts
as pine needles remind bare feet
that mountain trees have lost as well.
Here,
you run hands through meadow grass
to rummage through a treasure chest of texture;
to root yourself into the Earth,
and not let go of your soil.

But when we do this,
rain pours,
and we soon take hold,
until the seed in our minds sprout like dandelions,
and those memories float away on cotton sails,
off the mountain,
elated to grow somewhere else,
to be picked by someone else,
in a different time;
hands softened by youth
and the innocence required
to see not weeds,
but flowers.