Vines can reacheth up to the sky Supp'rt'd by the sturdy pine Given the chance to groweth and thrive Curl and twist'd up rough skinn'd oaks To seeth the w'rld through eyes up high Unreachable but f'r those deep, stout roots Anon finally able to floweth'r and fruit Climbing up by the crackling bark On the backs of the pines and belly of the oaks
@LadyRavenhill 2018 rewrite of 2016 poem Starting a collection of just my Shakespearean poetry called W'rds of a Nimble-Footed Mistress. check it out on my profile as I add more, I have so many still to post. Who knows, maybe I will finally publish something?
I miss the simple days when you were once a garden. I’d prowl into your living room and nap, lazily, across the seedy couch you found in the basement of a thrift shop. I paid no mind to the vines that grew lavishly around my ankles.
The sunlight that cascaded through the cracks in the windows seemed to nourish my limbs as much as it tended to your own needful soil.
Lately, you seem to prefer to deny your roots as a bearer of fruit, preferring to be known as the flightless astronaut who will someday discover a new Earth to reinvent your crops upon.
Your love was honeysuckle sprouts growing with every breath I took. My tears kept them flourishing until they were sprawled up my insides, clogging my throat not being able to decipher the 'I Love You's from the screams. Quickly the vines overgrew and spilled out my mouth as messy as the poems, forgetting what it was to feel empty.
Written after a pull away from strong emotions and a hard reality check, drowning in feelings