I’m a healer; not a feeler,
a traveler with loss of passion.
Pipe dreams are clear when day is gone,
then I spawn stories you can’t imagine.

I’m a wanderer; but I am not lost,
burn the human manufactures.
The sky is bleeding poor man’s gold,
drowning lunatic dream-catchers.

I’m a winter child; but my heart is fire,
it's a roaring black hole of ancient lullabies.
Follow the zebra through the midnight woods,
I saw glimpse of amnesia in its eyes.

This is based on a dream I've had recently.
It's quite random, which dreams tend to be.

"Beauty bloomed once upon a summer's night,
only to wither on the coming of winter's bite."

© By Amanda D Shelton

Cassandra 2d

my feet feel like blocks of ice being dragged along the sidewalk
each and every step is a brick
weighing me down
winter strangles the land around me
tiny blades of grass shiver
in gusts of wind
A small ladybug once comfortably perched on leaf
lays dead beside me
Its wings glued together
with ice
A week ago the weather was perfect
the streets were booming with people
even ants seemed antsy to soak up
warm weather
squirrels had rolled out from hiding
and the creaks were overflowing with water
its supposed to be spring here you know
but the only thing that seems to have sprung
is debt and depression
sometimes I dream about pushing up flowers
I would have said daisies
but I hate specifics
People always tell me that I'm being selfish
but what if I always end up that one flower
that never gets picked
Is that still selfish?

Crimsyy 4d

You are winter
and I always fall for you,
as Autumn does
when rain comes knocking
on its leaves
and soon Autumn and I
are lost in a breath of
fresh petrichor;
you are rain
and for some unknown reason,
I'm always begging you
to drench me, soak me.
You are a notebook,
often closed,
spine seemingly unbroken,
and I, a starving poet
ripping at every page of yours;
I hope you won't
fall apart with me.

Your snowflake sense takes over
You still can't let go of this pullover

Winter, my dear, your coldness do not ceases
petrified each time that my glance moves towards you
Are you always this insensible, dear mine?
Or is it just to catch up my attention

as the flowers that aren't born on your lips
You will not flower your way into my heart again

Enviable guts you must have
to play summer while
frivolous voices consume you inside

based on the experience of encountering again with your troublesome ex crush
Sharon Valerio Sep 2016

"The trees have already begun to senesce"
my professor says, as she indicates
the oak whose leaves have been colored to dirt.
And a chord is struck in me,
for without her definition
I know what it is to senesce.
This is what it is to shed my leaves,
to watch their fingers wither and release
my autumn comes crisp
and crunches under rubber soles,
it feels like a barren womb.
All I give birth to is empty spaces
between fingers of dusk and
silhouettes of dark against light.
Crookedness is my legacy, and exposure is my blight.
And yet if I am like those dying branches
then I too must come awake again.
To senesce is to die, yet only for a time
spring is ahead, and she is waiting.
And I will follow,
follow that thought like deer prints in the snow,
like the sparrow's straining song,
like green blades lifting their arms,
like the smell of the earth swallowing the rain,
like there is a time when death will not call my name so sweetly
that I choose the dream over waking.
That I too will shed my ice
and become heavy with the weight
of fragrant flowers.

The hope of Spring--it has come for me.

I lace my fingers
with the snowy night
as I rest upon
carmine linen and lilies,
my hand out of
the window,
wet snowflakes caressing this
open palm of mine

with heavens I speak
of slumbering spring and
your name and how
both of you see
my stars, my peonies,
yet you
hide yours from this
open palm of mine

I lace my fingers
with the snowy night,
for I am weary
of you and winter
my hand out of
the window,
wet snowflakes soothing this
open palm of mine

it snowed yesterday and I couldn't resist writing about it
morning glory Apr 17

Have you ever stared death straight on, in the eyes of the one whom you loved?                        

I cannot steal her anguish or her scars. I can't stop the blood from flowing.

How do you continue to breathe when your angel has been damned to hell?

What if these shaky hands cannot grasp all that she contains?

Flowers aren't often meant to bloom in winter; you did nothing wrong.

Selfishness overcomes compassion and obsession is mistaken for love.

Death makes no man wait, and I can't stop the aim of a trigger that has already been pulled.

she's dying, she's dying
Heartmouth Apr 17

I fell in love and my soul grew wildflowers.
Purples, pinks, blues, and yellows;
They grew from top to toe, smelling sweetly.
The sun shown brightly from the pupils of my eyes.
The grass was green and fresh and soft.

There was no storm in sight.

Not until later when seasons changed and the wind began to grow cold.
The flowers of my soul began to wilt and harden at the hateful autumn touch.

Then the snow fell. The first snow of my only winter.

The grass had turned brown and dark intimidating clouds blocked out any light.
The beautiful flowers that once gave me life, have died in the cold storm he left.
I fell in love once and it left me with nothing but a cold, dead heart.

9:20 P.M.
Next page