The restrictions upon my self
worth, never the right, write, wording, metaphor of what I wish to show you, u, me. That even though I don't cry or scream, I'm swaying every sentence I write, right to the point that there was never a chair to hold words. Instead, I bleed my word, pain with every stanza that collected beneath holding me up. Until I wrote so much that there wasn't just air beneath me but solid meaning wanting to hold me higher than that which may make me fall...
How would you consider
Dark blue eyes Colour radianting Shining illuminated me Those eyes were in search Search of love and desire I was not that's how That's when things end End in goodbyes, forever
god wrote a love poem & it went something like this...
she wrote a myriad of poetry
like blood from the wounds pouring down onto a deep, mystical art she wrote a myriad of poetry like she kept her soul in tune with a thousand words and unfathomed thoughts she wrote a myriad of poetry like they were all for the moon; a midnight composition that often ends in three dots she wrote a myriad of poetry like a seamstress who tries to have her heart sewn from all the inevitable loss and endings that tore her apart. nonetheless, with tired eyes and hands, the poet writes, hoping someone would understand. IA
today i wanted to be perfect yesterday i wanted to be perfect i always want to be perfect but if i was perfect what would god be.
The other day
A match struck my roughness And anxiousness took me to be freed by fire As I burned away all of your rusted memories Which'd been stored for yet another day Which turned out to be today In ashes your words Cast, burn and floating away
Just a song about old letters
Finally burned all of my own the other day https://youtu.be/tFCbacVw94Q
I find myself
adding a lot of commas in my poetry Could it be I need more breathing space?
the only problem that I haven't told you
it's because you are my dearest friend. you probably already know, from the words I wrote, that it all meant for you. I'm not ready yet to prepare myself to heart the truth. Because I know it would **** me softly.
hopefully, you will read all of my poem to you.
we sat at a compete
the author knew that there is a tie or secret between us or our heart he ordered to sit in wide he ordered to tell what i like to meet and talk and write we took two parts of papers she wrote i wrote he took he opened she wrote my name i wrote her name the attendants were so amazed they cut thier hands for clapping
the love is a ray sending in equal between two hearts