#2014
Lord:
no bequest requested.
no grant, no teach,
no need or greed asked
just a hey listen up,
if your attention is elsewhere
*this is an
all-on-my-own
prayer that
my eyes only utter,
my tongue,
self-silenced,
can only watch
and must approve
in fact,
this is more
of a post
than a prayer,
updating you
on the state
of what we Earth temporaries
call the heart, mind, soul
and even our,
your-designed
crafted carrier,
my body
Mine enemies call me
cursed, embittered,
they are right - but fools,
they are
so much more than wrong,
for in this they err grievous,
for they cannot see their own
bile provisioning their end
ask for no interference
from the sidelines
neither from the
sapphire mother sky
that raised me up gloriously
this morning
nor the emerald earth
that this day
both gives and gets
common bounty
gives me sustenance,
as much spiritual
as grained cereal delights
lest you think this
just one more
me-centric rants,
let us recall this prayer,
is his very own,
prayer of gratitude
woman's head
rests on my chest,
her blonde highlights,
highlight our bed
and our
life
take and tuck her tresses
from eyes and forehead,
gentle them into place,
behind her ear,
and my hand journeys on
to the skin,
flesh of her backbone,
where my fingers
spread wide,
five messengers unique,
advising all of the 120 provinces of her
heart, mind, soul and body,
she is my beloved,
and I pray,
I am hers
learning still to
live with my means,
such as they are,
sometime mean,
sometimes extraordinaire
even this skill,
to express
is a gratitude
that though
comes and goes
like summer breezes
that as now we pray,
cools my AM coffee
while studying the
patterned mystery
of the bay's
Ave Maria waves
from that
dock-by-his-name
where my heart, mind, soul
drink wet inspiration
from the still-oak-tree'd-strong-surfaced waters,
the blue glue of
our common delighted,
uncommon existence
this skill,
at this moment mine,
to share and
not to keep,
for have I not,
been blessed,
by comrades-in-arms
that kneel beside me,
asking, imploring
to be stronger yet,
for their sakes,
for them!
I pray for
best they-can-muster
sustenance of peace
of heart, mind, soul
and body
here now,
my shills,
my failing skills
cannot help express
in new ways,
a gratitude
that has a shapeless shape,
no measurement app enabled
for their comfort,
our comfort,
best grasped as
an unbounded divinity,
how so I wish I could pray for them better*
focus this prayer
on the good ones,
who so greatly honor us
with a greater-than-a-creator,
gift glorious of
friendship
this walnut crack'd shell,
this container ship of
heart, mind, soul,
here there,
a few leaks sprung,
no nicotine patches
to cover
this dented car,
this dented body,
new dent every day
from only-you-know-where
still gets me there,
but
other than taking care better,
it plods along and houses
the rearrangement of this prayer's words,
and that is what is called
plenty good enough,
self-sufficient
*prayers that are too long
go to the back of line,
so here we be,
but here we do not wait!*
for prayers of gratitude
are instantaneous fulfilled,
and thus granted even before
they are completed*
end.
<nml>
postscript
the love I feel for all of the people, friends and poets in my life that give me
their best, their perspective...they know who they are..
7:32am on the dock by the bay, another blessing for which I don't have the words but keep on trying...they are..see below...
PostScript - the pleasure of your affection for this writ, palpable and heart pounding but it only reflects the spirit that working wordsmiths share in loving camaraderie so deep in the hidden roots of this place. For which I swear I will never to cease to write upon this favorite optic topic a loving challenge...very humbly do I thank you
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
It was the summer of 2014, I was just about to turn 13, spending June of summer vacation with my Grandmère, in Paris. Tonight we’re at a fundraising benefit for African relief (it’s always something). It was a coveted ticket, I was told, because Keira Knightley and Rita Ora were there - somewhere. It was being held at an empire-styled museum-estate in Paris, once owned by Josephine Bonaparte.
The rooms were ornate in the extreme, with dark, woodland, panoramic wall murals, large, finicky-looking furniture, heavy, with gold encrusted - everything. It made the small, dark rooms and tight passageways seem foreboding and claustrophobic.
A boy named Théo was my ‘date’ for the evening (NOT my idea). When my Grandmère was a girl, back when hoop skirts were the fashion and F. Scott Fitzgerald was just sharpening his pencils, a girl didn’t attend a function without a date. Théo was in my grade at school, but he was a couple of inches shorter than me, and his voice seemed different every time he talked. He was a surprise; I don’t even know how she found him.
As we snaked through the main house to the solarium, in a parade of otherwise middle aged, formally dressed guests, the dim hallway squeezed us down to a single-file line. Théo kept trying to take my hand, in the darkness, like he’s scared or something. “Stop that!” I warned him.
Then I saw a mirror - ‘Oh!’ I thought in surprise, stopping dead in the hallway to check my hair, straighten my dress, and pose for my imagination. I became aware Théo was talking, again - he always was - saying, “You're wa wa wa,” or something. Call me a casual and indifferent listener.
“Were you talking to me” I asked, “or just making words up?” He looked exasperated - why?
“You're blocking the way,” he said, anxiously, in a squeaky voice, the way he said it made me think he’d said it before.
He gently took my arm to move me along and I wobbled in my high-heels, I wasn’t very good with heels yet. “Easy,” I cautioned him, my arms briefly flailing.
“You know,” I said defensively,“ someone PUT that mirror there.. probably Napoleon or Josephine - they WANTED people to stop there.” Men are so illogical, it’s a wonder they survive.
As we finally entered the solarium, there was a jazz trio playing ‘C’est si bon’ (Arm in arm), what else? I said, “I’m starving.” A long table along a blue-glass wall featured desserts and champagne. My stomach growled.
I looked around, there was nothing for it - action must be taken - and Théo was useless.
“Want to go get something to eat? I asked him.
He lit up as if awakened, “McDonalds?” he asked. Our conversations were in French, naturally. His joy probably meant his parents didn’t like him eating there (American cuisine! = junk food).
“Bien sûr,” (of course) I said, grinning.
I found my Grandmère in a cluster of elegantly dressed patrons - and there was Keira Knightley - gorgeous, in a dress like she wore in that ‘pirate’ movie - she movie-star glittered, otherworldly.
“I’m starving,” I informed Grandmère, “we’re going to get something to eat,” I turned to show her Théo’s delighted face - he was her idea, after all.
“I was hoping to introduce you…” she started.
“Please!” I asked, bouncing up and down on my toes with some urgency, taking her hand.
“Very well,” she said, sighing, after a moment.
I turned away, wrestling my too-large iPhone-6-plus from my sparkly party clutch.
“Hey Siri, Call Charles,” I commanded. A moment later Charles picked up.
“McDonalds, Champs-Élysées,” I said, as Théo grinned, rubbing his hands in glee. “We’re in the solarium,” I added.
“Eyes on,” Charles said, indicating that he had me in sight.
Nov 18, 2023
Nov 18, 2023 at 7:53 AM UTC
mail gets delivered everyday
do you ever expect a letter from me asking you to meet me halfway?
packages getting delivered under the windowsill
accidentally spilling coffee on the water bill
I have my book of stamps and personalized stationary too
just give me a pen and tell me what address am I sending this letter to?
pictures and videos
your recorded laugh echoes
seeing these old photos of you in your youth
feels like waiting in line at a tollbooth
visiting the past comes at a price
it costs a pretty penny and tends to be unwise
these pictures and letters will never make it to your mailbox
just like when you see me you'll always move over to the other side of the sidewalk
finding these captured moments of the past
makes me want to climb in my car and drive fast
you seemed happy then and even happier now
it doesn't seem like I've brought you too down
eight years ago today you gave me ten digits to dial
I thought our six hundred and thirty six days spent together was beautiful like mosaic tile
you were the first, that I cannot change
but even if I could, there's nothing I would rearrange
you still move me in ways i cannot explain
even after all these years there are so many feelings that still remain
some bad and some good
just wondering
do you still wear the sweatshirt I got you,
the one with the hood?
I'm sure I am forgotten about
everything about me in your mind, completely wiped out
which is fine
just at least have a glimmer of when your heart was mine
mail coming on the seventh day is a nice concept
except
no matter where you are, wherever the trees sway
the mail never comes on Sunday
Jun 9, 2022
Jun 9, 2022 at 1:11 PM UTC
all my life
wanted to write just
the way
Joni (Mitchell) sings
seesawing
rising unexpected,
write the changing temperament
in the pitch,
of now
yawing, oscillating,
speedy slow,
enunciating the whip of
love crazy
twist to fall into a
double-time
bass baritone insane
from and into a higher pitch,
switch on the
en garde,
blue ink
onto cloth napkin poetry
plain plaintive,
rendering the scene,
rendering my heart,
it's crazy high-lows,
emotion backyard
swing set
*Oh Joni!
I could drink a case of you*
that is was what I
told the single girls
when I was a wooing man
send me home,
high and crying,
thinking uneven,
creatively,
drinking you,
pounding the dashboard,
sing our palpitating poems
thinking up
the in-between
songs of
till next time
that they loved so much
they begged,
sing it again and again
I drank them all
and think now of poem love songs,
vintages that never caged,
never aging,
those songs I wrote for them,
back in the day
when Joni
taught me how to
see life in verse
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
for SJR
who lets me borrow his voices, a good man, asks for nothing in return
and therefore, is given all I got...
~~
“She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like the honey, baby, from the bee
She's my baby, you know she's alright.....“
Van Morrison
~~~~~~<<<<<>>>>>~~~~~~~~~
*old folk listen to old folk
and rock,
stung and sprung
from Pandora's box
someday
maybe,
you'll understand,
certain phrases,
from certain phases,
first tasted at a flavored oxygen bar
where youth drank,
worshipped and adored
and when those certain
word combinations reenter,
slipping in from unawares,
recalling easy the first time
you tasted with your ears,
Tupelo Honey
but what you remember is
that differentiating phrase
and
what you believed,
what you needed,
why you existed,
all because there was a new knowing*,
that
an angel of the first degree,
was out there waiting for you...
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
the irises have passed,
their existence, entirety,
a three week, 21 day, gun salute,
to which I was witness to but an
abbreviated four short generational
days
the Kabbalist among us say Kaddish,
and a-Buddhist chants so-be-it,
both celebrating the brevity cycle
of natural things, both notating,
that death makes room for more
ugly yelloe'd and black now,
these irises are now
misfits on a breezy,
dancing summer lawn
today, shriveled and misshapen,
they compare and contrast
on a normative, glorious,
June Sunday that
picturesque presents
the living and the deceased,
side by side
all comrades,
all summer sundries
on a dancing grass blanket
half-graveyard battlefield,
the half-heaven
oft I have writ of the beach detritus,
the shells, the sun burnt *****
a recycled funeral rectory where
no one utters prayers for the
no longer alive historical artifacts
what has this to do
with that human construct,
artifice of memory,
a string on the finger
of the mind,
a pausation, a man-made creation
to momentarily recall another of
nature's cycle -
your children
Have children.
Am a father.
Had a father in my youthful days.
this is a boy scout qualification medal,
marker of me as Expert,
permitting me to commentary
with gravitas, now that I’ve graduated
to grandfather status,
I enjoy superstar freedom
to opine inanely on such matters
of my father have I writ,
of my sons, those remain unseen,
likely neither will mark these day
with a telephone call
or an all-I-got-was-this-lousy-t shirt
gift of gall
I say that's ok for what else is there,
certainly not an unthinking, dismissive
whatever
it saddens me some for sure,
but it makes judge myself as human being
on a gradation of one to none
but more than this internal reflection,
I ponder this hallmark'd day,
as life cycle point notarized,
in verse and rhyme,
for that is what I do best
for before,
many father's day
in the priory passed,
most unrecallable,
just another ceremonial checkmark,
habitually acquitted,
but somewhere
in a drawer of shirts,
in a home I store stuff in,
I do believe, there are some cards
from decades past,
that prove nothing,
other than life goes on,
and we best capture
what we can, as best we can...
with small, objet d'art of sorts
Perhaps one will call after all...
in any event,
to honor the dead,
to mark the existing,
the bannered ship's bell rung,
its sonorous sound,
notable and onerous,
fades as well
but man and animal,
plant and tree,
a living fraternal sorority,
who all look over my shoulder
as I compose on
that Adirondack chair you
by now, we’ll acquainted
they know,
for whom the bell tolls this day,
and why as well,
as we all pause and contemplate
where we are on this day,
on our own overlapping cycles
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
is it **** for you to
think you've been burned
think it was your new chapter
your chance at a New York Times Best Seller
to make a villain of me
to make me operate
play doctor
dissect and cut open every part of me,
to look for a corruption, an ulcer, a cancer,
that you'd fabricated?
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 11:02 AM UTC
I braced myself for the impact of what the blow would be. Kissing the sleep out of you on that cloudy Saturday morning keeps on running through my mind like the memories are water swirling in a whirlpool, they keep going and going before my eyes and I can't shut it out to sleep. You- God kissing you, feeling one of your arms go under my neck and the other around my waist made me feel like all the harsh silences and sad facts became irrelevant and all that mattered was the way you kissed me by the piano and the way you pulled my body towards you this morning. I'm preparing myself for the blow of you leaving and I don't want to.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 9:40 PM UTC
Passive stances and subtle aggression
***** dishes wiped clean
A bucket of bleach and toxic masculinity
This is home to me,
Lavish meals and trips dripping in fantasy
Older men's eyes had *** with me
While my neck was seared with fake jewelry
Home appears to follow me,
Desire wears a scarf of sin
Lust around my ankles and wrists
Naked for all to see
This was home to me.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 1:38 AM UTC
It is possible
for grammar to-
be a mistake ... sometimes
words are
NEVER perfect
I type,
text
errors
true words,
though
run like a stream
FLOWING
from my brain
BUT
this brain
my brain
had been
under construction
for all
my entire being
words
were born in here
in my brain
developed
collecting
images
from my....
surroundings
elevation
no conclusion
BUT
I was counting
scrambling numbers
poor additions
about life
adding, nothing
NOT YET.... no method
salvation
with a bit
of seizure
relying on them
to save me
deppening on them
to revive a tune
to make these mistakes
look pretty???
There are
many languages devided
= many errors in
perfect grammar
+
the ones with gutts
rasing amo
graph-ic-assurence
firing reprisal
______________________=
unique insignifacance
intellect that does not belong
to the world
it is possible
for mistakes
to be a grammar
unexplained
not understanding
why I have to prove
perfection
when
there is no such existance
in humen kind.
© The Madd Hatteress
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
is Corrie ten Boom´s Favorite Quote.
The Master Weaver’s Plan
My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me;
I may not choose the colors–
He knows what they should be.
For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I can see it only
On this, the underside.
Sometimes He weaves in sorrow,
Which seems so strange to me;
But I will trust His judgment
And work on faithfully.
‘Tis He who fills the shuttle,
And He knows what is best;
So I shall weave in earnest,
And leave to Him the rest.
Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needed
In the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern, He has planned.
by AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Based upon research, have discovered that more than one person has been credited with authorship of this poem. For now, have decided to list it as “author unknown” until there is further clarification. Corrie ten Boom.
These words said Corrie ten Boom, the author of many many books. I feel honored and humbled that I may show you this poem she constantly presented in her life as a token of love to God and let you know about her. As Corrie ten Boom said the true author of this poem is still unknown. I am only the one who gives through.
with love, Sylvia Frances Chan
Wednesday, 20 December 2017
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
To my once dearest friend,
I simply wish to make amends,
I know that you've moved on
It's my turn to go.
But what's it like to realize
That what we felt were only lies
And not for real?
Did it catch you by surprise,
And did he open up your eyes
To how you feel?
I just want to know, my friend;
What's it like to fall in love again?
I often wished to write, but then,
I feared upsetting you again.
I really should move on,
But I need to know.
Will I look into her eyes
Only to think of all the times
I looked at you?
Will not everything she does
Simply remind me of the love
That I first knew?
I just want to know, my friend;
What's it like to fall in love again?
I can't help thinking of
The day I get to fall in love
And show how far I've come,
That I've let go.
But what's it like to realize
That your first love was all a lie
And not for real?
When she looks me in the eye
Will it catch me by surprise
just how I feel?
I just want to know my friend;
What's it like to fall in love again?
I'm not sure how I'll feel.
How will I know if it is real,
Or if it's better that I run;
I need to know.
Will she catch me off my guard
And will I feel within my heart
A love that's strong?
Or will I know upon first sight
When I'm with her I am right
Where I belong?
I just want to know, my friend;
Will she help me off the ground
And will I at last be found
As I take her hand?
It hurt like nothing else before
When you knocked me to the floor,
I couldn't stand.
Though I know you said we can't be friends;
Tell me, what's it like to fall in love again?
9/10/14
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 1:08 AM UTC
SHAPESHIFTING
7/25/2014
in under two minutes
I could shed my skin
my limbs aren't my own-
to be in your presence
to feel the warmth
hearing breaths, chest moving
If your arms are around mine
the shift becomes inside
like the plates of the earths core
positioning right into each other
filling each other, filling me up
shapeshifting
I'm not me when I'm with you
I'm indebted to this feeling
take my skin;
my veins -
rip out my entire being
shapeshifting
for you
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 12:30 AM UTC
We never see it but is always there
and we know it is there, we can feel it
Maybe because we are not prepare
to open our eyes to this great world
Where the moon is never the same
and a new painting is always there
waiting to be discover in a shy frame
made of dreams and wishes of gold F
To open our eyes we are never too old
But yet we can be too small to realize
That this world can be warm and cold
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
My mind was on holiday
It couldn't quite take me far enough away
To escape your moral decay
I was always lured with bait
It took a decade to turn to hate
I'm sorry I left the party
I gazed into your eyes and saw tomorrow
Only time will tell
If I broke the spell
It's not easy to leave you
In your rendition of hell
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC
They ascended
Left me
Earth bound
The world
Ended
Yet
I'm still
Around
Flesh
Eating
Monsters
Hunt
Where
I sleep
Still I own
This
Soul
That
You
Seek
...
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 6:48 AM UTC
We get to the hospital,
and walk to the ward
where you are, and I
notice straight away
something is wrong:
you're all puffed up
as if someone had
pumped you up with gas.
What's happened to you?
I say. Your sister looks
at you and I can see she
is as shocked as I am to
see you like you are.
You say a few words,
but they're too quiet for
me to grasp. When did
you pass ***** last? I say.
You look at me with your
large eyes which seem
larger. This morning I think,
you reply, your voice soft
as if speaking was an effort.
Be back in a moment, I say,
and leave you with your sister
while I go off in search of
a nurse or doctor. Visitors are
coming and going, other
patients sit on beds or in beds,
and I see a nurse in a dark
uniform thinking maybe she's
in charge. I approach her,
and she looks at me. I'm Ole's
father and I am not happy
the way he is being cared for,
I say. Why? What's the matter
with him? She says, eyeing me.
He's all puffed up, he has an
infection of some kind, he can
hardly breathe, and he hasn't
passed ***** since yesterday
morning to my knowledge.
She looks at me with frowning
brows: he was all right earlier
when the doctor saw him, she says.
Well he isn't now, I say, he needs
a catheter and something to help
him breath, he's in a bad away, I say.
I can't give an catheter, unless
a doctor tells me to, she says.
Well he needs one soon, I say,
and he can hardly hold the mug
he's drinking from, as his hands
are so puffed up. She looks over
her shoulder. I'll get the doctor
to see him when he's back from A& E,
she says, we're so busy. Well make
sure he does, I say annoyed now,
and on the edge of bellowing out,
but don't. She nods and walks off.
I sigh, and go back you still sitting
there, bent over, on the side of
the bed; your sister goes off,
too upset to remain. Can I get
you anything? I ask. Drink of orange,
you say. I pour you orange and add
water from the plastic jug. I complained
about how you are being treated,
I say. You nod: can you help me
on bed, I need to lie down, you say.
I help you on the bed and arrange
your pillows behind your head.
You sip the orange, then hand it
to me. I put it on the side cabinet.
You lie there staring at your puffed
up hands: I can't eat properly, you say,
my jaw aches as I eat. I look at
your puffed up features. She said
the doc will come see you when
he's done in A& E, I say. You say
nothing. I sit and talk to you about
mundane things, and you reply
gently finding it hard to talk.
Then you close your eyes,
and I say: look I will leave
you now, let you rest. You open
your eyes and say: Ok. I'll be
back tomorrow with Mike,
I say, bring you fresh clothes
and a book. You nod your head,
and I kiss your forehead and I go,
and you close your eyes for sleep.
That memory of that last talk
with you, I will always keep.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 7:43 AM UTC
The lowly amber circles attune
on the savanna grass of Serengeti
as the glow penetrates our tent
where the hungry hyenas nudge
At the dawn of four thirty
when dew recollects on the green
and the lioness pawn are grounded
at the lawn where we once laid
You are possessive and protective
rejective and a handsome danger
hypnotized by spells of the acacia trees
dancing under the thousand stars
As I unlearn the memoirs of the past
within the decorative adventures
where the world was ours to hold
in shades of deep blue and reds
Float baby, stow on the highways
where we changed to hues of black
with beautiful stacked memories
in the wild chasing the leopards
Flow baby, stroll on the railways
where we felt a million tunes
tracking hunts and ******* rants
cautious of the predatory play
Fight baby, sew the sutured heart
where once a love was a lullaby
at the drop of the Kilimanjaro
unfreed from all the carry-ons
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC
The reflection came too late
and now
I must wait,
for the mirror is
fogged.
Dogged by the memory
of the years
that passed by me,
I see shadows,
halo's of lights.
I fight my way up
no use staying here
not when the new year
is on the horizon..
It's funny.
I always trust being
on the cusp.
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 4:51 AM UTC
I stand on the pathway with blank eyes,
With a big frown staring at the sky;
I see the darkness behind the sun light,
alas, they could read the fear in me with an insight.
But they don't, as there is no darkness remains here after,
It is only my fear, fear of failure which is masking the joy with a plaster.
I know that fear will lose the battle one day,
and inner strength will join the hands with joy.
allowing me to see only brightness behind the sunshine and no other darkness hereafter.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 2:51 AM UTC
*Hello,
Everyday I see you,
Everyday I see you walk by,
Everyday I see you pass through,
All those times,
All those chances,
I still don't have the courage to say even just one hello.*
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 6:46 AM UTC
I've found hope in a far off dream
So distantly impossible it does seem.
Others think I'm a fool to believe
Even though I know they think I know not.
This dream is the thing for which I reach
Even though I know I'm unlikely to succeed
Others they think I'm going insane
Even though I know they know not.
They tell me give up, they say to move on
Find another purpose, write a different song.
They don't understand, they can't comprehend
Even though I know they don't know it's all I've got.
I ignore what they say, I choose to press on
But my heart starts to feel like it's wandering on.
I say I'm ok, that there will be hope for one day,
Even though I know they know I have not.
Not sure where I'm going, I hold on to where I've been
As if I have some sort of direction, I try to pretend.
Without this dream I have nowhere to go
Even though I know they know that I'm lost.
1/19/14
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
Every time I finally start to overcome
And from my feelings find the strength to run;
There, around the corner, are my memories waiting,
And I suddenly begin to realize that my strength is quickly fading.
It doesn't seem to ever long enough last.
I never seem to truly overcome my past.
It haunts me in my dreams whether I'm asleep or awake.
It knocks me down and beats me till once again I break.
I try so hard, I really do,
I try my best to look forward to
Every good thing that will come from this pain,
And every little gift I'll in the end gain.
I know that everything has happened for a reason,
I only wonder at what time or in which season?
When will the past at last be behind me?
What must I do to find you to come find me?
How long will it take, I've truly begun to wonder,
When I no long hear this passing thunder;
The clash-clanging reminder of that which has been,
To finally see the sun along with a newly best friend?
Again I say my best is being done,
To this drenching pain at last overcome.
Yes I'm doing my best to weather the storm
Still it's leaving me feeling so battered and worn.
8/21/14 10:46 p
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC
I've never felt so safe,
as your lips touched my face.
My love surrounds you,
like the power of an invisible cape.
I can still hear your pleads,
as you wish to lay next to me.
But don't try to find me.
You'll only feel me bleed.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC