If only these words could mend a broken heart, Or a poem could capture each cherished thought. I would take this artist's brush in hand, to trace your likeness upon a canvas. As you were, beside my heart, together evermore.

In a realm of dreams from long ago, A bard would sing to a room hushed in silence. With his voice, he’d weave each verse. A song of magic to bind us. Our essence, drawn beautifully together. In a lover's poem, the unseen nature of a flower in bloom, perfectly captured within a portrait.

Woven into the fabric of time itself, through tales of loss and tragedy. Here lies the true purpose of an artist's endeavor: To reveal the hidden beauty within sorrow. For even a broken heart reflects our capacity, our strength, beautifully created. A painted portrait of resilience, found within the depths of our spirits. As it thrives in our unconquerable ability to love.

💡LightInDarkness 🌑 ©JFO👥2024

Warm bourbon bottle company
I won't need you anymore
Once the last drop is emptied
Ill sing myself a song of sadness
And fall asleep right where you left me

You alright Bert?

Yea, not too bad,
how's it hanging, Max?

Well I had a rough night,
what with my owners at it like rabbits 'til morning
and the cat ******* in my basket

****,
what a ******

innit,
it's OK though
cos I dropped a **** in her litter tray
'try covering that log up you filthy *****'

nice one,
'ere I had a massive dump myself earlier,
the old girl I live with was well annoyed with me,
of course, I looked at her all remorseful like
and did the head tilt thing

did she fall for it, Bert?

Yea,
***** cow,
she even gave me a treat,
humans eh?
Gullible *****

you got that right Bert

A host of disappointed optimists
Crestfallen once again
The odds were stacked against them
But they remembered when
A Ronnie Radford or Micky Thomas
Could explode a tiny ground
the roof would come off the place
An exhilarating sound
But as it drained down to ninety minutes
With chances growing thin
A thousand tin foil FA Cups
Are going in the bin.

YOURE NOT SINGING
YOURE NOT SINGING
YOURE NOT SINGING
ANYMORE!
BECAUSE YER MA
IS A *****!

Imagine hearing that everyday
As yer dad went off to work.

When you out and about
You felt the grip o the *****
There be somat about
The feel o someone you knew
But alone you feel different
Something you can barely construe
And so you delve down to
What you obviously knew.