"bedpost" poems
Be my novel tonight
Allow me to navigate the depths of your thoughts
and journey through the pathways of your mind while
merging in my imagination and infusing in my wildest
poetic fantasies. Inscribing in our bedpost an
unforgettable bestseller.
Be my music tonight
Let me groove to the beat of your heart picking up pace
as I explore new ways to invoke melodious outbursts. I
want to sing a duet with you of synchronized moans and
pleasurable sighs. Culminating with you belting out my
name in one final perfect note.
Be my masterpiece tonight
Permit me to trace my fingertips across every inch of
your frame as I find your sensually stimulating spots.
Armed with new knowledge and intent, sit back as I
stroke you with my brushes of desire and take you on a
creative adventure of twists and turns as I bring to life my finest
work of art and watch with all anticipation your love erupt.
© Tina Thompson
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
Gemini in seasonable evening,
serenely swirling in Septemberous
ferris wheels
reeling in the vast domain
of lonesome leviathans
and witch-fires;
nowhere bound in the boundless fecundity
[ the feral joys of creation... ]
twins
meander in gravity's
well of souls,
swollen with unknowns and proteins;
golden rods in pointless foam
brewing the elixir vitae
in the Dippers cup. the Milky Way,
a wayward gush
from an ancient Mother Goddess,
plump and shameless, pumping teats
to nurse worlds
infused with divine rays of gamma and x...
why set dark apart
from firmament burning
spheres?
dragons
must clutch eggs in the void
as much
as fork tongue white dwarfs.
of course, the Source
unfolds
as Love does. it's purpose,
in thrall of fearless veracity,
spinning yarns for glad garments
to clothe the naked dread
of such fearful symmetries
as roam the wild delights
of the infinite
meringue.
the Pi
on the window sill,
tempting the circular frame of reference
to square with the sublime Will.
another Fibonacci in your
bedpost,
to better hobnob with
broomsticks.
everything annihilates hatred.
from within,
we sojourn to sovereign super-continents
of opulent peace.
profound realities surge serpentine
with Meaning.
we are outdone on the inside by small minds
and farcical
hearts.
so at night
look up.
Love's Tongue Is
Love's
Word.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
longing
1. noun; a yearning desire
- i never used to be uncomfortable in my own bed. i knew your name before my rib cage started to sing it in my sleep. every night that has passed crosses itself off of a pocket-calendar that is stuck in the drawers of my chest. you move your favorite things into the empty spaces, you hang your worst fears up like clothes that are waiting to dry, you scratch how you love into the bedpost and put your handprints all over the walls. i can't take a deep breath without
hearing your voice in the refrain of my lungs.
yearnining
2. noun; a feeling of strong want or need
- the first time i heard your voice, it sounded exactly like what
your voice should sound like. soft, barely above a whisper, low
and confident and eager. when you spoke, i wanted
to cancel the outside noise of my breathing to listen to you. i wanted
to close my eyes and imagine that voice next to my ear, barely
above a whisper, low and confident and eager and right there
with both of our breathing suspended by its echo.
desire
3. noun; a strong feeling of wanting to have something or wishing for something to happen.
- every day it is something different. your eyes and how they
almost close when you smile. how your whole family has brown
eyes but you have bright blue ones that turn to gray as the
seasons wear on. your hands and how they look like you
should play an instrument, im saying *put those hands to
good use and find something to strum.* and we laugh because
you know what i mean. your laugh. it sounds like an answer
to a question i've been asking the silence.
give me someone to love like that. give me someone to love like that. give me-
like a call back from the
darkness. like, here he is in all of his glory and you
still can't have him.
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC
My father was always one notch on his bedpost close to hypocrisy
and my mother was a couple notches shy of getting there-
she never dabbled in multiracial relationships like my father did.
You see when I was growing up
I had a crush on the little mixed boy down the street
and I was afraid of telling anybody
but it wasn't because of his skin-
but because ew, feelings. Right?
I never saw just black and white,
skin color was never a forefront
it was all just background noise-
to me it was all just gray.
There's no handbook about who you connect with
and there's no color scheme that's gonna show you who to trust.
I realized that because before I had a boyfriend
No black people where allowed at my house
not because they didn't want me hanging out with black people-
but because they were afraid I would end up with one.
Segregation was my father's second nature
and I would like to blame it on the era he was born-
even though I'm really not so sure.
And now that I have a boyfriend everything is fine...
It's like in their mind the more melanin the more sin
I'm sorry father and mother but there is no color coordination
to this thing we call life-
I never grew up afraid of colors because I loved rainbow-
I never grew up scared of the skin that wasn't like mine
just because of all the stories these white folks like to tell-
But the funny thing is
it was a white male, and a white female that molested me....
And my parents probably would've warned me
about the mixed boy down the street-
so really? who should we be afraid of?
Everyone. Equally.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC
Hey Harvey Wallbanger
I’d like you to tie me to the bedpost, baby
And press your fuzzy navel to my *slippery ******
Give me your white angel kiss and I’ll lie down like a brown cow
While between the sheets you play the Italian stallion.
Like a kamikaze pilot head for my pink squirrel
Then give me your ol’ Alabama slammer
And pack a *** punch* into that screwdriver of yours.
I want a *screaming ******
That’ll send me to blue heaven. Wu Wu!
So, don’t mention that ****** Mary*
With her devil’s kiss,
Or you’ll find I can give a snake bite that’s as deadly as a B-52.
Instead let’s ride into the tequila sunset in our golden Cadillac
For *** on the beach*
And on the sea breeze we'll hear an old love song sung by a ‘salty dog’ with a Gibson
And watch a tropical storm over Manhattan
We'll go to Peppermint Patti’s café
And order an Irish coffee and a large slice of cherry pie.
Happy, after dark let’s drive home for a *sloe comfortable ***** with satin pillows*
And fall into the sweet surrender of a summer dream.
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 7:58 AM UTC
Are you thinking of another
While you're lying here with me
Is your mind out there cheating
wishing it were free
free to love another
while we lay here once again
Your body is here with me
But, your mind, it is with him
you came to me from someone else
you cheated once before
you thought of me while with him
because you wanted more
I gave you all I have to give
But, I know I've lost you to
Someone who thinks he's the one
And who knows not what you do
In all our time together
Were you cheating in your mind
Was I just a passing fancy
Until another you would find
Is the game the expectation
of what you'll get next time through
When you told me that you loved me
How much of that was true
You're cheating and I see it
There's no passion anymore
Am I a notch upon your bedpost
Adding one more to the score
Are you thinking of another
when you lie here in my bed
I may have you now in body
But I don't in heart or head
Are you thinking of another
While you're lying here with me
Is your mind out there cheating
wishing it were free
free to love another
while we lay here once again
Your body is here with me
But, your mind, it is with him
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
i want to eat you
let no one else have you
tie you to my bedpost
and leave the house for the whole day
uneventful day graces
what might one say when all
the cookies are gone
make merry with marrow narrowness
the slave’s in my bedroom with
window blinds open for all to see
in shocking stark gestures
and through showering trees
my dear, where has all the poetry gone
i might answer, where the cookies
and love went, the stubbornness
of push and shove, you speak when i say you can
beg when i want you to
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 2:40 AM UTC
Sticks and stones may break my bones
But whips and chains excite me
So tie me the bedpost master
**** me ride me bite me
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 3:58 AM UTC
Do not touch yourself.
Your body is not yours to claim,
Reign in your securities
And tie them to the bedpost
A notch that your crotch will never
Remember,
Do not try to regain
The strength to stand up tall,
It only gives you a place to fall from.
If you hold your head up high
People will start looking what is inside.
Remember.
Only let others touch which is yours.
Now open your legs for a round of applause.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
With wings like barn doors, perched upon the tower and scathing
The king fell, the Earth moved and let him drift slowly to death
Bukowski on the bedpost sang rosy melodies through tin can headphones
and the daffodils of a thousand fields wilted at the news of her death
Needles fall from the junky's arms, a rain drop escapes
Coca-Cola bottles strewn on a green carpet, smooth under foot
and the festival casualties drift aimlessly to their scorching cars
Pills fall from pockets as a forlorn criminal collects coins
The clouds disperse from the estate, reggae disrupts cats making love
Bass that resonates, crumbling cars and the warring between neighbours
Lay with her as the coffin descends, gun crime statistics
Spinoza makes accusations from beyond, ethical misappropriation
Stop talking, for your voice could make an angel weep
but the children still scream, running, frenzied on the lava streets
Cracking bull whips at the backs of a slave, ********** passion, weeping
and the sun sets in the East, proverbial middle finger to the populace
Franzen now teaches me how to live such a lonesome life
While the night holds me like a mother once would
Until I pass,
and the arms of Susanna Blamire beckon
Hold me close
I'm scared
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Bedpost gold.
Common contours.
Bare blankets unfold.
Unraveled slack.
Treasured hazel tundras gazing back.
Hollow silver.
Lavender lace.
Stitched up smile.
A diamond ace.
Balanced on a crystal brim.
Faded toil.
A violent grace.
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 1:00 AM UTC
For once I would like to be longed for. I have spent countless hours of my life yearning for love from people who did not know how to accept mine. I have been told time and time again that not everybody will understand the way I love. Not everyone holds their hearts in the same regard as I do so they do not know how to return my love back to me. Over time I started confessing my love in front of mirrors, my reflection both the sender and the recipient of my love letters.
For once I would like to be the girl you dream about. I want to be on the receiving end of smiles from bubbly girls. I long to be the one to make brooding boys laugh. I am the only one writing poems about strangers I see in the streets. I make playlists for my best friend to tell her I love her but never send them. My love has been rejected too many times to take chances. I have accepted that maybe I’m only meant to dish out love like donations. My heart is spare change in empty coffee cups on busy city sidewalks.
For once I would like to be loved. Not just liked. Not just a fling or a fleeting thought or another notch on another persons bedpost. I want someone to think of me in the same way I think of them. I want someone to look at me and see a spark. A possibility. A future that’s worth working for. I would like to be on the receiving end of goodnight texts sent long after I’ve already fallen asleep, so when morning comes I can know I’m on someone’s mind even when I’m not present. Maybe someday I’ll be the girl you hear about in love songs but for now I’ll keep writing love letters I never send. Spilled ink will never hurt as deeply as watching someone you love not love you back.
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 10:03 AM UTC
everyone's dying and all I can do is scream at the top of my lungs and wait for the bathroom light to burn out so we can use up all the extras we bought for the apocalypse that's never going to happen
and we smoke too many cigarettes in the house and everything is kind of yellow and you can't see yourself in the mirror proper but the stains on the couch and the carpet and the bed sheets seem to do the trick just as well
and we stay up too late and see more of the moon than the sun but we talk about our dreams like it hasn't been six months since we last saw a sunrise
and the floor is made of dust and ash but we never fall through when the blinds are closed and you carve the notches in the bedpost too deep and the bed collapses beneath us again
and the traffic never stops and the snow never melts cause it's always cold here but we burn the newspapers and our old science textbooks to keep warm and I couldn't even tell you what month it is now
but this morning I opened my eyes and read what the walls have been writing for months and we climbed up on ladders and smashed the ceiling.
we made a skylight and watched the sun rise
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
lost in a maze of gazes;
lured
to the pool by the sound; Sondheim
sung badly in a nasal twang;
cught in her lace negligee one more time;
we give the old women the benefit
of the doubtful proposition; if granny
wants to get tied
to on the bedpost - yet again;
the gallant refrain from that old song
is remade the kpop way & tuned in to
the drag subculture; everyone u know;
the prostitution used to be better; maybe
there were once better prostitutes, what
I can see is unpleasantly stink eyed; hos
used to have class before they could
switch genders back & forth; that's some
millennial **** the first celebrity I ever
became aware of was Christine Jorgensen, from the newspaper story about a man who had surgery to turn himself into a woman; a patently impossible task; in the picture in the newspaper he had on a bouffant wig & big sequin ***** working as a showgirl in Vegas in its heyday, so she was already well-known; I always thought that bit of trivial information would come in handy one day: never did
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 7:22 PM UTC
This is not a love poem.
Because
I know nothing about the entrancement of Romance
It’s like watching a mime mimic antics
It makes me panic.
No, I write epics and tragedies.
About political catastrophes.
About the rhythmic anatomy of poetry.
Not about “How do I love thee…”
But let me count the ways that these days
Have grown strange;
The passage of time has seemed to stop.
This black clock’s bold Tock and
Tick have been erased and
I’m still sick with the aftertaste
From the venom of your kiss
Your toxic lips made me itch that
Poisoned twitch One-thousand times
Before my bloodshot eyes
Went blind to your beauty.
“A most unfortunate disability”
Professionals told me
But I just sighed and smiled insignificantly
“No, no, you see this,
Ironically, is immunity.”
Imperviousness to seduction
But this is not a love poem.
It’s a professional epiphany
An observation
All research and annotations state things like
Blind Fortunes and
Heart complications are just
Minor alterations that
Spark fascinations in
Lab coats and stethoscopes.
Isotopes of foreign hopes
Are my safety ropes to cope with my
Distance away from you another day
And there I go again.
Every ******* word I say will start out right
But then convey to betray me with the
Cliché decay
Of a fluttering heart.
And on this day when time has stopped
I’ll re-lock my jaw that dropped
And, with Blind Eyes, this mental case
Will try to trace the chalk outlines
Of lucid days
With the white spine
Of the brain stem
But this
Is not
A love poem.
Because
I refuse to be Entranced by Romance.
I’m the kind of guy who would Panic in
That Frantic state of mind
And draw away from Sunlight
To find warmth Moonshine
To bite the bullet and lace up these shoes
Because eleven shots and twelve steps
Is the closest I get to refuge.
See, I dream in the Black and White
Of a first version television box set
About Bloodied tragedies
And political catastrophes
Set to a beat based on
The rhythmic anatomy of poetry
Rarely about “How do I love thee…”
Or the bedpost marks of
Fading, Chalk-Laced Memories.
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 8:41 AM UTC
It was a cool morning in January
when I cracked my blinds
and peaked at the world I knew.
Bright breasted robin, perched in the azalea,
watched me dress and curse this life.
He did not sing, did not so much as move
as I dragged my feet and clutched my chest.
Bright breasted robin, soaring the skies,
always came back to make sure
each morning my lights turn back on.
He watched me tie myself to my bedpost,
hide away the razors, suffer through headaches
because I convinced myself I lost the aspirin…
It wasn't until a warm March morning
that I could open my blinds
and gaze upon the robin that sang me awake.
A nest, perhaps two feet from the glass,
perched on the limbs that clawed a child's dreams,
sat the bright breasted robin and three others:
A choir, A reminder, A hope.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
Stare at your bedroom wall
and bard me a story about
the creeks of white between
the sun-patches of blue paint,
the faded yellow of the door
where the damp towel was hung
day after day after day.
Tell me about the mark
of a swept paintbrush
that accidentally destroyed
distinction between wall
and radiator.
They're no longer clean,
either of them.
How are the door handle dent marks
from that hurried moment when
you rushed into your room
away from our argument?
What of those stories?
Will you need a new place
to erase the memories from your mind?
The flies and the walls cannot speak
to anyone but you now.
It's all rotten anyway.
The sweet stink of evenings
spent in an intimate supine,
with a cleaver caught upright
in the cutting board bedpost.
We were atop one another
with our faces to the ceiling,
reading passages of poems aloud
after drenching the bed sheets
in varied indentations.
Cut words and minced gazes,
we grayed as shadows
against those weathered walls.
I remember those walls,
moonlight had reflected off the frames
of littered photographs, those stories,
and created a dance floor pattern of crescents
and plank-meeting-plank askew.
Those walls will tell me stories
even if you decide not to anymore.
I'd buy them all up, I would,
as I do the meat hook-hanging
in the butcher shop.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
I leaned in towards her, mimicking the curve in her back and the squint in her eyes. I rested my chin in my hands, completing the final touches to creating a mirror between us. A mirror. I smiled to question which one of us was the reflection and which was the reflector. Or, perhaps, we are inertly tied together at the wrist. The definition of reflecting written in my scars, hidden beneath my cardigan. I smiled, and she smiled back, no longer questioning me, no longer doubting any part of my sincerity. I leaned back, and she followed me, relaxing into her new role.
I knew that I had her now, that I had all the power. With this, I formed promising words on my lips. Caressed careful tears down my cheeks while her head nodded and her hand jotted. I weaved the world I lived in, colored it red and black, or blue and pink. I brought her to the edge of the cliff side, and nudged her in, to be ****** under the carpet of waves and disappear in the waters and the wild. But, I brought her back up, nestled her in my arms and drifted back to Earth and to the warmth of the desert. I braided her hair and fixed her mind to the glorious battlefields of my youth, the stunning victories and the ****** defeats. I was the hero. A shining beacon of light in the dismal landscape.
I could tell be the way her lip quivered at the end of my story that I had won. Like wrinkled silk clinging to a bedpost, she hung onto every word I said and gazed in awe at the girl who overcame all odds. Victory was mine indeed.
But I take no prisoners.
Carrying her scalp, I left her screaming body in the office, next to the box of tissues and the thrift-store couch, which was still warm from where I had sat.
And I went on to the next therapist, a new story already brewing in my mind.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 12:04 AM UTC
The game played no longer how it once was
No votes on new posts
don't check the trends
or check your own for views and comments
The substantive roaming data of broken WiFi connections
Mangle your jangling words, hide your swollen faces behind forced smiles, Rembrandt bastardisations or smeared oil paintings of the black soul(less) beasts that lurk in satiate tree shadows fawned over the lawnmower blue cycle rinse washed acid soaked daydream ***** slap nation
So you revere the works once read on poetical facsimile sites
only to smear words of younger wordsmith wrangled teen angst
and now in your age and ardor it seems advantageous to judge
But then that will leave you hollow inside
or in fact, you could jump from a tall building only to bounce off the concrete into a children's pool and drown there in three inches of **** coloured rain water
But so instead the workload decreases as your dementia bedpost nightmares
all come aflutter
The laced lily white throng of petal pinched patterns masks
the marked men on their dusty knees
There, watch how heads explode
or listen to foley artists rendering the lacquered finish of the watermelon headjuice
Make up words
or make up lies
Wear make-up daily, earn some prize
or don't
I don't care
idc
idk
Resemble rhyme or reason
Disassemble the times and season
Return to pejorative pretensions, rants in verse verse verse verse prose format and **** the rest
Or simply return to the old ways of playing the game
Upvote this, and maybe they'll take interest
Comment here
return one there
Use tags, hashtags, wash rags, fat slags, arm chair fat cats
But always separated by spaces, prettyblankspaces
No, I don't do slam poetry, I'm too white and not nearly rich enough to not care
Reassemble the times and season, maybe make sense of it
Maybe not
Just don't let them become a passing trend, please
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
Leave me be;
I’ll die if I leave here.
Chained to the bedpost, my body is
no longer your sanctum. Every inch
of my skin is paying its debt back
to the earth. I’m dust.
I’m going from whence I came;
the clock is turning back its arms,
as far as it can go; mothers are closing arms
round their boys in embrace;
the rain falling upwards;
conversations are being unspoken;
(lies are being untold)
((your heart yet unbroken)),
the seeds are going
back to sleep; I
am going back to sleep.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
you knew
what you were
doing
with all that
slinking around
in
lingerie and
leather
it didn’t matter
to you
that I was
only
ten
you kissed
my childlike eyes
with an
open mouth
until I adjusted
to the
light in the
cave
of your
tongue and
teeth and
lips
you hot, ****
handgun
in high-heels
you were
dancing
on a primetime
table
hammer-cocked
back
turned sideways
for show
commercial
breaks were
the 75 cent
bathroom
vending-machine
condoms
that couldn’t
stop
anything
are you as
proud of
my glorious
fist-fights
as you are of
how
good you
look
with the right
lighting?
my gaze is
handcuffed
to the bedpost
of death
and light-
hearted
****** mysteries
because it’s
just
make
believe
so what, if
it is pretty
violent
after all?
it is
pretty
it is
violent
sure, I’ll
grow
out of it
or get
over it
if I don’t
grow
into it
or get
under it
like I got
under your
sheets
“all the better
to snipe you
with, my dear”
and
I haven’t felt
any of it
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
[ G Major 3/4 time]
Some nights I cant remember
All the things that happened
I never will get over
All the mornings after
How many loves of a lifetime
Walked right out my front door
While I lied-awake hopelessly
Wanting for more
Each notch in my bedpost
Another scar on my heart
Of the ten-thousand maybes
Who turned out to be not
They march right through me
In an endless parade
Insufficient remedies
For someone I cant replace
My pulse is the drum beat
Our love was the war
And their harmonies choke me
As I hang by my
Guitar chords
I keep on playing you
A song written for her
It has a different title now
The contents are undisturbed
Violins whisper
A dull aching pain
And in a hundred "I love yous"
I whispered her name
Each moment of ecstasy
That rips you away
Leaves the empty shell of me
Searching for an escape
But her song keeps playing
A phantom theme in my head
While you reach your crescendo
I'm just here in our bed
My pulse is the drum beat
Our love is the war
And our harmony chokes me
As I hang myself by my
Emptiness chokes me
As I hang myself and I
Suffocate
As I hang by my
Guitar chords
<instrumental - strings bridge>
<modulated harmony and waltz... piano>
<drums and acoustic front + choral vocal overlay "suffocate...">
Her pulse was my drum beat
My love was the cost
Cashed-in in self-sacrifice
It was me that I lost
In mirrors like pictures
I can see who I was
But I look so different now...
I became "I am because"
We shared our heartbeat
Our love was the war
and this song hangs
Something unfinished
I suffocate
Trapped in our tapestry
It's just me
Left to hang by my guitar chords
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 1:08 AM UTC
Her hands shaking like the bedpost,
Springs are sprung in a similar way to how I am for her,
Bending over effortlessly to feel the sway of her remarks.
If only her remarks were as sweet as her accent,
(If only she had an accent.)
Brave wake-up calls furthering our existence.
Memories lost at the bottom of half empty bottles & at the top of the ping-pong ball's curve.
The sky has been dark for a few hours & the back seat is really the only place we have ever found coherence at.
Tears. Lots of tears.
"Forget about them, take a little chance with me."
The friction,
the faulty red cups,
the unforgettable music,
the fair use of things that are older than our grandparents,
the flavor of her lips, (which makes me think of home, which makes me remember what shattered glass looks like on a kitchen floor & helps me remember what hands that would grab my arm too hard felt like) nostalgia in a pair of lips,
the fruit we were all too eager to try,
the fall of our bodies & the rise of our voices,
the few times we actually would like to remember,
the famous upside-down sip,
& the four words that I could never say in her presence again:
•Light
•Deer
•Exhibit
•Hello
"Promise me you won't forget me."
Misunderstanding her voice never helped me until now.
We're very tired.
We're very sleepy.
But yet our lips aren't.
They seem to forget their purpose once they have a taste of sin.
"Please don't tell anyone I did that."
We're too young for this & I think that's why we do it.
Purposely persuading your every step.
"Don't tell her I said that"
Home is now haze & books are now blur.
More tears.
"I'm not ashamed of you, I just like keeping everything a secret."
We're too old for mistakes & I think that's why we choose to make them.
Calm nerves make her nervous & so do unsteady pens.
"Please don't be mad at me."
We're too smart to be stuck on the same chapter & I think that's why we close the book instead of continuing to read on.
We're all just accidentally sinking to the bottom of the ocean.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
Infantile, juvenile, call it what you will
For now I shall believe that my life's been one big spill
and for notches in Your belt, or notches on Your bedpost
I ran along the snowy banks vying for lost hope
My bare feet turned to ice blocks and for me that's my burden
I did it only to inform the other birds that You'll lure in
To forewarn them of the gentle hands that mend broken wings
because in the beginning all is heard while angels sing
and maybe by the end I’ll harbor brand new feathers
but the fingerprints upon them are now far too much to weather
Sat atop an emerald pedestal in a cage spun of gold
A window has become all that's left of old
So fair warning to all whose veins are weak:
don't give away your hopes to just anyone that will let you speak
For what it's worth my wing does seem improved
Although the brokenness was my only form of proof
DDD
(3/14/2013)
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC