"demeanors" poems
somewhere between the fourth and fifth
load of laundry,
sometime after breakfast~lunch,
now served in the USA at home,
as an all day meal, per the edict of Mcdonalds,
start fixing dinner, take a break, walk to the mailbox,
retrieve the post and quick retreat back inside,
ah that Texas sun, bilingual chili hot,
toss the unopened on the prior weeks pile,
cause everyone loves company
the home-cold-brewed ice coffee needs a filling
for the fridge has decided not to help
by automatically refilling the pitcher
even if it could
I, busy folding,
needing two hands
and all my teeth
for folding my master’s rocket ship
sheets
my master observes with one of his alternating demeanors,
this one, super silent watching, announcing that I need a nap:
*“don't you always say, baby,
take a nap when you can, baby,
for when you need one, baby,
you probably won’t be able, my baby”*
with selected-hand-led fingers,
he lays me down to sleep,
bids me to slow slide to dreamland, dinner will keep,
curling inside my frame, hands a-cupping my *******
telling me a drowsy tale, inherited from his mother’s womb
and his granddaddy’s tongue, mindful of his family’s history
there, is where, they find us,
dinner fixings burnt,
me and my five year old baby boy,
still sleeping fast, around 5pm, bodies enwrapped,
tied by blood and entwined in old nursery rhymes,
Texas tall tales of Pecos Bill,
me and my very own
nap-ster master
<•>
p.s. and they call me by my other name to wake me, momma
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
Four parts, woven together
Uniting all universal truths
What others do with it's powers
Only the future will prove
The first strand displays the world's true nature
Destroying everything it creates
We become unwanted children
Who have learned to incorporate
Killing in our communities
Biting, grinding flesh and bone
Swallowing with guilt free demeanors
Only leaving foul-stenched excretions as evidence
Second Strand speaks of our basic biological anxiety
To deny the terror of death
Imperatively born, emerging from nothing
Given a name and consciousness
Hopelessly abandoned from the beginning
Only to be fated always with everlasting death
Strand three
We hide underneath the
"Vital lie of the character"
Pretend to be shining knights in armor
Who will make us forget our
Unconscious anxiousness of death
We all work to attain prestige, money, and the
Fleeting feel of immortality
Worshiping Gods with clay feet
And when our beliefs are attacked
"Holy wars" becomes the pseudonym for
Our immortality projects
The last strand
All the efforts we put into
Making this Earth perfect
By eliminating scapegoat "enemies" and "evil" deities
We end up making everything filthy
In the effort to make everything right and pure
We turn the Earth's soil black and color the sky red
We strived for utopias, making dystopians
All these actions seem unconscious
But it is not the animals nature or
Evolutionary process
It's just us trying to pretend
We don't have perishable bodies;
Trying to deny death
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
Your eyes, bringing despise, continue to pierce me
With their glowing incompetence
And fluttering instances of jealousy.
Your thoughts continue to reach me
With their condescending demeanors
That strike with utter prosperity.
Your hatred continues to elude me
With its striking usage
And power that proves deadly.
Once, just once, I know you can only wish
To wrap your hands around my neck
And squeeze until my breath has been abolish'd.
Once, just once, I know you can only pretend
To plunge the pencil into my chest
And apply pressure until my beating comes to an end.
Once, just once, I know you want to violate me
And, once, just once, I may allow
Your reaching desires to overpower me
Once, just once, I will see your anger
As you wrap your hands around me and decree,
"I'm only putting us out of our misery."
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
It lurks at the back of your consciousness.
It dwells in the pit of your stomach.
It is strong.
Strong enough to exist -
behind the facade of calm demeanors.
Strong enough to swim against the currents
of indoctrinated beliefs of righteousness.
Strong enough to be the wrong amidst all rights.
It is the speaker for the voiceless.
It is the doer for the incapable.
It is the strength for the weak.
It is sweet escape for the trapped.
Listen...
It's there in the lull.
When all is quiet, you hear it.
Whispering, inciting, winning you over.
It will take you over.
It will steer the wheel.
But only if you want it just as much.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
*All the angels are asleep,
Their shadow selves on the earth open their third eyes,
In the hypnotizing light of the moon,
You must learn to tiptoe between carefully crafted lies.
And in the scarce everglow
Of informality, we sail past a once safe territory,
Trying to impose a new way of survival,
Guided by a thin rope of our frail telepathy.
On islands doomed with demons' names,
We maneuver our demeanors on the peripheries of black holes,
One slip of a condemned tongue,
Is all it shall take to elicit an inevitable fall.
Don't fall for the horizon in view,
And never concede to promises made by Time,
The angels could never wake,
And then you'd forever tiptoe in this infernal night.*
•●•
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 3:32 PM UTC
*Arcadia, or what is now spliced of aeons' great
Gates of gold that rust in hate
Islands on grim sulfur lakes;
I have no demeanors that wait
They've left and gone away
To the rise of demise and acid rain
Where epidermis boils
Quintessence abolished and spoiled;
Grand scent of desiccant
Miff's so indelicate
Caveats and feats of nothing; No rise
My apotheosis' hellish paradise*
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 4:48 AM UTC
Frances Justine, with eyes of bella blue,
with tipsy gait and freely-falling shambles of a step,
half-awake, half-dreaming in the onset of a rush
of seeping winds' complaints unto the painted walls of bleach.
A phantom dressed in sighing silk, a glimmer-dress unbound,
her fingers wrapped in lace and fragile trimmings of the earth;
a sonic trembling synchronized with evening humming low,
this tapping placed upon a table -- forests in the flow.
Frances Justine,
the pretty,
the proud --
had relished these demeanors for a lady most in love;
how liquid are her movements as she dances in the wait
of gales that hope take her far, to continents away.
Away, so far away, from this pertinent monsoon,
her setting heart thus painted with the phases of the moon,
it floats, but not for long, the sky's
half-empty and half-full;
there, Frances Justine darkly was
just waiting to be whole.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC
Benign was yet another passer by to predisposed mentality
But both secretly wished somewhere beneath their tempers, demeanors, and myths
For the other to beg pardon for salvation at last; trading their ghosts and their pasts
The men of social civilization, disconnected by strange colors and baffling arrays of advertized trash.. asking where’s the rest of the cash?
So it may seem the wrath of industry, media, and projected reflections
Make trial and test for the all of the rest, connect and digest.
Such was the spoken scramble of this morning in particular. It was no more and certainly no less jovial than what has continually been the subjection of mister Hulton’s consciousness. Often he wondered to what degree of affect had he been lent these sharp-toothed thoughts. For within him a feeling of great unease would settle as his mornings waned ever onward. Hulton; a man, or so he is told, was painted grimly by the colours of intellectual, asocial, endomorphic (in a figurative sense), and partially blind in at least one eye.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
I pour the wine, while you raise your cup
until our bodies have had enough,
that our spirit’s twist, wrung out dry,
sexed and sated; shyly truth seeps outside
of careless vessels, free once more -
unable to collide, despite this ardor.
Our thoughts clashed clandestine,
while our demeanors docile.
Your scowl, the bone beneath a smile
our rose skin kisses, turning hostile.
The quaff of a tongue, the taunting touch.
Skin chenille, beneath blankets blush.
Suddenly sensitive to the sounds of dawn,
a trash truck groans, someone mows a lawn.
Last nights dream bent around a now that’s gone.
Time has stopped, but it still goes on and on.
I’m up, you’re naked;
Every morning maunders, over-medicated.
Every house a story, every window, perspective
my window is dark, theirs, a beverage,
to fill a voyeurs empty cup with scornful slake,
set to brew when strangers wake;
having gone to bed not knowing each other,
in the morning, woken as broken lovers.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
favoring the limelight
but all bets are off tonight
build me a new empire
based on your words
be my mistake again
or prove me wrong
realize i am your loss
i am an improvement over your usual catch
unimpressive, bland
they'll design a lie, just to entice your eye
but i'm real
when will this end?
washing your placebos down
with a conviction that they work
is this the last cancelled reservation?
don't dial in till you know your line
play the boy for his voice
he'll decode in his sleep
preparing for the masses
to carry your message to all
till they become obsessed, too
our love for the heiress to my heart grows
complicated feelings that carry no reason
jealous eyes manipulate
corrupted and articulate demeanors that don't lack in style
exactly what she wants
she will have
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
can we live in cold corners
where no one can see how short I have cut my hair
we will have pillows that share our names
we lay our heads to rest
Im thinner than I have ever been
and I love the way my bones stick out
when you touch any part of me
I curve
and theres my spine
like mountains in the middle of a flat plain
We will have few clothes
and rarely speak to anyone
me and you will be just like this
happier and sadder than we would have ever
thought to miss
you lay down after your long work hours
or maybe we wont work
we will just sit there
quietly
and we will
kiss
there sits an ashtray with a Buddha
on that tiny coffee table we brought back
with us from our previous life
it stands on its brittle legs
so strong
the print on the wall behind it
is our most valued vintage pattern
who would have ever known we would
have come to any decision
I smile when I peek at it
and close my eyes like a child
who has been caught staring at forbidden
things, with butterflies in my stomach
at the feeling of something so new
I love those flowers on that dress
the one that makes the collar bone look like
a stake in the tower of Notre Dame
Gothic artistry
like that
my eyes cant deny you
its so beautiful
and your weak ankles
and these strong features
pale skin
and the black eyes that
have overcome so many
battles
the small hands
the heavy palms
that cradle
we will cook simple things
small things
pretty things
to fill our minds
we are so unpretentious
our house
and us
within us we chain the small riots
we are virgins
we are *****
the lights are bright and
different colors
but we come back to the house
the lights are dim
the sofa has an old print
its smells like lavender
under the sheets
and burnt candle wax
and all those spell tuning
demeanors
we run in
and corrupt to the floor
dropping like dead bodies
and watch the smoke of the incense
we left on, reminiscing in the air around us
and missing our presence
there
together
classic playing in the background always
we are soft together
like the smooth painful tune
on our favorite artists lips
the gentle stroke of the painters brush
when he comes to the canvas to weep
when he has been defeated
together we are
soft
I lay my head on your shoulder
so lightly
you can barely feel it
and I fall asleep to the scent of your
skin
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 5:06 PM UTC
i keep peeking around
these curling corners -
dashing away from
the finger-waggers
who blink
only
when i'm not
in this predicament
when i'm not
kissing the sides of this
yellowing frame -
still holding fast
to that
ensnared moment
i've deemed
too late to make
unholy
unabashed and tall
in the courts of
low-faced jurors
who **** their teeth
at my soiled apparel
and glare down
over horn-rimmed
frames
demeaning demeanors
in mean-streak persons
demand dumb perfection
in too black
tattered
robes.
Aug 14, 2011
Aug 14, 2011 at 1:48 AM UTC
Oh how he thinks he likes me,
But he just doesn't know yet - I'm not his type...,
See his type is the kind of girl whose simple demeanors more on the
shy & sly,
She's the girl that dimples pretty while playing so very hard to get.
She'll say she's never done "this" before- asking him for lessons then
magically becoming a pro....
See she pretends to listen to your ever word,while silently figuring out
the best way to get him to spend,
lend and reinvent himself to suit her baser superficial needs.....
His type is someone that'll take but never give, lust but never love
blame but never accuse herself....
See she's the type- his type, the type to lie and hurt, making things worse.
He like's the feel of her,likes the kisses and hugs...
He likes the way she bats her eyelashes and pouts her lips.
The way she walks as she switches her hips.
Oh how he thinks he likes me....
But he just doesn't know yet - I'm not his type...,
I am a Lady- full grown...
Not a fake lying deceitful little girl
& I'd never change my stripes
unless I change for myself.
Always Me Ayeshah
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 11:27 PM UTC
In a universe full of galaxies;
its clusters, superclusters, stardusts
and other heavenly matters in the
twinkling space,
the universe attracted two mere specks of dust in the earth
called mortals
with nothing quite like yin and yang demeanors
In a dark sky brimming with millions of stars,
the earth holds a sea of billion people who wander toward each other.
The universe must have conspired for these
earthly mortals to work their way around each other,
and finally to consign love and affection.
One mortal breathed life with her
shoulder-length hair at a time when her life is still unkept.
She did not know that
love was hiding its presence at the corner of the cold room,
branded with dark ink on his arms,
also concealed in bleak mood.
However,
Love, all of a sudden, made known its presence and
revealed
his being to this startled mortal who was clueless
of anything.
Through time, Love altered its image from blonde to black;
and arms now fully covered with ink seemingly from back-to-back.
Somewhere along time and circumstance,
it was as if the universe almost failed its attempt of holding
everything together.
But fate
worked its magic around for two mortals who are
polar opposites to give in to the universe's strong gravitational pull.
Love, at first, failed to deliver on time
and could not have two mortals look straight
to each other eye to eye.
Finally, this mortal deciphered love
revealed through long full lashes which tickles the eyes.
It came with cute laughter,
chubby cheeks and bite-sized
chubby banana fingers.
Love wasn’t weak
for it found the courage to
finally meet his opposite
and carry on his purpose
in the vast mysterious universe.
Love always welcome with arms so strong
and wide open
Despite somber days and
as well as in luminous nights.
Love, surprisingly, came prepared with movie tickets
but decided
it did not want to watch
secret life of pets.
Love has a tiny medicine kit
always kept in a knapsack and
deep in the pocket.
Love was always making sure
they could have the time of their lives and
and accomplish a bucket of wishes written
in a dreamy list.
Love came with such thoughtfulness
and witty nature,
and rational mind,
and feisty feature.
Love came tough with love
and a smile so vivid it would capture you in
seizure.
Love came with past branded on his arms
but was handed over with a present
through the mortal who identifies herself as shining light.
For the shining light thought
Love really did arrive in time.
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 10:37 AM UTC
Skyscrapers are so high, they seem to touch the blue sky, as it passes by. Freely the puffy white clouds fly, as the birds fly a mile-high. A pigeon peeks down from it's perch on a high-rises.
The scent of the beautiful fresh flowers, mangled by the ripe odor of car exhaust. The smooth sounds, of an expensive sports car race through an downtown alley. The roar of the aggressive European engine echoes across the walls of surrounding building, as it whips through the street.
A thin lip of smoke swirls from the end of a lite cigarettes, burning on the side walk.
Small bursts of wind, carry the lingering stench of sewage and motor oil. Steam spews from the hot pavement.
People hurry to their destinations. Their footsteps beating down on the concrete the raindrops of a rainstorm. Absent of any cadence, they walk like soldier ants, marching through the streets of Manhattan.
Ear buds plugging their ears, from the orchestra of sounds surrounding them.
Two thousand blank stares of empty eyes, gazing off into the distance, absent of the present of moment and time. A zombie like state rooted by thoughtless thoughts; and routine action.
So many sluggish demeanors, mixed with confident egos. Broken spirits mixed with broken hearts. lost dreams mixed with new dreamers. All these familiar faces in unfamiliar places. A melting *** of different races, styles and graces. Old legends with new faces, in strange places. All in the same place, with a different state of mind.
A big city, with a life of it's own, that strangers call home. A subway, with graffiti. Street corners for the needy, my kind of city.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
Pose for me. so that I can write a poem about you.
So that I can be inspired.
So regal, so gaunt, you're going to be a star
soon.
With your death comes your decomposition comes
your rebirth comes your relive comes your
redeath...comes the death of the Earth. Comes the sun, comes the stars,
-and every time I check back in, you avert your gaze, stoicism,
god forbid I realize you're interested in anything outside your
own chaos theory about destroying the constitution of
men by raising them right.
But you saw me write that in my mind
and now you've switched demeanors to
the disapproving yet ultimately caring parental.
It's funny that I rescued a parent
in you. (Tried to.)
While doing my best to provide (the best of dreams) for both of
us, I somehow hit a bump in the road
that beat me into awareness.
Now that I'm awake, I can tell you, you're
just like me: terrified, alone in your body,
wrought with worry about the possibility of
your mind never reaching mine.
Neither of us were well enough prepared for this
to end so soon.
Trust me to share in your discomfort in
dying with no true heir.
But trust me also that I have become as
much you as any progeny could ever be.
And know that I do NOT trust you
to definitely leave me this time...you've
Cheated before.
Made me feel like we really were angels, if only for each
other. You've crossed me for the last time though.
Like a bridge, I collapse, and I rise.
Like a breath I am labored, I fall for you,
to mark safe passage. But I DO NOT WILL
NOT CAN NOT Burn away. You will always pass by way of my support.
You're small again. Like when we were young.
I feel like I could hold you in one hand.
Sometimes it takes a lot to make us realize the magnitude
of the things we are experiencing. It takes stakes
for us to see that this is one moment we are sharing
forever and never again. It takes pains to force us to
put these experiences down in writing, and it takes guts
to know. to know. to Know. that this love is **worth
having** every god **** second that we breathe.
It takes a lot of guts, to know, when you won't be coming
Back.
to a place you call Home.
Because that feeling you were holding onto
went down deep in Earth.
And up into space.
But somehow it's still in you
when you sleep and dream and wake and eat and breathe and
live and die
and [Move]
and (swim.)
Where you belong is not a constant.
Where I belong is not fixed down.
Especially when
what you are, my love
changes forms so
frequently.
And you're moving along so fast.
I couldn't hope to stop you now...
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 5:31 AM UTC
I’m okay, you’re okay.
That’s the game we play
Pretending, day by day
To not let our demeanors betray
To tamper everything we say
When we daily play
This game of I’m okay, you’re okay.
Meanwhile, when we’re alone
We can feel free to bemoan
And groan (but not loudly)
Everything we haven’t shown
To each other but is known to us
But when we’re together, that’s verboten
It’s just “I’m okay, you’re okay.”
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
He crept his feet that night like a scorpion
Dead, even to the sensitivity of nature
His presence was patched with uncertain aura
Epilepsy at a time, later turmoil in saturation
.
My God!
I should have known by his sophisticated demeanors
And his beguiled compliments on my velvet lips
His reckless talks of treating me like a queen
And the dexterous hold my hips
.
His hands could bear witness that night
As my breath shuffled away
"be gentle! " and for your own good, "be quite! "
He did it like he had been born for it
... And my silent groans and moans died unheard
.
Now I only forward to my friend karma
But shhhhhhhh
He'll **** me!
... If you tell anyone
©️Drunk_poet
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
These identities we create
And forge upon others
Do we really hold a right
To decide
About the patterns of behaviors and dispositions
Or the appropriate demeanors and preferences for others
Why do we crave
to change the inherent tendencies
Or the intrinsic inclinations of some individuals
That differs from our own
And briskly label them as 'unusual'
Why does it feels so challenging
To add a few more words in our vocabulary
Rather than sweeping them all in a category
Hiding It from others
Talking about them only in hushed whispers
Why do we deem
their emotions as inappropriate
Instill fear in them
For feeling a certain way
Forgetting that
They are a beautiful creation of God
Just like us
Made to blend homogeneously
Not plucked inhumanly
Out of a heterogeneous population
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 5:23 AM UTC
Time will tell, time will tell,
Who will meet at the well?
And who will be forgiven,
And who will be smite
It ***** to keep a secret,
Jealousy is a disease, fear is mind killer
They all knew his demeanors
Impeachment but two times, once a sinner always a sin
Sometimes I use to love him
Sometimes I didn’t understand his tactics:
My grandparents always told us
Children, children, behave yourself
Never is the follower always being the leader:
Is the best way to go..
A few article I came across this morning
He is dynamo driven restless unable to keep
(Reminds of my grandfather donkey Wilbert).
He gets by with very little sleep.
The mind of Donald Trump
Narcissism, disagreeableness, grandiosity psychologist
investigate how trump extraordinary personality
might shape his presidency (story by Dan P McAdams)
Was the president really a leader?
I don’t know if I should be happy or if I should cry,
I don’t laugh at ones misery or one rejoice at
Proverbs 24:17 Do not gloat when your enemy falls, and
Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, and let not your heart be glad when he stumbles, lest the Lord see it and be displeased, and turn away his anger from him. Romans 12:19
I must indeed say that I have a love and hate relationship with the man
However, what took place in Washington DC two weeks ago,
Makes me more afraid of the politicians and politics’ more than ever
Time will tell, time will tell,
Who will meet at the well?
And who will be forgiven,
And who will be smite
Jan 17, 2021
Jan 17, 2021 at 1:38 PM UTC
I like adding poems to ãłøñë, because that's what these little poems are. Ãłøñë with me, with vowels & mixed demeanors. Have mercy Heaven, for the saints that walked before me. Left a narrow path back. And I'm not so sure I'll be okay in the next day....
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 3:40 AM UTC
She walks in strays
And goes by her own ways
You can see her smiles
In about miles away
You could hear her laughs
And you would see her demeanors
But yet, she's anonymous
She's nobody
She's anonymous
She goes down rivers
But she'll never quiver
She stays low,
But yet she's always high
High as the mountains could go
As she jumps down streams
You could hear her screams
Bouncing from tress and skies to our own very eyes
But yet, she's anonymous
She's nobady,
She's anonymous
Her voice carries on
Like melodies from a song
So beautiful and so tempting not to listen
And the look she gives is so treasen
We'll find ourselves stumbling down
And wakeing up, wondering how?
But yet she's anonymous
She's nobody
She's anonymous
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC
they left the group
took off and flew.
flight was not sustained.
hovering over past demeanors
faltered, landed carefully
in disappointment, hugging,
affirming it did not matter.
yet it did.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 2:12 AM UTC
Unfaithful marital transgressions
self admitted indictment,
crime and punishment,
no longer think high lee
entailing no mister re: demeanors,
I searingly weathered
(George by bushed, albeit thankfully,
no unwanted child left behind),
nonetheless one unforgettable
indelible, execrable, and abominable
professedly owned his
civil warring battle of life
transgressions undeservedly heaped
(Uriah hit about that)
(carnal feral hormonally seething
gone astray nightwalks)
woven by basket of deplorable
emotionally painful selfish object lesson
forever etched upon mine psyche
(left by one bobbing sponge -
cheeses crust station of his life
within sea of human life now
affixes moniker re: mister *****
inflicted courtesy yours truly
said marital indiscretion (philandering)
one among many issues discussed,
during treatment plan earlier today
February eighteenth 2020
concerning complex edifice
regarding mein kampf
existential bleak house
(figuratively crowded cheek to jowl)
with and hard times
fraught with many
unattained great expectations
unwittingly accepts psychological fallout
(among kissing kith and kin,
a shellfish chicken and hen thing for sure),
despite years elapsed ex post facto
deploying, incorporating, narrating, signifying...
narcissistic, opportunistic, and phlegmatic
self incriminating doom
visualize deus ex machina
betrayal rendered adopted smugness
invariably set in motion domino effect,
whereby emotional alienation
devastation, humiliation, maturation, suppuration
(yoking impossible mission
to shuck off penitence, the price to pay),
thus rightfully, truthfully, and veritably...
ably, readily, and willingly
allowing, enabling, and providing
incomplete resolution, (hence iresolution)
thwarting rancor thy deux daughters
(livingsocial many time zones distant)
embark quest to guide their own
metaphorical maiden voyaging ships of state
countless transpired hours
at counseling facility, where poetic papa
aired and mulled over bothersome
anguish to complete requisite treatment plan
to receive psychiatric appointment
next (and last) Tuesday of February 2020.
Feb 18, 2020
Feb 18, 2020 at 10:43 PM UTC
If love had a meter
And inputs were measured,
As a partner or a lover
Would you be surpassed?
Would you allow yourself to be cheated
In order for the love to thrive
or even out-communicated
Just to make sure the love survive?
If love had a meter
Would you allow lesser time
And seek to do even better
Just to make sure things were fine?
If love was timed and monitored
Would you willingly agree
For your love meter to be decommissioned
So our love can blossom and be free?
If our movements were restricted
Would you allow me to run freely,
In no form or shape be intimidated
Just to prove you love me dearly?
If love depended upon equal inputs
Would you be so caring and selfless
To disregard the unwashed dishes and pots,
My relaxed demeanors or care that I do less?
IvanBrooksPoetry
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 5:54 AM UTC