"dusting" poems
Dusting off the rabbity
that squirrely tempo anxiety,
closing in with night.
The irresistible pattern
the irrational illogical fight
a battle with one’s discipline,
mirroring our might.
I make it home a fluttering
belly twirled and muttering,
I tell myself tis alright!
The damage done, and everyone,
I’m just like them and millions more
succumbing at the Devil’s door.
And the taste, the burn,
the healing calm,
the shaking and the thinking gone.
Knock one back, slam out another
night is early, rock it brother,
Tying on a swilly swirling
buzzed-out brain and mind a twirling. . .
“Ahhhh…”
I feel better now, exhilarated,
exasperation falls to stout resound;
I pour again and knock it down!
“Ahhhh…”
Spinning now, not to say I’m spun
but choosey choosing several a pun
I see myself an accomplished one!
Yes, that’s it, that is me,
look upon with thoughts of glory
yank open the freezer for glass that’s hoary. . .
How cool am I? certainly not boring
all night I’m here, pouring, pouring. . .
Buzz subsides, thoughts slow too,
lurid leering, slobbering swearing,
stupid actions and nothing new?
I lose the bottle,
I lose my shirt,
***** on myself,
pass out in dirt.
Another night of drunken hero,
time that’s wasted for kingly Nero.
But who am I to judge myself?
*I’m hardly worse than anyone else?* *
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
To expel intestinal gases through the ****
The definition makes it sound kinda heinous.
Whether you pass wind or pass gas,
either way it comes out your ***
Farts are loud and some silent but deadly,
you can make it sound like a medley.
Farts are cool and sometimes funny,
lookout for ones that become runny.
Some like to **** in your face,
it may cause pink eye,
and sting like mace.
Farts can smell and usually bad,
must be a duck, says your dad.
I have farts that never stink,
although some were on the brink.
Dog farts will make you take cover,
the smell lingers and starts to hover.
Woman never ****
but watch out when they do,
it can be brutal,
once their comfortable with you.
If in certain places you must hold it in,
farting in church is considered a sin.
A good **** can make you feel good,
its part of life and fully understood.
Every **** deserves a smile or a giggle,
don't forget to give your *** a shake or a wiggle.
For ones who think farting is disgusting,
I bet your ******* needs a good dusting.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
Corrupt and quiet
Brain damaged
Like a mental hemorrhaging
A ****** heart's craving
Tattooed on your clear skin
Running hands over it
Dusting off your innocence
Dancing on ground that's caving in
Men and women in pain
Broken children going insane
Holding their breaths
Hearts heaving in their chests
Painstaking memories
Sipping tears from souls unclean
Empty verses, lyrics obscene
Children who will never be seen
You've lost your health
Now, what do you have left?
***** just like the rest
Nothing to show, no family crest
Tear jerkers
Hard workers
Acid-bathed men
You simply cannot win
Thoughts under arrest
Burning names off the list
Fighting with a pointless fist
Lost in the lifeless mist
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. A good day to die, the Apaches say.
Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing about the effects of your anger
unless you want to be an angry man forever.
Becoming knowledgeable is the best defense
against your insignificance. OK about being alone.
Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.
Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
In last night’s movie, a young writer
and an older, married with children French woman
fall in love. They did not meet during a village massacre
and money is no object, Manhattan.
But after everything has happened
she cannot leave her children, not even for love,
because of love, the love that brooks no serendipity.
In the subsequent late night movie, a wealthy
altruistic doctor arranges for the ******
of his neurotic concubine. His guilt
provides us with an opportunity to consider
the concepts of faith and forgiveness,
that all will be well in the end
after a period of meaningless suffering.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
Many moons,
have passed over my headpiece,
as you leave me behind,
in moondust & ashes each night,
You collect on the bookshelves,
I keep here,
collecting on hearts with your light,
dusting my world with your beauty,
diminutives in bits of the white,
This is not the end of the journey,
this a mere tiny part of the flight,
and I've not seen any more shiny,
or any star nearly as bright,
Though I am unable to see you now,
or touch your skin ever again,
or truly hear you with my ear,
I still miss you so my friend,
I know I cannot be near you now,
I cannot be where you are,
as you are but a twinkling light,
a brilliant & distant, star-
If it was not but for the moon dust,
my heart wouldn't,
be able to see you anymore either.
Ma Cherie © 2017
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 12:21 PM UTC
The snow leopard and the little fox were sound asleep. The leopard curled up around the young fox keeping them both warm in the cold weather. As the sun started to arise the leopard awoke from his slumber. He then softly pat his little young fox apprentice's head, "Wake up little one. A new day awaits us," he said with a smile as he stood on all fours and stretched out his back. The little fox grunted and yawned "It's too early," she whined as she curled up tighter, "The sun isn't even fully up in the sky yet" was her rebuttal to his awakening. The leopard took her by the scruff and softly tossed her into the snow covered field. "Ahhh!~Ooof." The little fox yelled as she tumbled into the snow. "You know what they say, the early bird catches the worm, the early cat catches the bird." The leopard laughed slightly as he spoke, watching the little fox stand up all covered in fresh snow from last nights fall. "Well what's that have to do with me?!?" the fox shouted slightly, being slightly agitated about him tossing her. The leopard smirked as he walked by her and pat her head again, dusting off the snow, "It has everything to do with you, it has everything to do with everyone. It means the sooner you wake the more you can do. The more time you have in the day to do what you want," the leopard exclaimed with pride and excitement in his voice, "Do you ever ask yourself why there is so much left you want to do by the end of the day but just didn't have enough time? Well this helps you get more done. It gives you more time." The little fox tilted her head slightly to he side and looked down a bit, "I guess you are right," she said softly. Not knowing what else to say, she stood up and shook the snow off of herself then rush over to the leopard. "So what lesson will I learn today?" she asked eagerly. The leopard smiled as they started walking, "Didn't you just learn something?" he said as he raised an eyebrow. The little fox giggled softly and started pouncing around him laughing happily and saying "Well yea. But I want to learn more." The leopard laughed and looked to her, "Slow and steady wins the race little one. Slow and steady. we will find something for me to teach you, or for us to learn, as time goes on." he said softly but wisely as they kept walking into the woods, away from the sunrise.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
from an idea by Sheila Sharpe
In the foul heat and damp and rot and stench
After dusting off 1 the bodies of dead pals
The living and the dead, the living dead
Old Boats 2 lit off a cigarette and growled
“They say this stuff’ll **** ya.”
1 Dustoff – noun. Dust off – verb with an adverb. A dustoff is a medical evacuation via helicopter, as in “Doc, your dustoff will be here in three.” To dust off a patient, then, is to transport a patient, not to tidy him. I have recently read detailed arguments about the terms dustoff, dust off, and medevac, but no one quibbled about such minutiae along the Cambodian border.
2 Boats – a boatswain’s mate, the brains and muscle of the Navy. Boatswain’s mates do it all and are seldom acknowledged in history or art, not even in the recent film about Dunkirk. A boatswain’s mate is often addressed as Boats, and always with deference, even by the C.O.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
Snowflakes are the butterflies of winter...
Floating around, pretty and light.
The more of them that drift around...
The more beautiful the sight.
Snowflakes are the butterflies of winter...
They make even the messiest garden, shine.
No matter if the flakes are thick and heavy...
Or just a light dusting that's small and fine.
Snowflakes are the butterflies of winter...
Gliding through the skies, uncaged and free.
Only resting when the winds conclude...
Gently resting on every roof, hill or tree.
Snowflakes are the butterflies of winter...
Only present for such a short while.
A flying visit, and then they're gone...
But they sure do leave a smile.
Snowflakes are the butterflies of winter...
Making your garden glisten and glow.
They go wherever they please...
And please wherever they go.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
~
late winter’s dusting,
on tarnished ores;
a dreamer’s seeds,
these rails once bore.
rain-washed colors,
on sun-warped steel;
their conjured hopes,
an age once real;
oxidized
by rust and time
blackened timbers,
no longer bind;
what still remains
are worn out ties,
a distant memory,
of centuries gone by,
now mere after-sighs.
structures standing,
but just by chance...
a gust may blow them down;
these buildings where
men’s dreams once danced,
now a ghost, this town.
though no soul is left inside,
still a body here resides.
so long ago
her carried goods,
these rails rode,
to distant homes,
built dreams of wood;
like dandelion wishes,
scattered... gone,
tracks going nowhere,
now a fading ode,
just another dusty song.
for advancing progress
never fails to leave
someone's dying dream behind.
~
*post script.
Oregon’s hills and back country hide these relics of a time when a nation’s spirit was fed by the sounds of industry, steel and steam, the whir of saws, and men calling, “timber”... long before the age of wood and rail were left in a saw-dusty bin of history by the sweeping hand of time. i could easily be persuaded that this change was for the best, yet this can't erase the longing sense, left beneath my breast... advances do not come without leaving something or someone behind.*
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 4:11 PM UTC
It creeps up on me.
The sneaking suspicion
that I'm stuck
in it.
My hair is falling
in my face.
Only a year ago...
I built everything —
it was so clear.
Even though —
it was chaos.
People were worried.
But it was simple.
It was as simple
as simmering sausage
in a saucepan,
sweating in a brick kitchen,
listening to Sade,
and thinking of rooftops.
Things are more grounded now.
People are less worried.
The kitchen is smaller,
and shared.
I turn down Sade
when someone enters.
I'm still sweating,
but it's because something
is wrong with the heating system.
I long to take
an anonymous walk
between buildings.
There are only
neighborhoods
and shopping centers here.
And I keep running
into people who know me.
It's either too cold or too hot —
It's never summer every day.
Everything that was hanging on
my walls
is on the floor.
Precious paintings and prints
dusting with potential.
I reveal myself
less to strangers.
I don't take public transportation.
It's disconcerting how
comfortable having a vehicle is.
I feel urged to uproot,
swinging in someone
else's hands,
but feel like..
I'm interrupting.
Can't I just arrive for awhile?
My safety net is too big
and my home is too small.
But if I abandon it,
I'll wonder if I'm bound
to be restless.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC
As the Last Dusting of Earth Covers the
Coffin
You Know
She Now Sees
The Truth
You Know
Death is the Power
The Eternity of Truth
From Which You Can No Longer Hide
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
Washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning
The work is never done!
Lunching, shopping, relaxing, reading
I’ve heard is much more fun.
Sweeping, mopping, dusting, shining
Who thinks up all these gigs?
But what I really want to know right now
Is who left open the barn door to let in the pigs?
Mowing, weeding, trimming, seeding
Are mans work, but I’m all on my own
I gave birth to a virtual army
But housework is their No Go Zone!
Yelling, screaming, crying, keening
Achieves naught but my puffy face
I’ve given up such futile exercises
That puts no one in their place.
I hear “Can you help me please”
They hear “Blah Blah Blah”
Maybe I need to learn sign language
One gesture can go so far!
To this end I have ultimately decided
And I really do think this is for the best
To sit right down with drink in hand and
Let the little piggies wallow in their own mess!
24/07/2010
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 5:56 AM UTC
Behold!
that drawing in
of breath
a minty
entanglement
of starlit senses
How they curl
like the opposite
of smoke
over the very
insides
of my
earthen throat
crackle of
autumnal breezes
whooshing through
like a beacon
And in that
split-second
right before
deep freeze
my molecules
rise and fall
in the rhythm
of snowflakes
each one a
unique entity
dusting the
solid soil
with loamy richness
and simultaneous
feather impressions
of relief
Now
like silk draped
alabaster
I am cooled
Like sweet
river water
I flow
rocked by
the slow
churn of
growing freedom
that alights my pores
arises in tender
stillness
through the
looming forests
of my skin
penetrates the
unseen journey of
my night
as demulcent
and persistent
as the balmy petals
of a
raging,
fiery
bloom
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 5:17 PM UTC
"From every wound there is a scar, and every scar tells a story.
A story says, I survived." - Fr. Craig Scott
**... a tribute to a fallen brother ― R.I.P Les
... you were with me every step of the way to the top**
crampon cleats tickle her bedrock
far below the frosty powder dusting;
released from where her majestic peak
parted yester night’s obstinate clouds.
the alpine atmosphere
first chilled and then plummeted
as the starlight glistened;
illuminated ice crystals sparkle
like diamonds in the rough.
I am overwhelmed
by the peaceful aura
surrounding me.
watching how
"these"
footprints
mark the snow
...arousing
a lucid,
stirring awareness
of my existence;
...inciting
a conscious moment,
extraordinarily deepening
the realization of being.
harlon rivers ... May 24th, 2013
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 10:18 AM UTC
I had once been in a church to drink a beer
Behind the pastor seat
A risk I took with no fear
Ends me a back seat.
I wonder who reported me
For I was sure all doors were locked against me
I was sure the gate keeper didn't notice me
I guess the walls have eyes
Oh, maybe holy spirit really exist
But why did he have to show up then
I was in the same spot sweating in prayers
Crying rain seeking for a divine help
Nobody reported me then
Is this not a case of betrayal?
People, they just love being messengers of negativity
When I was sweeping the altar, dusting this same pastor seat nobody shouted my activities.
Wait a minute, what was I thinking
Why should I carry a sin in a bottle
Straight to a supposing holy temple.
Holy? Is a place I once caught cockroaches making out holy?
The venue where our tithes and offerings are being pocketed by the church hierarchy still holy?
Even as that, I don't suppose to join the crowd to pollute the Lord's place
Truly I deserve even behind the back seats, yes I deserve the shame.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
If you do a little housework every day
Then on the weekend you’ll have time to play
A housewife s work is never done
Working from morning to setting sun.
Sweeping, dusting and mopping, always moving
And never stopping.
Washing clothes and ironing too
So many things that you must do.
Then the cooking and doing the dishes
Picking up in back of the kids and feeding the fishes.
Then trying to look pretty for when your husband gets home
So at your tired appearance he won’t throw stones.
Then when your day is through, a CALGON bath is what you do.
(Calgon take me away)
Just lying in the tub to unwind, and in another hour you’ll be fine.
The comfort of your bed is looking so good
And you’re wondering if you should.
Then your husband has that gleam in his eye
And you’re hoping that he doesn’t try.
Then the comment was all it took, of how good you always look.
Then he holds you in his arms and releases all his charms
And makes all your aches and pains go away
And this ends the housewife s day.
© L. RAMS 032515
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
Her press on nails graced her sunken in cheek
Tracing the bone that seemed to cut like glass
Remembering days of endless driving
Her high heels out the window
The sun whispered sweet nothings
But no one knew how personal those were
And here she is
At the vanity of a ****** motel
Dusting powder across lesions that spattered her skin
****** patches on her skin
Just like holes in her skin
She cries
Removing the brown wig that she tossed for years
Brushing it in her hands
The tears held on as if they didn’t want to let go
Standing
She slips off her briefs
Gazing into the mirror
Horrified at the person staring back at her
Invisible bones now visible
Crevices and cavities too deep
Webs of veins that were colored too brightly
Wearing the anatomy of a man that was no longer there
A body not worth surgery
Wiping sweat off her forehead
Smearing her drawn on eyebrows
All she can hear is
“Your mother and I gave birth to a son named Raymond.
What happened?”
That name echoed in her head
Drawing pleads from her ears
She collapsed
Her thighs bruised from one too many needle-pricks
Tracing each hole with her finger
As if to draw out an answer
She
A forgotten woman
Who only tried to cope
Her t-shirts were too big
“Raymond, Your T-Cell count is too low”
A forgotten woman
Who only tried to cope
“Is this ‘cause you’re a ****** Raymond?”
A forgotten woman
Who only tried to cope
“Raymond, there is no cure for AIDS”
She wept
Mascara staining her pale face
Press on nails clutching her arms
Hugging herself
Because no one else was would
Rayon died alone
She was no longer forced to love from an infected vessel
To hurt from a torn home
To pray on laced knees
This hotel room became a mausoleum
Smelling of death and perfume
Rayon was a forgotten woman
Who only needed to cope
But exiled by a community of people
For loving too much
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
Flying above the plain of my existence
Floating not falling
Searching for a new kind of substance
Or just another calling
Something to take me higher
Above this place you call reality
This angel in my ear is a liar
But this cloud of smoke is heavenly
Surrounding me
Taking me in under it's wing
A light dusting of white
To calm the insanity
And that's just the beginning
Inside there's a growing need
Branching out through my limbs
Starting with some stems and a seed
There's no lack of pseudonyms
Call it whatever you can think of
It takes me to that place I need to be
Maybe it's a new kind of love
Reaching unknown depths inside of me
Cascading with dreams of sanity
Planting roots in my core
It's almost calming
Knowing when I can't handle anymore
And when I wanna keep flying
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
How sweet and pleasant grows the way
Through summer time again
While Landrails call from day to day
Amid the grass and grain
We hear it in the weeding time
When knee deep waves the corn
We hear it in the summers prime
Through meadows night and morn
And now I hear it in the grass
That grows as sweet again
And let a minutes notice pass
And now tis in the grain
Tis like a fancy everywhere
A sort of living doubt
We know tis something but it neer
Will blab the secret out
If heard in close or meadow plots
It flies if we pursue
But follows if we notice not
The close and meadow through
Boys know the note of many a bird
In their birdnesting bounds
But when the landrails noise is heard
They wonder at the sounds
They look in every tuft of grass
Thats in their rambles met
They peep in every bush they pass
And none the wiser get
And still they hear the craiking sound
And still they wonder why
It surely cant be under ground
Nor is it in the sky
And yet tis heard in every vale
An undiscovered song
And makes a pleasant wonder tale
For all the summer long
The shepherd whistles through his hands
And starts with many a whoop
His busy dog across the lands
In hopes to fright it up
Tis still a minutes length or more
Till dogs are off and gone
Then sings and louder than before
But keeps the secret on
Yet accident will often meet
The nest within its way
And weeders when they **** the wheat
Discover where they lay
And mowers on the meadow lea
Chance on their noisy guest
And wonder what the bird can be
That lays without a nest
In simple holes that birds will rake
When dusting on the ground
They drop their eggs of curious make
Deep blotched and nearly round
A mystery still to men and boys
Who know not where they lay
And guess it but a summer noise
Among the meadow hay
3.3k
I want to ride with the van doors open.
I want you and you, and you, and you and you and you and you and you in there.
I want the wind to storm its way through the doors, and make it hard for us to breathe.
I want us to sing and laugh so loud, we can't seem to hear each other.
I want the ***** soles of your shoes against my shin, my hair in your open mouth and your shoulder molding painfully into my arm.
I want to see your shirt ride up your belly; I want to see the scars there before I eat you alive.
I want your neck on my tongue and my heart in your hands;
I want to pool in between your fingers so you'd have to skin yourself alive just to scrape me off.
I want to fall out of a moving car and be on the news.
I want my flesh to grate the asphalt so hard, you could look for me in between the cracks.
I want to slip off in a blur and taste the colors in the air;
I want you to know what my blood is like on your teeth and what my eyes look like on the pavement.
I want you to have my soul in your hands and to own me like I can't be robbed of my grave.
I want to be tattooed into the back of your eyes and see me in the darkness there.
I want to own what's been yours for so long.
I want you to wear my shirt when you go to sleep.
I want people to mourn then ask you what it was like to know me.
I want you to tell them I haunt you. That you love me. Despise me.
That they locked the casket cause they never found me.
That the truth is, I'm inside of you, every moment, awake and alive, breathing and not.
Buried where I'd never be found—that if they'd have to pay respects, they'd go to you instead.
I want to be rotting next to you so you're never alone.
Keeping you awake if you dare try to leave the thought of me.
Be the weight that pulls you back to bed; the curse that forces you into mourning.
I want you to ride up and down the road at night, so we can both be alone.
Lie down where you could find me, outlined and marked up from:
Marker 1, marker 2, and marker 3: past the corner, down the blind turn, scattered across a corn field.
You'd remember what shoes I had on.
You'd be wearing the necklace I always kept.
You'd know I smiled too much. Way too often.
You'd look at the ground in contempt before lying there, hoping I'd die. Just one more time. Praying that you could hate me.
Leave me there.
But you'd be laying in a field where our friend's van no longer returns.
You'd get up, dusting your jeans, sour-mouthed and empty. Shirt ***** from the muck, the asphalt glittering with me inside of it.
I want you to walk down the middle of the road where they placed lights to guide you. There can never be another me down that road again. They hope not.
And you hope not too.
I want you to think of your soul left behind with me, where I lay scattered on the field.
I want you to know, even in pieces, we're happy.
That the world is willing to forget, and move on.
And you're trying. Always trying.
And I want that.
I want you to join me, because it wasn't really me who died.
Sep 17, 2023
Sep 17, 2023 at 1:48 PM UTC
On the platform rolled the morning train,
I arched into position like a predator on the prowl,
I jumped into the rake and sustained a sprain,
and like a wounded dog began to howl.
I bought myself to stand and staggered towards an empty seat,
as hundreds rushed through the compartment door,
I dint get a seat, but space enough for my feet,
and that's when my phone clattered onto the floor.
I dived into the mammoth crowd,
and began to ***** unsuspecting toes,
Several people yelped out loud,
and i sustained a few hard blows.
Wounded and abashed i almost gave up the search,
when the phone came into my hand,
with relief i grabbed it amidst a jolt and lurch,
but soon realized I couldn't bring myself to stand.
I sat crouched on my fours,
and soon developed knee sores,
The crowd was so large, I couldn't squeeze through them all,
and to my horror, other phones began to fall.
Soon, we were quite a gathering, all perched on our knees,
merrily discussing the Lokpal bill and the Cricket match in West Indies,
We were soon forced to balance on a single toe,
as the crowd began to grow even more.
After an uncomfortable half an hour,I brought myself to stand,
with delicate ease on the platform I managed to land.
Fighting against the oncoming crowd i pushed through with a shove and ****
dusting myself here and there I made my way to work.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
"It is really beautiful up here" she whispered.
Her skin brightened in the glow of the fading masterpiece of crimsons, yellows, and golds the sun had brushed across the turquoise sky "This is it, this is what heaven is like."
I couldn't hear her, but I could read her soft spoken lips and study her face—which I always imagined as less of the cover to a book and more every word inside. There was not a greatness or a sadness that ceased to mask her portrait. She was all heart and soul, every bit of her.
I watched as her bright eyes changed to become more glass than eyes. As if, for the first time, she was seeing life, love, and something more. Something so deep and beautiful that not even Hemmingway or Fitzgerald could even begin to put the prefix of it into thought.
Among the dusting of the clouds and transparent sunset, I felt her heartbeat could silence and the lungs of which gave her the life I so cherished could empty turning her flesh a pale blue—and she would fade peacefully into the scene before me.
This very thought frightened me. Too soon would her feet touch the ground—and nothing I was humanly capable of, or possibly godly capable of, would ever captivate and hold her so perfectly or turn her eyes as vivid—and there was nothing more I wanted.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
It grows from the sight of you,
Simmering ever so slowly,
From a thought of you,
To the thought of without you,
When we were strangers,
Wonder if you were curious too,
Why this need to see you smile,
Why I don't know you but still,
I want your eyes to hold me,
Hold me like I would you,
Never understood what I haven't said,
But implied,
In your silence and lies I heard echoes in your head,
Never heard when I told you to trust me,
I guess how I cared you failed to see,
Making me just another figurine,
Dusting in your memory,
You taught me despite my tries,
You don't know me.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:31 PM UTC