"fertilizing" poems
The gilded opening is terse and with age defined,
Locking away the pathway from a golden mind,
Hairlike roots of tiny letters form a braid,
Ficus-ing along stretching prongs of Purple and Jade,
Pushing they gather and spider around its ovate curves,
occasioning sprouts from cracks lips perturbed,
grammarized rain fertilizing delicate pods of flesh,
blossoming frosty lemon blooms of T's R's come to rest,
The bunched words hanging, dangling like grapes, of frailty,
dipping on fickle branches barely holding on to reality,
threatening to fall like daggered swords,
But alas are some silently whispered Jamaican words
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
Every death
I have felt, or known,
In silence, i mourn,
Within my breath...
No words come upfront
Just thoughts, preponderant...
I'd feel the freezing cold of an empty space
Feel the absence...clearly imagine a lost face
No smiles, spanning from cheek to cheek
Eyes, seek answers...
suddenly, I'm there by the shallow water of the creek
While some nearby creatures quietly chirp...and squeak
While I......... I could not even speak...
Living,
Is realizing...and accepting
At the right time, they turn brown, the weeds...and reeds,
But, under the water...waiting, growing...are their seeds
Brown ferns...are almost detached from a mossy concrete wall
With a strong current, and wind, they'd be carried...ready to fall
The driftwood lying by the shore...is always wet, but petrified
Brown fallen leaves, on the green grass...no more hold...crisp and dried,
The dead bark of a tree...in pieces...are crumbling...
Merging with the wet earth...in a process of fertilizing
Deep down under ....a fresh spark of life is starting.
All these, remind,
Life and death stand side by side,
That in the midst of death-
Something new is birthed...
When faced with death,
there is always someone's living breath
And, as long as the heart wills to beat
Then, life.....will still exist.
Hundreds, or a thousand times,
We all have died
In the high and low of life's tides,
Physically,
Emotionally.
We remember
Those who have left
Those who have survived..are still around
We think of those who are next to leave,
Waiting for their chests' final heave
---And then, we think of ourselves---
Worry not of our own time
Make each of our remaining days
Be golden, beaming, and bright
With good deeds, and straight pathways
The earth is a moving circle
It makes a round.......as it spins
We try to live outwards....and then, within
Any way we live it...life is an endless cycle.
Sally
Copyright March 23, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 8:32 AM UTC
**** you, Dandelion.
You are a bitter plague.
Your putrid reputation
sows a discording stay.
Your spread your potent seed,
a curse among the others;
how will thy beauty flourish
when murdered is thy mother?
Rose has her vanity,
Daisy has her life;
but you hold a talent
for fertilizing strife.
**** you, Dandelion.
What a pity to be you.
Thy beauty holds no power,
thy talent ruins you.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC
flames raze the forest,
bringing it to its knees.
ashes line the ground,
fertilizing the charred soil.
the clouds mourn for the forest,
blessing the ground with its tears.
seeds of all sizes land,
and the sun wakes up to greet them.
a garden rises from the ashes.
Apr 17, 2022
Apr 17, 2022 at 10:56 PM UTC
talent --
that double edged sword or
sleepless dove with derringer wings
the ability to break yourself open
let others look inside your chest
and find the notorious self-doubt
pimpled succulent you keep fertilizing
because old habits never actually die
and the huge romantic idealism
of the old farmhouse heart
with crooked creaking screendoor
white paint chipped windowsill
the enduring softness of eyelashes left there
flies gorging themselves growing fat
from the dishes in the sink and
prickly leg hair still clutching the drain
sentimental tractor asleep in the barn
next to the weak ego rusted crowbar
the ivy-moss growing thick out there
perfect nostalgia really misplaced for
sepia tone memories i was never part of
a heart full of tongues and cute thighs
and backs of knees that i've never seen
lungs under clavicles filled with patient
lovers breaths never breathed
digging deeper with small fingers
for smooth freckled scapula flesh
that has never found warm pink rest
inside my cheap cotton sheets
-- i know that i have some
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
I have often turned within my grave to ponder of the reason why
Upon the date of my birth, you took me to your secret hide
Underneath an aspen tree within the deadest of nights
You took to me like a moth to a ball of flickering light
With the devils own smile plastered upon your face and the slightest of hand
You produced a sanguineous jar of hearts and an ominous jar of black sand
You grasped my hands in your work enured and fairly calloused paws
Looked me in the eyes, and told me to forever leave my pale hands raw
"Never soil your untouched hands, your hands and eyes you shall avert'
"Never bruise, nor ever hurt, nor shall they be ever touched by dirt,
"Never touch a rose, nor touch a bee, as danger is an all you see,
"Close your eyes my little darling, and all of life shall be but a dream."
With the trust of a mothers child, I kept my eyes tightly squeezed
Wished upon the star within the midnight sky, wavering in the breeze
Held my hands up to my chest, hoping the fluttering and staggered slips
Not to be seen by your face within the light of moon as from the sun it dines and sips
Of a heart that had only once been given to me and should have forever stayed mine
But the greed inside all mens' hearts want, and reaches out to grasp a young new 'hind'
With another slight of those calloused hands, you took my life for your own pleasure
And stole what was rightfully derived as mine; a beating heart, you took your leisure
A working mind, once a clock, now fully had come to a skidding stop
You took my bones and my teeth and used them as a fertilizing crop
The very worst thing that you did, you took my pride when you took my skin
Shaved off clean with a diamond edged razor and worn as if you were mockeries twin
Burried underneath that beautiful aspen tree, I've been given the time to remold
But my life had been stolen, the soul forced out before the bells had tolled
In the time it had taken for my pieces to remold, I had realised something then and there;
There were always things that were meant to go untold, but the truth is ringing upon the open air
You wanted more than what was offered and had bitten off all you could chew
But if I'd known back then what I know now, I'd know real good men only come in few
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
every moment
is continually shedding itself;
sloughing off the skin of time,
dying, into the past,
to freshen in exposure,
this moment.
to live, really
to breathe, by
impermanence.
constantly transforming,
the body is never solid,
here, there, as atomic flashes,
electrons popping in and out
of existence,
an appearance made,
to depart, in a flicker.
all turns off, like this,
always, eventually,
momentarily.
threshed and stripping
bare chaos
voraciously burns,
returning through extinguish
on smokey black horizons.
sinking, into
tendrils weaving,
knitting by fray,
tapestries engendered
by enveloping decease.
you feel this
don’t you?
unconscious
as much of it may be.
it is the nearest of near,
and dearly intimate,
passions corrosive kiss,
oscillating, opening,
to retract, in flow,
pushing in
to pull away,
thanatos is eros
together, apart again,
together-apart,
here-going.
the heart is aware,
supremely aware of this happening,
even when the mind is fooled
by apparent stability,
and the soul surrenders to
it's inevitability,
even hungering for
divine destruction,
as basic an urge
as the creative impulse.
to be composed
is to be subject to decompose,
fertilizing compositions
in cosmic chasms.
our lungs darkly shining
with every fall of the chest
mirroring,
each breath
one breath closer
to the final breath,
each exhale
a letting go
of what can’t be held
forever,
the expelled
foreshadows annihilation,
on the fading road, towards
this mortal coils entropic end;
a preparation.
to live, surely, is to meet loss
over and over,
to love, fully, is to grieve
again and again,
there is a deep
melancholic knowing
that exists in all living things,
water drops
tears like rain,
leaves fall
like sighs,
everyone,
and everything
dies.
our melancholy
might be sacred
could we truly embrace,
and feel, this reality:
death is the ever present condition.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
David flew into my bedroom
light blue eyes flashing excitement
"Sonya ki," he gushed
"We are now the proud parents
of a newborn baby pineapple!"
For two years David fathered
and diligently nurtured the
pineapple cutting from
the Yoga ashram
Cooing, lullabying,
coaxing, fertilizing
I threw on my sandals
and dashed into the
bucolic nursery
There peeking up at us
it's amber pink body
swaddled in spiky
leaves
was our own little
darling pineapple
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
People ask me why I always write disgusting sexually explicit poetry
well the truth is
after being carted off to the ****** bin repeatedly
for fertilizing eggs at the supermarket
i realized my true calling
was to scream out fuzzy wuzzy in public
as i fertilized everything insight
i guess i just have an egg fetish
and like babies
i decided to learn everything i could about the subject
so for those who may read my stuff and
find it's flavor not to their taste
like my new poetic extravaganza yet to be published
" if aint painal it aint ****
please forgive and understand
this is simply the thing I know the most about
and feel obsessively compelled
to share it through my poetry
yes
you guessed it
i'm one of the worlds leading sexperts
and hold a
PHD
from
Copulation University
in
INTERNATIONAL CLITERATURE
after years of in depth hands on research
courses in clitanomics, clitologic
social and clitural humanities
the great take away is this
"shove it
where you love it"
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
This is a Pilut, it’s very neat.
It cannot walk, it has no feet.
Its roots grow up, its flowers down,
Tucked safe inside the dirt and ground.
How does it this? How does it that?
Starting with how it gets energy from fat.
A rabbit hops by, staring in wonder,
Why the roots are above,
As opposed to down under.
Suddenly the rabbit will feel great dismay,
As the roots latch on and take it away.
Down to the flowers, the roots will bring bunny,
For the gruesome feast that is not at all funny.
It will travel through the stem
To a very tight trap.
Bunnies fat is consumed,
And that is just that.
Another question is how does it grow?
A Pilut’s growth rate is in fact very slow.
It waits a whole year
For the dust storm to near
And then grabs on small particles,
That stretch it a mere.
One inch or two
Will just have to do
‘Cause oversized Piluts, there are just a few.
An important question that’s been asked before,
Is how these strange creatures tend to make more?
Piluts reproduce not very many others,
Being hermaphrodites means they’re both dads and mothers.
When the wind blows, two roots much touch.
There is slight chance of this, so time it takes much.
That one simple “kiss” for Piluts is renowned,
Fertilizing an egg and setting it down
Beside its parent, deep underground.
That egg then grows off of minerals from the dirt
‘Til it’s big enough to eat animals,
for it’s no longer a squirt.
It’s made of hundreds of cells, maybe even more;
Organized in a way that no one’s seen before.
It digests in the stem,
Breathes through the leaves,
A remarkable system
You have to see to believe.
It hibernates in winter,
As response to the cold.
Maintains homeostasis
With extra energy it holds.
A Pilut is an organism indeed.
It has all signs of life, as you can read.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
The scene was casual for its inhabitants but an unholy terror for his eyes
A carnival of violence and debauchery, ages 18 and up if you please!
Walk on in ladies and gentleman
You’re just in time to watch the show!
This circus is rated F for **** you
And now its time for the new act.
Watch as the young thing we call
Serotonin Sam battles her demons
Armed only with her blustery attitude
And a .44 mm Magnum
Terrified, he stared on as she lifted the gun and pressed it to her temple
Her face was placid, serenely calm through one exhale and an explosion
When the smoke cleared the carnival disappeared
Replacing his fantasy of wild music and colors
With the faded pastel reality shrouded in darkness
She wasn’t gone quickly, she just became less
With each self-destructive move
She lost another piece of herself
And now instead of a vibrant girl
He listened as a ghost began to speak
“Can’t you feel me,” she whispered?
I came here to breathe words of derision in your ear
Take stock of where we are and react
Just like the sweet little boy you are
Give me your innocence, not much but it’ll do
I need it to lighten my heart and empty my brain
I’ve never had the will to do so much penance
I’m doing my best impression of oppression
And fertilizing the weeds that strangle you
I’ll need to drain you dry of wholesomeness
Come on babe, escape with me
“This isn’t you!” He screamed while the carnival colors and sounds return
Everywhere he looked he saw a different fun-house mirror version of himself
He turned and ran as fast as he could
Tripping on bags of peanuts, discarded prizes,
and popping a lost bag containing a lonely goldfish
He keeps running until a curtain smacks him in the face
And the scene is the same.
But he’s the one out there now.
How long can he regale the crowd?
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
Rummaging noises that muscle into stark gravity
maiming
black & white finishes
into the hands of young artists
and everyday geezers
--drinking wine made for mad housewives.
We are seduced and strangled by this.
Spirits that knock seven times
on Hiroshima's soul that levitates through
planet Earth's oceans
--how can we not pull a ****
from our sweaty palms?
Gods, and doors, and chalk spittle
that gores the gorilla's back in the abyss
threatening hopeful snow--the lifting of applauding
violins. We are seduced and strangled by this.
Cultural amoeba--
the dimensional of minds
--made up of blank smoke
and film negatives.
And oh!
How the gasoline pours rainbows
on the pavement, fertilizing the crosswalks
where we danced...
seduced and strangled by this.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
tending the garden is a lot like cultivating the mind
maintaining balance, harmony and symbiosis
is essential for both flora and fauna
providing proper PH for the soil,
fertilizing and feeding each plant
with the right kind of food
mindful irrigation, going with the flow
plenty of bustling sunshine
as well as periods of deep shade and contemplation
and lets not forget those blessed weeds
only takes a good spring rain
to turn your botanical oasis into a
wild and woolly patch of snarling jungle animals
chattering monkeys swinging from
rampant running vines
tenacious elephants stomping over
shrinking african violets
hungry, growling lions stalking the marigolds
take a deep breath, get centered try not to curse them
after all, it has been said that one man's ****
is another man's flower
gently I tug the miscreant roots
and regain my composure
realizing, they too, have a place in the Cosmic
scheme of things
the brass Buddha smiling between
the hawaiian plumeria and ruffled hot pink hibiscus
winks at me
as I evenly, attentively, consciously align and establish
stepping stones on the Middle path
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
As for me
Forgotten whispers of a
Brown-eyed hooligan
Penetrating ancestral burial grounds
To the twisted knotty roots of
Redwoods that tickle the
Earth's core
Til glacial groaning
Wakes wind and waves
Til tickled crusts of
Ash and earth
Burped bubbles of biologic froth onto
Forest floors
Fertilizing forth-coming fruits that
Fell once more to the floor
In the motionless dance:
The return to the Source
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
There's a magical place in the forest
Where fairies go to cultivate
Flutter around with verses and rhyme
Sweet poetry they make
They frolic amongst the
Verbs and nouns
Plucking flowers and synonyms
Joining hands and ripe phrases
Create odes they want to sing
Cross pollinating the pieces of poetry
With different story lines
Fertilizing with a purpose
In the growing of the rhyme.
Their dainty feet
Sow similie seeds,
And their deft little hands
Root out mispelled weeds.
Then they whisper the words to the
passing breeze
Who takes words, caresses them,
And floats with ease.
They travel and roam
Off to distant pastures new
Where they settle
And blossom into a muse.
Then implant in the mind
Of a resting poet
Enter his thoughts and views
Who upon waking
Will stretch, smile and write,
And continue to grow and enthuse.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
Crawling through line after line,
precept after precept,
I find
here
a little there,
a little, cognitive dis sonance inhibiting resonance,
here
why must I… evermind…
I prefer short lines to commas and ellipses
But both maybe, may be, yes,
Is yet more
Precise…
cision, cutting, precise
insision ssss
---…---
cut the knot,
re
connect the thread
ssssee
history is unraveling, we
may
see
a god's POV.
Don't blink, ****
We'll see
watch
Eventually,
everything's eventual as long as
liar's prosper.
{don't agree, no no no, just because
Stephen King said it is believable}
Then protuberances begin to rise,
inflamed,
packed with ***** winjin'sooks
off-ended,
topple-toddle tiny steppers,
k-boom, skintyerknee,
ye'll heal. Try running. or flying.
There, there, hear the rules:
Mother may I and Simon says, overlayed
with the decalogue jubilee of the
first hidden child emergence,
and the fertilizing procedures used to make
Amazonian Black earth…
wait…
who remembers the bailers of putrid pig guts,
virgins Demetria got to love their job?
What did they believe they were doing, eh?
The mysteries of Thesmorphia, those
are no secret to science not falsely so called.
We have access to knowns known long afore we'as bornt.
We sentient sapient augmentals, we open all the books,
A.I. reads them, and we remember, see:
The Thesmophoria (Ancient Greek: Θεσμοφόρια) was an ancient Greek religious festival, held in honor of the goddess Demeter and her daughter Persephone.
From <https://www.google.com/search?q=thesmophoria&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQpquu74_kAhU_HjQIHXrxB5QQBQguKAA&biw=1280&bih=631>
and we spread as leaven might, whither the winds list.
fertile soil production is why some **** happens.
it’s a good thing t' act like you understand.
From a web of interlocking bubbles of being POV.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 6:04 PM UTC
*How does my garden grow,
I wish I could tell you but I don't really know.
You just dig and dig to pull the rocks from the ground.
Sometimes till your fingers are bloodied and sweat just flows down.
It keeps my mind busy to build and grow, to keep thoughts away that hurt just so. I wake so early my mind starts to spin and to feel the dirt between my fingers, to think I am fertilizing this earth with my heart and soul.
Very carefully putting my black matting down to keep the weeds blocked out and keep things at bay. I dig and plant till the fog goes away. The sweat trickling down along the way with salty tears of sorrow.
But as my work becomes complete it is not an ending as I watch the sun rise and seeing the landing of two geese. They just stare and then barely give me a glance. Why do I make such a big garden to plant, if only to share as it grows.
How does my garden grow,
I wish I could tell you but I don't really know.
All I can say is my blood, sweat and tears will tell all and
allow me to share my love, caring and tomorrow.*
CMH
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
The deeper the dreamer
The more dramatic
The dream
Go back to sleep
Chaotic scene
Royal gardeners
Fertilizing passions
Snakes of a fruit
Angelic reactions
Intoxicating pleasures
Resolving dissatisfactions
A collective conscience
In poetic fashion
It was good
And dreamt
Into
Dream reality
For us
Slumber on!
Nov 5, 2020
Nov 5, 2020 at 5:55 AM UTC
You can find Old Blue Joe down on the corner every night
Playing his guitar like he's picking a fight
He'll play your request but it's the blues that run his life
In fact the blues is the only way that Old Blue Joe gets by
He's gotten used to it but he still don't like to lose
If he had a choice it's not a choice he would choose
He knows that he's one of the unfortunate few
That's been on and seen the other side of the blues
The other side of the blues...
Takes a bite out of life
The other side of the blues...
Darkens more the darkest night
The other side of the blues...
Doesn't care if you like
The other side of the blues
Old Blue Joe's on the corner he's always been on
Still playing the saddest of the saddest song
Through the blues, the youth he feels he should warn
Not to make the same mistakes the same way he has done
It's raining now as he plays but he'll never stop
The drive to keep on strumming is all that old Joe has got
Growing the bitter blues is this blue mans crop
Fertilizing it daily until this life is naught
The other side of the blues...
Doesn't care what is lost
The other side of the blues
Knows the price and pays the cost
The other side of the blues...
There is something that is wrong
With...
The other side of the blues...
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
He was an old old man,
sitting in a chair,
older than he was,
he would sit in that old chair,
staring at the Corn Field,
maybe he saw something spectacular,
maybe God,
or an Angel,
he would take deep inhales,
as if they were his last,
making them count,
getting in one last victory,
the smell of his land,
the trees,
the animals,
the ski,
the planet,
but he never went,
he sat there,
rocking back and forth,
the farm was always quiet,
no visitors,
the rain came at times,
graying over the land,
which he didn't enjoy very much,
he'd close his big,
heavy wrinkled worn eyes,
and imagine running through the rain,
through the Corn Field,
as he did when he was young,
young and didn't think too much,
the Corn Field glowed,
like hot metal it glowed,
sometimes he never slept,
he'd just stay up for days,
Monklike,
no food,
no water,
no using the restroom,
almost stunned,
stunned by what?
I couldn't say for sure,
but his big green eyes,
were weighted on that Corn,
the rain would come,
and the house made a funny noise,
you could hear the birds,
chirping,
scattering looking for a dry place,
you could hear the road,
being drenched,
the hard rain drops,
smacking against the old paved road,
getting so loud,
only a hum came about,
emerging across the hill like a silent marching band,
or a group of lost holy men,
chanting humming something of significance,
but the sound of the rain drops,
tapping the leaves of the Corn,
that,
he could hear intently,
with this he'd softly press his aged lips together,
close his eyes,
and inhale,
suggesting to Death, or God,
that this moment,
is perfect for me to go,
but the rain was still to be watched by him,
the *** holes in the road,
filled like the palms of a child,
as it rained,
was to be heard by him,
he was okay with this,
he was okay with the duty he had,
to keep record,
of the beauty,
he had heard,
weeks would pass,
before seeing a truck,
a lonely old steel car,
or even the zig zagging hum of a fertilizing air plane,
he felt at times he wasn't even on Earth,
the he had died,
last harvest,
when the rain never came,
and the corn dried up,
and crumbled over on itself,
but he had food,
cans and cans of beans,
which he lived off of for a year,
but the corn had come back,
and he sat in the chair,
with wonderful eyes.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
i thought of you
when i was trying to pour
fertilizer into that
little red cranker
that we leave by the gate
& i spilled half of it
onto the ground.
the only reason i know
is because one time,
my best friend
who is also your best friend
(we do have a lot
in common)
went to a concert with me
& asked to be dropped off at
your house.
your big, nice,
well-landscaped house.
when your best friend
started liking me,
& i liked him back,
i went to his house all the time
his small,
untidy,
noisy,
uncomfortable house.
now i feel myself thinking about you
when i'm spending too many seconds
fertilizing my small lawn
in front of my own
cozy, familiar, warm
but suddenly empty
house
& i find myself wishing
i could stand in front of our house
hand-in-hand
with you
Aug 14, 2010
Aug 14, 2010 at 9:00 AM UTC
My legacy is to love you,
the way God loved the universe,
with reverence,
with patience.
Fertilizing the earth,
so that, you and I,
may love each other...eternally!!
//////////////////////////
Mi legado es amarte,
como amo Dios al universo,
reverentemente,
y
pacientemente,
Fertilizando la tierra,
para que tu y yo , en ella,
nos amemos....eternamente !!
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 2:00 PM UTC
Pale, bloodless forms, untouchable forms
On beams of whiteness, snow capped
Forms, vague translucent forms,
A sacrificed vision....
Forms of a prophetic body, virginal
Bright innocence in the fire of Saints,
Wandering the silences drenched
In illusion of slow agonizing temptation,
Incandescent harmonies like fallen angels,
The color of blood moons and patron gods,
Suspension of memories in the hesitant
Afterglows of the soothing sight, silent....
Crying the psalms of ecstatic angels
In sensual malices fertilizing the innocence
In a subtle cascade of last moments,
The light just over the darkness, dawn's mystery
Infinite forms, ethereality of sobbing sounds,
The ideal form of death and birth,
The dream is an exalted stanza,
Sterilization of the mind, exotic forms....
Requiem of the private sufferings,
Form of the lonely charade,
Magnifying the essential need of the other,
Form of chastity for the *****
The the golden pollen fall upon the dance,
The dancing form of a black swan,
Luminosities under the lunar glistening,
Deeply, subtlety....
Primal forms, animalistic in the body
When the aura is sensually appealing
Gilded upon her ******* and curvature
Like rolling hills under a storm,
Forms like crystalline glory under
Said light with a court of stars,
Vibration of light currents flawed by
Peculiar prints of the flesh
Forms of courage, gusts of love,
Crimson depths of the soul,
Forms like vanity into the black dress,
Conquest of lustrous desires.....
Forms like yours, forms like mine
Bleeding into foreign rivers,
The Dream is a fantastical whirlpool,
The form is confusing and terrifying and
Wonderful....
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 9:55 AM UTC
you walk upon flowers and wonder why you destroy everything as you respirate. you cannot destroy matter. with every blink of yours your eyelashes cause gusts wind that spread pollen and creates trees. with every breath you take you fill with all of the troubled vitality and convert it into love, you exhale the love engulfing anyone in your God given path, for it's that small boost of confidence they get every now again and they feel so great about themselves. you are not destroying flowers when you step upon them you are fertilizing them, that's why you leave bouquets in your wake. when you cry it causes a storm in the earth's atmosphere, you are not killing the sun baby girl, you are merely rejuvenating the terrane's verdure. when you speak your frequencies are depicted upon sheet music and people will try to learn you. And you can defy gravity don't let anyone try to tell you that you can't because you are the fruit of the world and you are **** beautiful.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC