"fondly" poems
Who would think a rose so sweet
Would dry and crumble at the feet
And blooms that scent the night and day
Would steal a heart, then fade away
With petals soft and fondly red
Sweet essence fills an addled head
Then turns to dust before the eyes
Leaving naught, but sad surprise
Who would think such thorny vine
Could lift a blossom as divine
And by the stem on which it stands
Could so wrong an offered hand
Such strength and beauty is rarely true
A blessing owned by very few
As 'neath the soil, in winters keep
There sleeps a rose to tear a cheek
Who would think that perfect bloom
Could be a bane, a curse of doom
So fine a sight, yet in disguise
A rose to ***** and blind the eyes
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 8:29 AM UTC
Reinaldo was the name they gave the great white elephant
Who came to clear the jungles around Sao Paulo
A clever notion that because Reinaldo was born in the jungle
Any jungle would do just fine, Brazilian or Siamese made no difference
Just as clever was the notion that because I was a black man, educated
I would do just fine directing other black men to do work, English or Portuguese made no difference
Was I truly so much a fool, twice over?
Reinaldo occasionally was afflicted with slothfulness
Some of the men thought it was from lack of **** and whip
I was of a mind that it was due to lack of companionship
It was costly enough to ship one giant beast across a great sea
I left a wife, in Maryland, whom I never loved and who never loved me
I admit before the plan was in motion I never considered that Reinaldo could have a family
Sometimes, I wonder, did he have a wife who never loved him?
Loneliness became a common theme in our new home away from home
And Reinaldo and I became friends, at least I thought of him fondly
As far as I could say, of all the men he responded best to me
At times it seemed a load of lumber was hauled as a personal favor
For the handler too soft to handle with fear and anger
But as much as loneliness was a theme, so was change, and death
The lifespan of an elephant compares to the lifespan of men
Were this scheme of mine to have worked as desired
I could have sent for a cow, and made Reinaldo a sire
Soon it was revealed that slothfulness was a symptom of an elephant young, healthy and wise
Who sensed not his own, but a friend's imminent demise
Now I am left to wonder how Reinaldo will fare in a world stranger than I could have known
His softest handler and only friend bedridden, waiting for my disease to take its final toll
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC
Sometimes, looking at you in the light of the kitchen I want
to run a finger
Down the length of your nose but
I know you'd wrinkle it, and shake your head citing a tickle, but kiss behind my shoulder as soon
As I turn away
When my feet make ice pools in the bed
Toes accidentally brushing your ankle and you **** abruptly, but upon hearing
My sigh, trap them back with your ankles til, martyr that you are, I'm engulfed in
Warmth at your
Expense.
Sometimes the last trickle of milk is mine, for the coffee,
Silent with your eyes smiling fondly, you look on as I sip, resolutely stirring powdered
Dead baby souls into mug as substitute.
Even damp smelly socks
Greasy hair
Neurotic tears and
Intellectual rambling epiphanies
Even childish blunders, fudging the
Budget or burning the toast
You still call me fond Things.
And love Me.
The most.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
Dear ex-boyfriend,
I'm sorry you had to go.
It wasn't fair, but I understand.
Your happiness was just as important to me
as my own.
Dear ex-boyfriend,
I hope you're doing well.
Never will I wish ill upon you,
no matter how much I wish I hate you.
Dear ex-boyfriend,
I'm crying on the floor.
My sadness is a black hole trying to **** me into myself.
I miss you.
Dear ex-boyfriend,
I'm wearing the make up that you hated.
**** you.
I do what I want.
Dear ex-boyfriend,
You gave me hope that you would come back for me.
Don't.
Dear ex-boyfriend,
I realized that I never needed you to love me.
I realized that I was right here to do it for you.
Dear ex-boyfriend,
I look back fondly on our time together.
I will always love you.
But you left, and please never look back.
Dear ex-boyfriend,
One day you'll find a girl better than me.
I hope she makes you happy.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
I will always think fondly
Of the park bench
Near the sad man’s statue
Whose beard of stone
Was sloppily painted
By a bunch of overenthusiastic pigeons
That silly park bench
Where we first kissed
And had our first public argument
About nothing at all
And at the same time
About everything we thought we had
At first our memories
Turned the grass greener
And the skies bluer
And sometimes it seemed
That sad man smiled
Though it might have been an malevolent grin
But soon it became tainted
A symbol of fleeting love
Of passion’s mortality
Its habit of swiftly disappearing
Like cagey, distrustful pigeons
And illusions fuelled by sentimentality
Now I understand the sad man
And consider his faith to be cruel
To want and crave and hope
Yet to be sentenced
His life writ in stone
Near an empty, broken bench
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
I have been waiting
for her to pick me off the shelf
To remember me as fondly
as I dream of her nightly
Wanting nothing more than to be
used like her favorite toy
The one she played with as a child
when holding each other came simple
For her to lay me next to her heart
during the dim nights under gods shadow
Giving up on the complexities
of the never ending day before us
While engulfing each other in stories
of an emotion we remembered as love
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
A fueling, flashing fulgent, furnace, fulgurous, frothy, fumes and feathery flakes,
I do not speak of waves of snow, hoary frost, or ice, a cold gelare or even frozen lakes!
Formidable, furrows, fructifying, functioning fruition to foremost fondly found a flaming,
I revel not in such destruction but choices for my naming!
For flowers flow fields forever, forswearing funneling fjords finitely, fire fray’s forests furthermost,
Instructing in the arts of language, for I am your gracious host!
Fakir formulates factious forms fading flummoxed into fury, a fugacious fusible and furtive fleeting feigning furiosity,
A deep ditch dug, tight as pug, wrapped blanket snub though not a flub, all perspicacity!
Finds frosty frore a frozen freezing faction for fusty flaming feasance,
Fomorian fantasy of formidable faggoting, facient up to fancying, fancying, furnaced flesh fluidity finds itself factitivity, facets for fabulists from the faint familiarity,
Relating cold to heat as such, requires but a human touch, apologize I do you see for all my clueless severity!
Fans of all the falconry, who fallow fields of family, falter for a fallacy, falling into infamy as forgone flame frontogenesis, fatigues a Faustian felony, for which fate finds is fastigiated foolery, febrile features featly and yet furiously, favonian fear of fellowship fiendishly, figures foal to fatherly, finally fiddle flinchingly, although not so too furtively;
I finagle in my filigree!
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
We had come to see him, the aging Tenor sing.
He was as good as he had always been.
But half way through, a woman appeared,
Moving gracefully in bare feet upon the stage.
Entering the ring of bright spot light near him.
Long blond hair, falling loose around her neck,
Held back both sides by Turtle Shell combs,
Reflecting the light.
Adorned in but a simple, low cut black dress,
Her with a face beautiful as a new spring day.
Held in her left hand an ebony hued violin,
Touched fondly, like a well accustomed old friend.
Her right hand holding a bow, ready and waiting.
The Tenor’s and her eyes met and conveyed a message
Only they understood. Then starting slow and low,
The full Orchestra commenced. The woman in black
Brought instrument up to her chin, lovingly resting
her face upon it, as if comforted by it's touch to skin.
The fetching violinist, like a graceful reed,
In summer breeze, began to gently sway,
Laid Bow to strings and a transcended beauty,
The voice of both her Instrument and from within she,
Emerged through her fingers, completely filling the hall.
With eyes closed, the slight movements of expression
On her face registering the feelings the musical notes made,
As if those gestures too, guided the bow's musical cords.
Slender precise fingers lovingly caressing the strings.
For nearly a minute, she and her violin played alone.
Her actions of body, hands and head in concert,
To her music, unavoidably hypnotic it could be said.
The Tenor started to sing, and yet my eyes stayed
Locked on her, as if no one else in the room was there.
The blond woman in the black dress owned the stage.
I have no idea how long that piece of music lasted,
I could not attest to what contribution the Tenor made.
Fully my attention and eventually my heart belonged
To that lovely, evocative young woman in the backless,
Little black dress.
It’s true that I may never see or hear her play again,
I know not, even her name.
And yet, I’m sure that I will never forget those
Few minutes mesmerized by her magical spell.
Hopelessly caught in her enchanting web.
With me sitting, third row, isle seat left,
Worshiping as I did, at her so pretty,
Slightly ***** naked feet, the striking
Blond woman in the black dress.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
I fight with my twin.
You struggle with the scales.
We’re both torn this time
and love won’t prevail.
My opposite, my doppelganger, my sister
And you can balance but it won’t fix us.
What you seek I can’t give away easily
and what I need you won’t give to me.
My what an astrological web of disaster we have woven.
Think fondly of me, my Libra Lover.
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 4:59 AM UTC
a future promise
a hard on like bundled gym socks
in stuffed blue jeans
a future threat
a shriveled phallus wrinkled obsolete
she remembered fondly
being beaten drum chatter
and seized like slow roasted
fall off the bone pulled pork
****** raggedy Ann
catapulted beyond Euboean heavens
ravaging scrotums Gordian ******
with her wild fiendish mouth
drinking a river of
haloed golden showers
spit and ****
in a runaway hot house of glistening pink
buttery spires
engorging her macerated orifices
half eaten radish
chocking on hordes
of big do do *****
a ****** face; cross eyed
Babylon abalone
bashed Ashly mashed
begging for
a face full of swinging *****
like caped chandeliers
trotting faint giggles
in a constellation
of ruptured arteries
and thick sparked ****
on her knees
milk glitter faced
scared with happiness
she counted one smiling bruise at a time
her badge of calamities
black and blue silhouettes
grinning invitations like party favors
without a crease of shame
her skin rapturous
spackled patchworks
bled like torrential fountains summer tide
while every body had fizzy red ice phlebotomies
and steamed through her drooling tumble pie
lust ***** totem
house of winding labyrinths
honey pumped transfusion
flush on blush
opera of tangled limbs
red pulse wedding flowers
slick ***** palace
blood tongued orchard
caressing knotted mooned
**** spill
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
I see around me tombstones grey
Stretching their shadows far away.
Beneath the turf my footsteps tread
Lie low and lone the silent dead -
Beneath the turf - beneath the mould -
Forever dark, forever cold -
And my eyes cannot hold the tears
That memory hoards from vanished years
For Time and Death and Mortal pain
Give wounds that will not heal again -
Let me remember half the woe
I've seen and heard and felt below,
And Heaven itself - so pure and blest,
Could never give my spirit rest -
Sweet land of light! thy children fair
Know nought akin to our despair -
Nor have they felt, nor can they tell
What tenants haunt each mortal cell,
What gloomy guests we hold within -
Torments and madness, tears and sin!
Well - may they live in ectasy
Their long eternity of joy;
At least we would not bring them down
With us to weep, with us to groan,
No - Earth would wish no other sphere
To taste her cup of sufferings drear;
She turns from Heaven with a careless eye
And only mourns that we must die!
Ah mother, what shall comfort thee
In all this boundless misery?
To cheer our eager eyes a while
We see thee smile; how fondly smile!
But who reads not through that tender glow
Thy deep, unutterable woe:
Indeed no dazzling land above
Can cheat thee of thy children's love.
We all, in life's departing shine,
Our last dear longings blend with thine;
And struggle still and strive to trace
With clouded gaze, thy darling face.
We would not leave our native home
For any world beyond the Tomb.
No - rather on thy kindly breast
Let us be laid in lasting rest;
Or waken but to share with thee
A mutual immortality -
4.4k
Remember how our lips once spoke their own language
And recall how my hands knew only your skin
Our hearts once danced in fire
Plunging in flames again and again
Bury me in the graveyard of your memories
And think of me fondly as I become soil
Keep me in wandering thoughts
Til the day we both shed this mortal coil
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
Mysterious death! who in a single hour
Life's gold can so refine
And by thy art divine
Change mortal weakness to immortal power!
Bending beneath the weight of eighty years
Spent with the noble strife
of a victorious life
We watched her fading heavenward, through our tears.
But ere the sense of loss our hearts had wrung
A miracle was wrought;
And swift as happy thought
She lived again -- brave, beautiful, and young.
Age, pain, and sorrow dropped the veils they wore
And showed the tender eyes
Of angels in disguise,
Whose discipline so patiently she bore.
The past years brought their harvest rich and fair;
While memory and love,
Together, fondly wove
A golden garland for the silver hair.
How could we mourn like those who are bereft,
When every pang of grief
found balm for its relief
In counting up the treasures she had left?--
Faith that withstood the shocks of toil and time;
Hope that defied despair;
Patience that conquered care;
And loyalty, whose courage was sublime;
The great deep heart that was a home for all--
Just, eloquent, and strong
In protest against wrong;
Wide charity, that knew no sin, no fall;
The spartan spirit that made life so grand,
Mating poor daily needs
With high, heroic deeds,
That wrested happiness from Fate's hard hand.
We thought to weep, but sing for joy instead,
Full of the grateful peace
That follows her release;
For nothing but the weary dust lies dead.
Oh, noble woman! never more a queen
Than in the laying down
Of sceptre and of crown
To win a greater kingdom, yet unseen;
Teaching us how to seek the highest goal,
To earn the true success --
To live, to love, to bless --
And make death proud to take a royal soul.
4.2k
Thank Heaven! the crisis—
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called “Living”
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know,
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called “Living”
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst,
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:—
Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed—
For man never slept
In a different bed;
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now in my bed
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me.
Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
4.4k
Oizys, son
From behind the leaves, I saw you, trembling
In your presence, your power strengthening
In the empty, midnight parking lot
While the street lights hummed
And moths danced around your illuminated frame
You turned slowly, onyx eyes of shame
And dirtied bare feet, male hair long and white
The street lights flickered when you blinked and cried bitterly
And I saw, for my first time, the eyes of Misery
Achyls, daughter
You were in an empty field
No premonitions did you wield
An ancient silo in the distance
Leaning over a chasm black lamb
Dark skinned, dressed in black robes
With tribal painted face
Digging earthen fingers into its black lace
When you looked up, I saw your cloudy eyes
Churning of a storm, cataract yet wise
Your lamb had absent vapored eyeballs
The Mist of Death made my skin crawl
Hypnos, son
Secluded in a cave by the sea
A silent, empty place to be
While gray waves crash into jetties
The clouds gather in the distance
Poppies at the mouth changing time in an instance
I go in your palace and rub my cold skin
For pulsing blue glows from deeper within
You, a lanky youth, with thick brown hair and heavy eyes
Sit there with a paper mask
Illuminated by the penetrating glow
In the center, surrounded by whale bones
Humming a song I remember fondly
You trapped me in your Dreams, singing lullabies softly
Eris, daughter
Violates a bedroom with utmost hate
There are paintings of kings and statues of satyrs
Pillows of silk and animals on the walls
Usurping the gold clawed palace
Silent but kicking and throwing with malice
With black skin covered in a chalky white substance
I peek through the crack in the mansion’s door
Lips formed in a silent shout, you notice my presence
Naked and bruised and plagued with no voice
Suddenly stops and lays against a ****** wall
Through your electric black hair
And fiery red stare
I witness a Child of Spite
Woman of Strife
Nyx, mother
I am a crawling shadow of trees
And wicked heart of night
I am the wax on the cold leaves
And the glow of the moon’s light
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
When I was a child,
I fondly remember
eating carrots from
the dirt of our garden.
My brother, my sister, and I
would pull the carrots,
with great care, from
the dirt of our garden.
We would wash them
sometimes in the sink,
sometimes with the hose,
to remove the dirt of our garden.
But even then
as we chewed those carrots
we could still sometimes taste
the dirt of our garden.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
On this my happy and blessed day
fondly I remember what Mother always said
upon some naughty day when I made her sad
stalling on her bidding and not being a good boy
Son, live straight and be easy to interpret
Life is a complex menu of choices. Still -
you can cruise along if there’s love in your life
I remember the wistful poetry from my father’s lips
Creamy words spoken in jest or in epic tales
and untutored philosophy when he spoke of his going:
Death has come and it’s time for last words
My life has dragged by but now how it hurries!
Be the person that you must and **** the rest!
A truly rich person shares what they value most
And so it is that I’ve shared my heart and my mind
In numerous lines of poetry that has dared me to write it
On this my 66th birthday I read no ills in this number
For I’m just a wayfarer looking for words along my route
I pick the gems that sparkle and dazzle as I stroll to eternity
The landmarks on my route are
The friends I made and lost along the way
The doleful souls that brought tears to my eyes
The pretty girls that taught me I could never have them all
I remember too the places I’ve been to
And the songs of my people – lively commentaries on everything
And how life always lay waiting to be lived
My day of birth is my day of possibilities
And I keep hearing the line from the jazz classic:
Get your kicks on Route 66!
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
The local mall now has a Spenser’s Gifts;
I remember that place fondly as Al and I
make our way.
It’s where I sneaked a peek at Samantha Fox’s ****
for the first time,
saw my first **** ring,
wondering why anyone would want one.
I bought my first Metallica shirt at a Spencer’s;
spending twenty of my dad’s dollars.
Spencer’s and Record Wear House
were sanctuaries;
my escape from what my classmates
took for normal.
I took my son into that store
so that he could see the X-Men hats
and Deadpool shirts, the banana and pickle
pens caught his eye,
but I had to point out one more.
“What’s that one?” I asked.
Alex made a face, but in the end
he did what any 14 year old boy should,
he chuckled.
I took him in that store so that we both
could escape.
Earlier he walked the mall
a good fifteen feet ahead of us.
We stopped for ice cream.
He chose a soda and wouldn’t sit with us.
It took a second, but
I figured him out.
He was trying his teenaged self out;
testing his wings.
As we walked, he’d wave at classmates
and be either sturdily ignored or given a cursory nod.
It was obvious that he wanted so much more.
It pained us, my wife and I.
So, I took him into Spencer’s gifts
in an effort to remove some of his innocence and awkwardness.
It may not have been the wisest move,
but at least, for a moment,
both of us felt peace.
-JB CLaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2014
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Observing these old men sitting at the stockyard cafe,
Suspendered bellies hanging above huge buckles
And button-crotched Levi's tucked tight over leather boots,
Legs grown bowed and thin, but carrying them to the sale, still,
To hear the auctioneer, talking fast to work the buying crowd,
And get their fill of cattle, shoved indoors,
Sold beneath the steady cracking whips,
A spectacle to burn its way into my minds's forever eye:
The skidding steers, the rolling eyes, the frantic scramble to find cover,
While buyers gave their quiet signs:
A tilted cap, a winking eye, a thumb or index finger up or at a side,
To purchase cow or bull or horse, in living flesh...
Then out again, through the other door,
And turn our heads to wait for more, and read the scrolling numbers:
How many head, how much per pound, perhaps a buyer's name,
And then the swinging sound of other cattle coming in to start again.
So, here these old boys sit again,
Slurping coffee through their yellowed teeth,
Remembering days of indoor cigarettes and harried waitresses,
The smell of cow manure and jingling spurs,
Though now the smokeless ring seems tame, more civilized,
I see the glory days reflecting in the old men's eyes.....
I was just a boy back in those good old days,
My memory is a little hazed, but I can recall
When smoking was allowed and sawdust covered the filthy floor,
A Coca-Cola cost a dime, and the cattle sale with Dad was the big time;
Quaking as we treaded light on the catwalks above the pens,
Looked for our calves, or cows Dad culled to bring to sale,
Then going down and in to see them sell.
Fondly now, I can recall the restaurant at the ring
Where I hoped for a slice of lemon pie from behind chill-fogged glass,
Saw cowmen wearing spurs and neckerchiefs and chaps...
Dreamed of growing up to be a cowboy.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
I cry because happiness is a harder concept to grasp than sorrow.
Because sorrow greets me as an old friend.
Fondly reminding me of my mistakes,
my flaws, and my current inner desolation.
Reminding me of how I failed
and how I cannot fix my mistakes.
While we **reminisce over a bottle of melancholia
and a plate of regret.**
Leaving me with yet another notch on my belt
of nights I cried myself to sleep
People pass you by because
pretending everything is alright is more
convenient than noticing they are broken.
They are the people that hide their silent tears
at the back of a closet and bury broken smiles
into the corner of a sock drawer.
But soon …There won’t be enough room
for the hidden emotions that you think are irrelevant
and can be dealt with another day,
soon every emotion you hid will come out of the closet
and show its face in the most unpleasant way.
Tears. You can’t escape them.
I cry because she cries,
my best friend, drowning in her own sorrow,
I cannot help but drown with her.
For what is a friend if that friend will not jump
into the murky depth we call depression, sinking ever deeper?
At least we sink together.
Treading conformity, stress, humiliation,
we tread together.
As we sink deeper, we try to grasp
at the bubbles of happiness escaping our lips,
somehow bring them back.
We can’t, because once they’re lost no amount
of pretending can give us the air we sorely need
or the fake smiles to get by without question, day by day.
But at least, we drown together.
So many times I have looked out to a warm sunset
and felt chilled to the bone.
Because if I let go of the railing, life would go on.
Because if I did not exist right now nothing
in the world would change.
It would just erase any memory of all the ***** ups
I collected like stamps and baseball cards.
Because no amount of blankets and soothing words
can warm the icy thought in the back of my head
whispering in the persuasive voice of a friend, “What’s the point?”
I cry for the people who don’t think they matter,
who think that turning to something
to relieve their pain will fix it.
I cry for the people who think
killing themselves will make them feel alive.
For the people who get lost trying to find themselves.
For the people who put on a mask
desperately waiting for someone to see through it.
And for the people who cut themselves
trying to become whole.
Breaking themselves down bit by bit,
holding all the pieces,
and waiting for someone to put them back together.
I cry because this entire explanation is just eloquently realizing that
I am sad.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC
You know it’s nothing but emptiness,
When you fail phrasing your feelings in words.
Other people might call it love rather than emptiness.
But let me tell you this:
Without emptiness,
We wouldn’t find warmth in love.
Some say love is frigidly cold,
Some say love is fondly warm.
Yet as seasons change from Summer to Winter,
Love will too.
And I’ve reached the point where I stopped seeking for love in people,
But in invisible objects that can keep me alive.
Can invisible objects really keep you alive?
Or will they leave you terrified?
Well, a definition for ‘Invisible Objects’ would be:
‘Emotions’.
And in the end,
Their purpose is to Not. Keep. You. Alive.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
Lucid dreamer, lucid dreamer,
What is it that you remember so fondly of?
Oh, blessed sleeper it is but a tragedy,
For memories are only tossed on to the wind,
Whisked away, to never be seen again
And words are sad goodbyes
The deep waves are washing over you,
You who can’t wake up!
So I’ll sit by you,
As we sink into the soft sand,
With its warm, glossy embrace
Safe and sound
And let deep eternity wash over us
Swept away by the swells and curves of the salty ocean
Someday, you’ll wake up
And we’ll laugh and smile together again
Carried away
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
So, this is it
the end has come
an era has passed
we've had our fun
I just hope, forever
these memories will hold strong
after goodbyes are said
as we all move along
Goodbye my girl
know I loved you true
for keeping me here
with all the things you can do
No matter if icy cold
or sweltering, dripping heat
from everything I've learned from you
you're now, forever, apart of me
I don't know just where I'll end up
can't say if returning I'll ever be
though not the small town from which I was born
I'll think of you as fondly
So, best of luck, and well wishes
I hold you with me where ever I roam
my first adventure of independence
my home away from home
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 7:23 PM UTC