"grandness" poems
The slits of glass give way to light,
Which cuts through the air and sun leeched curtains.
It falls weightless on warming skin,
Breathing life into stillness.
A gentle caress, a sultry glance;
Statuesque, they cast shadows on the wall.
Shadows that illuminate and contour,
Express and entrance.
Longing rapture in eyes, incandescent and iridescent;
Loveless yet sensuous silken skin that tells of life well lived.
Your broken heart rests on shoulders, colored and vivid;
A world is painted in timeless elegance.
What horrors has she seen? Said the looker so enthused.
What grandness has passed her eye? Says another just as true.
Oh the colors so earthen tell of pleasures and sorrows, yet whisper of frailty.
They speak in tongues that can never be trusted, only pondered.
The intricate oil work from a badger’s fair coat,
Show delicate and smooth,
All the features of her roistering frame;
Passions of the heart now told by passions of the brush.
The life is still, but forever infinite.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
Teasing the beast
Looking for a feast
Hounds barking at our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse
Compartmentalizing symptom after symptom
To hide the great systematic sickness
Labeling the suffering, outcome from desire
We, wholeheartedly accepting being
Appropriated, labeled, discarded
As construing our own oppression and sadness
Enduring the **** of our minds
Being castrated of our consciousness
Before we reap the products
Of its bold liberation and grandness
Its the belly of the beast
And its hungry
Insatiable, amoral entrails
Hoping to salvage a feast
From the casualties of d(e)moc(ratic) wars
Hoping we feed our monstrous fear
Thirsting for the greed
Dripping off of accumulating wealths
Impatiently waiting, we keep parceling out grudges
Disfiguring our minds, our souls, and our bodies
Its misanthropic nature lashes out without conscience
Knowing we'll never realize we are masses
Disappearing the individuals who realize their suffering
Ensuring there's no collective opposition or action
Trying to reassure we are weak
Knowing at some point or another
We all act mute, deaf, and blind when anyone experiences:
Oppression
Pain
Silencing
****
Hunger
Fear
Violence
Repression
Retaliation
Discrimination
Torture
Negation
Alienation
All forms of mental, psychological, physical, and spiritual mutilation
Fearing death more than fighting for necessary abolishment
Preferring to live out our veiled miseries
Endorsing their continuance
Instead of risking our lives for everyone's liberation
Always ensuring the feast of the beast
By its very efforts trying to decree our very human nature
Ingraining greed, fear, animosity, and weakness as if inherent of us
All parts of its most damaging weapon: the seed of discord
Its implantation, a socialized deep desire for self-preservation
Sheep bleating painfully toward our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse
Signifying the impending recapturing
Of our true transformative desires
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
Your infinite greatness makes you greater than all
Your infinite knowledge means you know all that is all
Your infinite power means you are as strong as can be
Your infinite love means you love everyone equally
You infinite wisdom makes you infinitely wise
Your infinite grandness makes me ponder why?
How could a being so infinite exist?
A being so great with knowledge above all
A being with power and wisdom that has no faults
A being who loves and appreciates me
Is it just me or does this sound absurd?
Would this being still exist if we didn't have hope?
We hope for his love and acceptance at death
Yet how do we know if he actually cares?
Thus how do we know if he’s actually real?
Maybe he's real or maybe he isn’t
Maybe he cares or maybe he doesn’t
When worst comes to worst
When I lose control
I hope for his attributes that make him above all
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
How beautiful is the life
With all its vibrant colours
The colours which define its creativity
Life is colour,colour is life
Shades of translucent rainbow
Casting his grace on embellished life
The allured tints of the moring sun
Captivating the vivacity in people's life
How abhorent the nature be
Enchained,restricted without the colours
Blemishing the ornamentation garnished from heaven
But suddenly the grandness breathed for its life
As colours started to play an illusive vibe
Awakening the sluggishness in one's life
Unfolding the colours honesty with ecstasy.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
tickity-clickity whirr went my father to set
the little merry-go-round musicbox by my bed
with its adorbsable mini-suction cups lining
purple porcelain tentacles
winding round and round
lulling gently with that nostalgic ice-cream truck tune
reminding me of sweet tang juicy mango slush
on a hot afternoon
where the posh-painted ponies fly by with the tide rising up and down
in a seaside villa of some spanish town
in all the grandness of their primary colors so carefully chosen to brush
at the command of a fairy princess with her crown gold-gilded
she's twirling whirling, a mechanical ballerina on springs
gracefully petite her frame, so small the sash on her shoulder
that slips in the breeze to catch the eye of a little soldier
in his regimentals properly fitted, buttoned in brass
a lass like me lovingly adoring bunnies in top hats and bow ties
spats on their feet to tap dance for me
in my dreams the never ending spin of a teacup party
the catch of a hook where the lullaby loses flight
but I'm already asleep with a kiss goodnight
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
An effusive elaborate scheme the colors advance to bright spellbinding allure then they achieve
Depth of quality by cutting back to softer hues and then the natural dark green is the bold
Touch that succeeds with total symmetry showcased in a view perfected by glass the prism
Most fitting not only to see but to be captivated by perfected expression it is a metaphor for life
The master designer chooses his subjects well one infuses another then by degree others
Foreshadow and glorify it blends tangible and intangible into intelligent coherent order tasteful
And sublime the hint and the elusive wonder all is needed is the wind to bow and ****** it into
A profusion a veritable concert that stirs with appeal life is in motion the players advance and
Retreat each speaking lines unique to themselves what sensations speak tendrils on a garden
Trellis held and fixed a gesture that plays and portrays intricate details the mystery that plays so
Well the stealing of morning frost then the blaze and then restful dying rays that spell comfort
The field rolls and contorts this brandishes excitement exuberance veers and plunders life
Become exploration trails hidden thickets hide and hold expression that is pent up ready to
Explode what vesture we wear it grips our friend’s astonishment is read on their faces but it is
Like a house of many mirrors because their lives are having the same effect on you some days
Are uneventful others are storm tossed with grandness the riches of an all contained realm
Spasms convulse like waves of the sea we stand forth to puzzle and dream what does it all
Mean the sanctity reveals plumes that are invisible that are far reaching and they have given us
This course of endurance that belies longing we grow soft and an inner glowing surpasses the
Stringent the misfit that moans against conforming we are treasure that exceeds all expectation
Life is rich we are its brightest colors and light night is for brooding the day is for shinning and
Divulging the secrets found in the brooding time we accost others we signify to them not only
Our own worth but there’s also fetching is the spray that magnifies the sky we are the bursting
We are the aliveness that is found each day in our lives that is the dooryard of discovery
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Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
Sorry your flowers are late
I purchased them each one and the color was representing the many individual friends a delightful blue
Iris was no other than S.P. when dark shadows gather as they sometimes do she is the bluing of
Beautiful contrast this rich blue spreads from point of origin to the eye engulfing all visible ranges a
Small but great blue lifts the very shadows up until the sun vanquishes them by golden light then the red
Hues embolden of richness many times it is spent but never squandered and its riches never diminish or
Disappear in friendships ever rewarding garment he endures R.P. Violet this friend this light was
Adorned in grave clothes to join her loved ones of all generations but her influence warmth and the
Kindness that cannot die lingers it wafts across fields it passes through airy open window you smile
Unknowingly because she is by your side and not ever more so than your birthday precious one her
Initials are N.V. yellow so rich it blushes the wind this shear fabric so light it waves as pure silk you were
Given this gift early in life its folds hold so much treasured moments grasses trees houses playful side
Walks a stream of memories that bind you in the same vase others have beheld your combined beauty
Of thought and action I.M… The green of a soldier is enjoined by the mist it drifts it has patterns truth
And faith walks within this creature that has stature her face calls the night bugler all is dispensed
Within her voice is the kindest authority to all duty is understood in its deepest meaning G.H.E. then we
Come to multicolored piece of finest art true this grandness walks by your side and more so in your
Heart vestures sown with silver in glowing gold if an ever the hair turn to silver the cold black of youth
Will tower into all sunsets and grand children will always bring rays of joy and laughter happy belated
birthday Roberta
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 1:07 PM UTC
The eyes of the sun arise
Yet every heart is still unopened
The ocean filled with water of lies
My sight gaze upon their smile
So pure, so whole, so heartfelt
Yet their metamorphosis is what hinders them from the light
Rivers of blood shadow the essence
Blade on blade
The sounding cry have reached the heavens
A sleeping lotus in my hand
Raindrops fall begging it to bloom
Yet still its petals hide away around the grandness
My peace I have sowed within the lands
Only waiting is left to withstand the parasites
And maybe one day they will understand
I stand on the temple above
With my hand close to heart
Hoping every creature would again learn to love
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 7:33 AM UTC
You know for centuries politicians have been trying to push their correctness on to everyone. It's usually the first lady that does this as part of some etiquette program or something. Etiquette is okay, I guess. But, when you think about it, the only ones who really NEED to be politically correct SHOULD be the politicians. Why would anyone who is NOT a politician be required to practice political correctness. Why would a baker need to be politically correct, or a news anchor. (Well, maybe a news anchor.) But, an accountant or a cashier or a bus driver or a police officer. They would have to be cashierly correct or accountantly correct or policely correct. Wouldn't they? Political correctness should only have to apply to politicians.
As for me, All I really have to be is poetically correct. Yes, there IS a thing. You can look it up if you don't believe me. Ya know, I was thinking about poetry the other day and I remembered poetical correctness and what it was all about. It's been stated before by many and I'll try to explain it to you, to the best of my memory.
To be poetically correct one must never use words that are negative or profane. One must always use soft words that flow easily. Words that produce warm feelings of sensuality and never words of hatred. You must be descriptive when you speak of the spotted toad with the red stripe on its head and the shine that bounces off his slime when the sun shines through the tall trees of the forest where the rock he is perched on sits parallel to a beautiful babbling brook. Love and nature. That should be the two things that one should write about. Love and nature.
And the nature of love. And one's love for nature. Or the nature of nature and the love of love. But, maybe they're not that much into nature. Maybe they love the city and its grittiness. Well, there you go ruininging the grandness of a city with description. Poetical correctness. Always think poetically and not politically and that's Poetical Correctness.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
It's like my heart can't contain you.
It's like I've let go of what was needed to let go of
to let you in.
And it's beyond my expectations
like slipping my feet into the beach
and finding my toes
underneath soft, warm sand
warmed by the sun.
And for so long I've denied myself
happiness.
And for so long I've forced this picture that what I want
is better than what I truly need.
And I'm trying to understand why I had to give up one failed romantic relationship
in order to find another that is a hundred times better.
I realized that I had fallen
in love with my own poetry
I'd fallen in love with myself again and again and again
never truly allowing myself to fall
in love with anyone in reality
because my fantasies were so much better.
And then I met you
the beach, the sand, the cold lip of water lapping against my ankles
the submersion of water, salt, seaweed, and foam
your warm hand in my own
fingers latching
the beautiful sunrise
softly, strongly touching
a horizon stretching so many miles away but in one swift look
I saw balance. I saw joy. I saw the colors I've always loved and hoped to see one day.
It's like my heart can't contain you.
And the ocean is calling me home.
That giant expanse of glistening water reflecting the sun's willful welcome as a new day begins
so daunting so beautiful so overwhelming in its stark grandness
so familiar this feeling.
It's like I've known you for a very long time.
It's like I've found myself smiling with the waves now pressing against my gut
white sea foam dissolving quickly
tickling my torso
making me laugh
loud belly laughs
mouth stretched wide and daring
teeth showing
eyes crinkling
body shaking
legs trembling
The ocean of your love
is calling me home.
Am I ready to dive deeper?
Am I ready to submerge not just my torso but my head as well?
What if I can't breathe underwater?
What if I can't open my eyelids?
It's like my heart can't contain you.
But then I touch my neck
and find gills.
But then I touch my eyes
and find goggles.
And then I know
that I'm ready to dive.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
I see the beauty flowers show;
imagine in the wild—
My oversight before July
had been a blindness mild.
The beetle brought her grandness by
erupting sight untold—
Jan 29, 2023
Jan 29, 2023 at 4:39 PM UTC
I see no clouds
by my eyes,
no air be stills these
powder blue skies.
Smoke curls through
the sun scattered trees,
a whisper of bliss,
a touch of green.
A monumental grandness
disparages naivety
of a summer breeze.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
there’s something uplifting about looking up at my window.
no matter the time of day, as long as the slats are open,
if you look up and out, you will see the tops of trees and open sky.
in the early evening, it reminds me of you.
the blue is fading to a duskier shade, like that of your eyes,
and the leaves of the trees shine a yellow-brown as the sun hits them;
they sway in the breeze, just as your hair does.
the light is warm and gentle and brushes against the white of the open panels
and glances off the wall to the right, painting my room in aureate hues.
I remember having all the time in the world to watch you during these hours,
having all the time in the world as you slept or fiddled around in my bed.
sometimes we would lay entwined and my fingers would brush over your stubble
as your hands grazed through my hair and up and down my side.
your lips would brush against my skin as the leaves brushed against each other outside.
no noise, no chaos. just our breathing and the dimming light the sun provided.
the early evening is the calm before the night and the madness it brings.
gold and glory and grandness and grace,
a warm haze of gradual darkness descends as the haven melts away like the hours we spent.
the sun lights up the sky in vivid pinks and oranges,
leaving bruised purples and navys in its wake.
you left as it set. your mood reflected the bruises the sun left in its abrupt departure
and I longed to paint you in pinks and oranges and the blazing, brilliant red it became
before it disappeared beneath the horizon, just as you did when the car door shut behind you.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
Mistakes become badges
You wear on your sleeve
Preaching "humility!" "kindness!"
Things you have learned the hard way
We stumble, and fall
To only sometimes get up
And walk away from the rubble
That is the monument to the past
We must remember that waves
Are just parts of the largeness
Of the grandness
Of the ocean
And that all things
Are caused by other happenings
That are caused by other instances
That weren't out to get you
We are all the same
In that we are all different
In that we are all struggling
Towards a mountain's peak
What I wish I was taught
Years and years ago
(Or maybe it's just something
I wished I listened to in the first place)
Is that there is no mountain peak
That what really brings all of the everythings of wishes
Is recognizing the wind that rustles a leaf
On a struggling plant on the bottom of a forest
That the insignificance is the importance
That the smallness is really overwhelming
In meaning and truth
When we notice the path we are taking, we find the answer to ourselves:
Always mistakenly thinking it lead to a mountain of happiness,
But realizing it's really a road of joy we've been on the whole time.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 7:20 AM UTC
It was your name I fell for first.
An instant name crush when I saw it –
two names I’d never have considered putting together,
but how beautiful, how unexpected.
Of course I fell for you name first.
Names are so much easier to fall for:
all the possibility in Florence, its softness, its grandness,
all the temptation in the way Delilah slips off the tongue;
the potential for a story about a girl named Ilaria Winter.
-
I fell for your style next, then your hair,
then the way you introduced yourself with both names
and then the way you spoke in class.
I think I stared at you too often, and I’m sorry.
I didn’t think I was being obvious, and I hardly thought
you would notice (someone as boring as) me.
But you must have, and I’m sorry.
I’m sorry you talked to me for the first time at the station,
when the train was fourteen minutes late, the moon looked
strange in the sky and I was contemplating jumping onto the tracks.
I’m so sorry you spoke to me at the train station of all places.
Yes, train stations have so much potential for beginnings,
but it’s far more likely they’ll be about endings,
about the fleeting, the slipping, the moments of going separate ways,
the longing for home and the crying into books kind of moments.
-
(But thank you, thank you anyway, for talking to me and knowing my name
and complimenting my hair and my boots and my clothes.
I wish I could have told you I loved the way
the bow in your hair matched your heels but I couldn’t and I’m sorry)
-
How disappointing it is to open something and find nothing in it,
because that’s me and I’m so sorry.
Don’t judge a book by its cover, I guess, because I’ve had to be creative
with my front to conceal the dreary words of my pages.
(And maybe – most definitely – I’m reading too much into this anyway,
but I’m boring and nothing much happens in my boring life (because
I don’t let it and I’m sorry.))
-
But thank for trying (and I’m sorry, so sorry).
-
I just wish you wrote poetry because at least then I could attempt to compliment that.
(and maybe you do write poetry, but I guess I’ll never know, will I?)
(I’m sorry.)
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
Here it rests,
Splayed over lawn
Like a drunk old man
Finally lost legs and fallen.
Held fast through tempests
Long before I was born,
Sworn timeless -
Grandness embracing our sky,
Now crumpled, helpless
Across fence, on grass.
Numberless the seasons birds'
Nests were welcomed -
Summers alive with tapping
As woodpeckers hammered
Their homes in its branches,
Leaving as young were
Done with its shelter.
In Autumn, I once watched
A squirrel scamper a limb,
Disappearing, somehow, within.
Their secret's now obvious
As I can see the trunk was
Eaten hollow and empty.
The poor dumb giant
Spoke only when breezes
Animated leaves in evening,
Never given voice of its own
To decry those insults,
Feeding sweet fruit, instead,
To those creatures that ate
Of the strength held within.
Vibrant green life in spring
Was a veneer too thin,
As in living a lie
Finally admitted in sighs
Of the wind.
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 3:51 PM UTC
Bitter Water
This is prompted by the death of TV actor Peter Breck the emotion is defiantly not nostalgic
All though it can cause that strange feeling of bitter sweet sorrow no his is the images and the loveliness
Of the man to catch that certain something the endowment of grace that is set apart and alone
Expressions that linger like the sight and smell after a fresh rain as if you tried to hold that which is
Exquisite and fragile it can only be observed and honored but never possessed it is the richest and rarest
It is life’s human brevity like art’s master pieces they appear unbidden they blaze they ignite the very air
Then evaporate but at times the right person is there when contact is made and they are gifted in a way
That they are not only able to capture wonder and appreciate it but they are able to reproduce it in the
Most extraordinary way that baffles and enthralls everyone else with shadings of colors that are alive it
Parades magnificence in common paths that cause the piece to resonate the divine impetus of creation
Spell binding earthmoving in the true and great idea of what art is supposed to be to see what is
Forgotten and missed by most but through intensity of vision you quell chaos peace assuredly is
Harnessed a new never was it viewed in this dimension and grandness of scale impart to me thy secrets
And give visitation to strains that are the bleeding forth of Heavenly deigns in the mix of earthen woes
Treasures are indifferent to me after this awaking I wonder seeking another glimpse and then at a great
Distance the slightest glimmer a tiny spark of promise causes the eyes to brighten the pulse rate to
Increase you are closing in on the mystifying impetus of creative power you begin a dance that recedes
Only after fire has spent its glory through your veins such was the life Peter lived and gave to us all
Thanks Peter you will be sadly missed
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
in erectile functions or asexually
the ideas that give meanings or rises
or raise the honor guards rifles;
complicate the pool with lust genes
surprise me in profundity
or praise the humble
help yourself by helping another
don't accept blindly what is handed out
consider the futility
of grandness in you and houses and material things
just once
let it
reproduce
a kinder heart in us in me
in you
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 9:40 PM UTC
awakening in the middle of the night
I find myself lying there
pondering 12 foot ceilings
opening eyelids to the space above my head
the tall windows
wondering what the point of all of that space is
aesthetics, historically accurate
to create a sense of largeness, grandness
to draw the buyer in
to provoke a sense of having a better home, a better life?
not very practical
costs more to heat
and cool
difficult to clean
or reach for any other reason
and certainly not inviting shelves for storage.
And at least a gallon more to paint the 12 foot walls.
I conclude that this is simply a waste of space, of money,
designed to please the eye regardless of cost, efficiency or practicality.
just what the people wanted, I guess, if you can afford it.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality
The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class
A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence
But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies
Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity
Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled
Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it
Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of
The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity
Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things
So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic
I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding
I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses
But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice
Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
First March madness,
next April sadness,
then May gladness
and Junes spectacular grandness
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 10:05 AM UTC
My eyes probe the mist where it clings to to mountains.
The mountains who stand tall and strong
Who grow darker as they rise Shadows.
They're pitted against the sharp vibrant sky
That surrounds them, vast, blue, mysterious.
I linger over the glassy river surface
That reflects the cotton clouds
And the dark, haunting mountains
And their huge blue groundskeeper
The river winds and winds,
A great thriving knot,
Untanglable.
That sinks and weaves
And swims
Level with the earth
Equal in grandness
Acts as home to all
All who breath air
All who drink and sleep.
Those who gaze up at towers of green
When the sun is high and summer abroad
They chatter and gather and hunt
They roll in beds of fuzzy moss
Growing, growing,
To give life to others
To leave when it's time
I reach, I stretch
My fingers strain
To go there
To escape
So close, so close
My hands hit the glass.
The **** jumps the frame.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
The only thing that can surpass the grandness of my intellect, is my unrelenting naivety
The only wisdom I lack, is that of experience
I assume all the things that I neglect, in my late latency
But, lately I attest, I’m quit definitely delerious
I want to build grand monuments to loved ones, but I’ve never been an engineer
Pass down grand teachings to my sons
Yet I’ve never been a father, in any year
I wish to love a woman, like no woman has ever been loved before
To tell her irrelevant stories, and only store memories in the drawer.
To take her to places she hasn’t heard of before or even seen.
Create! The things that she can adore and make the chaos serene
I am no fool, I know what I want.
I desire commitment, I long for Freedom and independence
I decided her love for me; I’ll proudly flaunt
But, internally keep it secret, to nurture my own dependence
One day, she noticed that her love for me was gone
And all the little things she loved about me, all of the quirks, and unintentional foolery
Had turned into insufferable character traits, and puzzling conversations
She no longer loved me, and I love her still.
But, I could not love her, the way she wanted to be loved and cared for
And eventually she could not love me as well
She needed to be loved, but only from a distant shore
Her love, in kind, I could not compel
I need to say a million things to you, tell you how I feel, show you how I hurt, and imply what I desire.
I wish to scream, loudly and often, let the air wash away the bitterness from my lips, and try to rekindle the fire.
But, instead. I stay silent, and act benign
And when asked… I say : “I’m doing fine”
Sep 2, 2023
Sep 2, 2023 at 2:56 PM UTC
The glimmer of the ocean
Rush of the trees
Grandness of a mountain above
We all have our dreams
Destinations and paradises in our hearts.
Many of us may see a place as were they belong
even though they have never been there
Despite knowing it may not be for me
My dream is a small cottage by a bay in Maine
Silly isn't it?
These little dreams are what we hold on to
as motivation, something to keep us going
Wether they are ever realized or not
They become a part of who we are
A little fantasy no one can take away
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC