"harrow" poems
Flesh so soothing, a depression so strong,
A life so short, a misery so long.
A heart that's pure, with a touch of decay,
Words of slaughter, bitter blasphemies to say.
A God of the throne, a God in the dirt,
The evil of humanity, the supremacy of hurt.
A whisper of agony, a stench of audacious,
A corpse to taste in all your forged graces.
It is what it can't be, its not what you've said,
I take no blame for the nine inch nails in the dead.
The rope to devour, I refuse his blood,
To catch in the mouth, and swallow the mud.
Worship the gruesome sight with fear,
Wait for your judgment as it treads itself near.
Scream of the Hollow, shutter of harrow,
Lets worship a creature without a better tomorrow.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
Wintertime nighs;
But my bereavement-pain
It cannot bring again:
Twice no one dies.
Flower-petals flee;
But since it once hath been,
No more that severing scene
Can harrow me.
Birds faint in dread:
I shall not lose old strength
In the lone frost’s black length:
Strength long since fled!
Leaves freeze to dun;
But friends cannot turn cold
This season as of old
For him with none.
Tempests may scath;
But love cannot make smart
Again this year his heart
Who no heart hath.
Black is night’s cope;
But death will not appal
One, who past doubtings all,
Waits in unhope.
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See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon
the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite
Ballad of Hamilton beginning—
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!
From Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my “winsome Marrow,”
“Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.”
“Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow’s banks let her herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
“There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?
“What’s Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.”
—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
My True-love sighed for sorrow;
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!
“Oh! green,” said I, “are Yarrow’s holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O’er hilly path, and open Strath,
We’ll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.
“Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow,
The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There’s such a place as Yarrow.
“Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we’er there, although ’tis fair,
’Twill be another Yarrow!
“If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,—
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
’Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow!”
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dipped in fires of revenge
black as night and hung on edge
she calls out unto me
a wisp of smoke
and the fire pokes
now I see my soon to be
stars shine up from water, clear
silent noise is all we hear
she reaches for me desperately
over edge and pressed against
imaginary chain-link fence
but together we live separately
harrow here, yes, hurry here
be my darling kitsune, dear
we'll be alone eventually
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
Housing waning
Where do you expect me to go?
Stop selling me Harrow
(Not even if you talking Road).
Imma Grove gyal…!
I got my vibe spots and chill spots, my food stalls and book haunts.
We - SJC are not just a Safer Neighbours blight
Given half the obstacles - gentle gentry
maybe more of us would be standing free
I’ll take myself outta Grove when I’mmmm ready.
RBKC done turned up that pressure though.
Knocking down to wipe out
The enriching colour and spice that grew out of adversity
Permission to “celebrate” over the August bank holiday,
No amount of stop and searches g’on make me forget.
We belong here too.
So get to know and stop putting up my rent.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
Panic's jewel...
Or, is that pride?
Poor relenting, to you...
The question of irony on your side?
Places and things, together
With a real appetite for life's regency
So, sophisticated, the liberty of kind to bother
An open air, of a wish that found deception's history...?
My undone mercy, my marveling hope
Is with a ghost of a chance, the truth
In a guarded fist, to promise a shared cope?
If any pout of lore, is a wish that sought your youth...
I will follow...
Despairing consciences, with a blinking stare at honor
That defies home for one thing only, that is to harrow...
The dread in a tear, found for a salt that told a story:
Once upon a time, and the tenderness of couth
To wake upon a simple bed, the taste of harmony in league
With itself, the role of unity and vice, come the riches of who
Is a part defined, and who is a smarter focus divine, of each?
Which will the tows of remorse...
Work as we said, they have the skill's of duress to laud
And heraldry of a looming proportion, to understand the worse
The life of another lords prophet, the can and the callous odd...
Here is such, the lies or levity we fate
With a rekindled fire, for what is a stranger look, of desperation
Sincerity or since charity is a fool for itself, the world of sate
Is a kindness only a lover could afford, the very gift of intimation?
Tomorrow?
And the ides of heathen politeness, are here
To simply move forward and borrow
The truth in an order and repute, that has oneself to bless, with another's fear...?
Jun 25, 2022
Jun 25, 2022 at 1:25 AM UTC
So I see that my poems have started trending. And according to my friend it has to do with the people that follow me.
And as of this moment I have 15 followers (6/3/2014). Cool. So I guess thanks are in order for all of you
1.Sierra Leone - You were my first follower on here so thank you I apprecaite it.
2. Ranger - You were my second follower. and you are a friend on my "little sister". thanks for the follow
3. Fenix Flight - I am surprised you werent my first follower. BUt regardless, you are the reason I am even on this site so thank you sis.
4. Summer Skye - My fourth and lucky follower. the sister of my "sister" thanks little LF, I am grateful you gave me the honor of being followed by you.
5. Zero Zaneh - Fifth follower, Thank you man. your work is good.
6. Stace - sixth follower. we never talk or whatnot, but your work is really good.
7. IJ Keddie - seventh follower, thank you. your work is interesting. I like it.
8. Beryldov Lew - eighth follower, thank you. every follow means something to me
9. ᏰέƦẙḽԃṏሁ Լέῳ - ninth follower. I do not understand your name but i like the work you put up
10. That Asian Josh - tenth follower. (dont take this the wrong way but) We asains must stick together right?. your work is intersting. I enjoy reading it
11. POETIC T - eleventh follower. Marvel? **** yeah man. keep up the cool work
12. Namir- twelvth follower (i cant spell for **** Dude really it took you this long to follow me -.-. come on, but thanks for it anyway. your work is intense.
13 ISverre G Holter thirteenth follower. your work is cool. I like it. keep it up
14.PrttyBrd- Fourteenth follower, you started following me last night (6/2/14) after my poem Life started trending. thank you
15.Nanna Harrow -fifteenth follower, last but not least. you as well started following me last night after my poem Life started trending. thanks for the boost of confedence
There you have it folks. all the people who on here think I am worth something to follow. thanks to each and everyone of you.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter’d far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mus’d the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the ***** to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
“Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!”
When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever’d breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought, ’twould soothe my dying hour,—
If aught may soothe, when Life resigns her power,—
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my ***** where it lov’d to dwell;
With this fond dream, methinks ’twere sweet to die—
And here it linger’d, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretch’d beneath this mantling shade,
Press’d by the turf where once my childhood play’d;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I lov’d,
Mix’d with the earth o’er which my footsteps mov’d;
Blest by the tongues that charm’d my youthful ear,
Mourn’d by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplor’d by those in early days allied,
And unremember’d by the world beside.
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Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos.
VIRGIL.
Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov’d recollection
Embitters the present, compar’d with the past;
Where science first dawn’d on the powers of reflection,
And friendships were form’d, too romantic to last;
Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied;
How welcome to me your ne’er fading remembrance,
Which rests in the ***** though hope is deny’d!
Again I revisit the hills where we sported,
The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought;
The school where, loud warn’d by the bell, we resorted,
To pore o’er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.
Again I behold where for hours I have ponder’d,
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander’d,
To catch the last gleam of the sun’s setting ray.
I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o’erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.
Or, as Lear, I pour’d forth the deep imprecation,
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv’d;
Till, fir’d by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a Garrick reviv’d.
Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast;
Though sad and deserted, I ne’er can forget you:
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.
To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,
While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since Darkness o’ershadows the prospect before me,
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul!
But if, through the course of the years which await me,
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,
“Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew.”
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Here once engaged the stranger’s view
Young Friendship’s record simply trac’d;
Few were her words,—but yet, though few,
Resentment’s hand the line defac’d.
Deeply she cut—but not eras’d—
The characters were still so plain,
That Friendship once return’d, and gaz’d,—
Till Memory hail’d the words again.
Repentance plac’d them as before;
Forgiveness join’d her gentle name;
So fair the inscription seem’d once more,
That Friendship thought it still the same.
Thus might the Record now have been;
But, ah, in spite of Hope’s endeavour,
Or Friendship’s tears, Pride rush’d between,
And blotted out the line for ever.
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Where marinated in our murky past
have we found justification for the travesties we do,
build prisons where our prejudice lasts,
and allow its prisoners to fester as they stew
I have felt this heat.
The flame which boils in the toils of others,
whose oils lick embers into wildfire.
And we fall back into the Dark Ages.
where minds who place burden on those with different skin
slink flicking flint to fire, raising from the earth
the walls we have spent decades taking apart one brick at a time.
one brick at a time,
comment by comment,
each passing moment
condone it.
ignore it.
passivity pays the builders of this monument.
who see no wrecking ***** to stop them.
passivity, fills the pockets of the petty
coin by coin collecting courage to speak
outwardly outrageous
slurred hate speech contagious
barbary amounts its fortress from our silence,
one brick at a time.
I have seen the origins of intolerance,
holding together the cinder blocks of utterance
all the moments we should have said something and didn't.
In my selfish silence I see senselessness slip past my snares.
In my hush I hear hate harrow the ventricles of hearts much weaker
than the speaker.
Loathing left untended like
loose mountain snow
will like an avalanche gain strength
in movement.
To you,
the architects of abhorrence
the creators of execration
I plead: lay down your urban dictionaries.
Know that you lay a foundation
whose structure will build up,
but whose existence will tear down.
To you,
those who watch the construction
and stare in silence sufferance,
know that although no sweat has fallen,
and no aid has been laid by your hand,
That this malicious monument is as much yours
as it is theirs, through your willingness to watch it go up
one brick at a time.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
fate befalls coarse dissonance
heartfelt plight, undoing thralls
stalwart cries beckon home
staunch hope redoubtably prevails
pithy, barren, crass, vile
Morose echoes, tinged denial
bemoaning daunting harrow
withered bridges surmise winter's defeat
water flowing effortlessly beneath
ineptitude solemnly secedes
decaying frost bereaves Sun's kiss
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
Rebellion has many paths
to tempt unwitting youth
and none of them are new at all
to tell the sorry truth
Though every would-be anarchist
would wish it left unsaid
John Harrow makes the signposts
with a top-hat on his head
When picketing the fellowship
a friend of mine declared
"You have to know your enemy
"To have him running scared!"
dismantling the sacred text
he'd bought the day before
for every penny that he owned
from Harrow's Bible store
The scarlet headed lyricist
sent shockwaves through the nation
shattering taboos
and knocking lumps from the foundation
But Harrow wasn't shaken
by this fiercely blazing star -
he'd trained the stylist, named the songs
and sold him his guitar
A buzz is running through the streets
as people take them back
and occupy the land
in global pacifist attack
But wait - before you celebrate
the fall of governments
With factories in Vietnam
John Harrow makes the tents
Cos protest has its limits
the establishment agrees
we're free to go these tested routes
like window-bumping bees
You make your point, you go back home
another day will pass
and half-full or half-empty
Mr. Harrow is the glass
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 11:21 AM UTC
Sparse farmlands spread out below
scattered popcornish clouds;
a farmer's harrow;
his sun-baked, callous-caked hands;
two or three farmhands idling.
One hundred thousand rectangles:
property lines
from a 737's window.
West Illinois looks legal
from 30,000 feet.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 6:23 PM UTC
I long for the smell of fresh turned soil , an experience I've never forgotten ..
The smell of diesel , oil and grease ..The ringing of harrow and bush hog ...
My Liberty overalls and size ten clod hoppers , suede cowboy hat , pocket watch and Bloodhound tobacco ..
Bob White Quail walking the wood line waiting to
get their fill of turned ground morsels , grains and grasshoppers ..
Curious Whitetailed Deer hiding in the shadows , Redtailed Hawks
with a keen eye for field rats escaping the plow ..
A sixty two Massey Harris that ran like a' Top ' through rain
and heat , never missing a beat !
My mind prays for the simple life of man and machine , the brushfires
of March , the restoration of God's green earth ..
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
Remember, dear;
There will always be who I am tonight.
Provided that my demons keep their peace within the cage of my ribs,
and our pools of patience endure their droughts and despair,
I’ll hold you when our bones are brittle and our hair is silver.
And when those days come, and for the thousands of days in between, there will always exist a man inside me who was (at least once) everything and anything you’d wanted him to be.
You will always be the lovely lady of my life, and no matter how fate decides to shape our time together, I will always be ready to hold you in my arms, however weak they may be. I will always listen to whatever may harrow your soul, however hard of hearing I might be at that point. And even when I am blinded by cataracts and carcinogens, I'll always appreciate how you smile with your eyes and how your nose crinkles a little when you laugh, I'll always be able to tell you how lovely you look.
We may be torn apart or we may grow together but regardless of our proximity, I will always be who you once fell in love with, I will always be everything you once needed. And as I have been for you, I will be once again.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
A MAN I praise that once in Tara's Hals
Said to the woman on his knees, "Lie still.
My hundredth year is at an end. I think
That something is about to happen, I think
That the adventure of old age begins.
To many women I have said, ""Lie still,''
And given everything a woman needs,
A roof, good clothes, passion, love perhaps,
But never asked for love; should I ask that,
I shall be old indeed.'
Thereon the man
Went to the Sacred House and stood between
The golden plough and harrow and spoke aloud
That all attendants and the casual crowd might hear.
"God I have loved, but should I ask return
Of God or woman, the time were come to die.'
He bade, his hundred and first year at end,
Diggers and carpenters make grave and coffin;
Saw that the grave was deep, the coffin sound,
Summoned the generations of his house,
Lay in the coffin, stopped his breath and died.
1.1k
....and who are we that Eton,Harrow do not see,
we are the sinking of the sun,the wreck of the S.S Great Britain has come.
Where once we were the universe,rulers of lands and seas,we have been brought down to our knees to slowly, slowly sink.
Drink and drugs the slugs and snails what ails us,do we know?
Council blocks and towers knock us down to build new towns and the green belt gets much tighter,landfills full up to the brim the doors of opportunity are locked,we can't get in,too fat,too thin,old school ties and gold tie pins and who are we?the
disenfranchised and despised by those that do not see the rising tide of poverty.
Those we passed on our way up are those who put a penny in this beggars cup and wave goodbye,the sky has dropped, the horizon dulled,pulled this and that way,can't pay the bills,drink and drugs the only thrills and betting on the three fifteen to race along another pointless dream,
horsemeat in the freezer section,the four fifteen was my selection which fell at the final fence.
Prozac helps us to relax,fuck the council tax and income band just put two blue pills in my hand and make it seem like it's a dream and we're not sinking,what a scream,a film show,I should go and see the launch,exercise to lose this paunch.
Tomorrow I may rise to see my ship Great Britain back at sea or I could stay in bed and thread excuses on a needle,sew myself a sweater,keep the heat in,can't afford electric fires not like those out in the Shires where logs are burnt,money earnt is money burnt in my opinion.
Back to basics,Luddite hills and give me two more small blue pills,put them on the bills of lading,degrading I can do,but you have so much more and it's ship to shore on the radio,rise me hearties off we go,one more mad dash to make some more cash,undeclared that's only fair,
the revenue can go and ***** and spin upon that middle digit,fidgeting?it must be fleas,do fleas get brought down to their knees?
You see,
in this last scramble to the death I ramble on with my last breath,they haven't taxed my fresh air yet but I bet they will,drink and drugs for one more thrill,up anchor as I will at will to drift away into the sinking of just one more day.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
Waiting Still for Tomorrow
Deafening tone,
Makes me not alone,
Continually singing a sorrow.
Bring not today,
For I beg keep away,
That lament until Tomorrow.
It whispers so loud,
“You are lost in the crowd,
Lost in a sea of harrow.”
It’s censure grew — strewth!
Mocking my sad truth,
Threatening what follows Tomorrow.
I attempt to evade —
Stopped by a palisade,
Yes, stopped by a wall of yarrow.
Plucking mere few,
Intent to make new,
My wounds and be healed by Tomorrow.
“Sweet yarrow await,
I shall be kept late,
By that tormentor who inflicts sorrow,”
But yarrow soon will fade,
Leave my mind in the shade, and
My heart waiting still for Tomorrow.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 3:05 AM UTC
.
Lumpy fields of fox hole heaved by a harrow,
Boulders drawn, lifted on break weather stall,
Bundles of crops strewn, wall stone shrapnel,
Within lines so drawn, only a few have fallen.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
Falling fast down hovelled stairs,
digesting wealth to ransom cares,
grotesque men who soil and harrow
suspend my dreams from thinning rope.
As discharge weeps from places raw
and blisters burn a molten core,
another phallus, soiled and poisoned
wants for smack and cunny’d ******
I bleed from wounds so deep within
of pain so stark and crude and raw
that pins me ‘neath the brine of sin
like drowning prey in ***** and ****
I fail to dim the moving shadows:
those twisting jerks of spewed release –
but coming soon will silent growls
of dripping fat and blistered guilts.
Voiced within me, vague and distant,
something cries, yet tears withdraw.
Copious unheard pleas are buried;
here lay I, unknown, destroyed.
To burrow past unhuman men
(to further seal a keyless lock)
would ‘splay me in the public eye,
exampled, maimed, defeated; lost.
Phlegm and fur may line my mouth;
engorged, my lips, a ***** for more.
But somewhere deep inside myself
I’ve walked away from Brothel Shore.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
They try to ****** you,
reduce you
to quivering mountains of jelly.
(well we won't have that,will we?)
While we're picking up dog ends
looking up our rear ends
they're
sending their sprogs off to Harrow and Eton
making more running dogs,
they think that we're beaten.
On the street where I live,half
of the residents don't live at all,
they vegetate,
a form of somnambulism,
some kind of mistake because the other half
don't give a frig,
this is the gig,this is the play
if you're happy or not they don't care,anyway,
they won't ****** me,
I am cardboard citizen and free,
under the rainbow and off the grid,
still got to bid on a house or a flat
and that's the way of it.
You try and you think that you're free but
you're numbered and name tagged and put in the queue
and all you can do then
is dream of a time when
freedom means freedom and not
medieval serfdom.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 8:11 AM UTC
He stopped mid-sentence.
He took their offense
quite seriously
and, with a dash
of omnipotence,
saw the fall folly.
One and only one arrow
points to this tree, narrow
and quite bleached and,
with a European tint,
sheltered a girl.
Leaves burnt on the skin
of Mother Nature,
burnt by lack of chlorophyll.
Pumpkin-orange yearns to
cause tree-white
harrow.
Back in the debate
“Kannst du nicht warten – wait!”
Mahogany trends
designed this room of
uninterested people with
hunger to sate;
His powerful, wintry heart
is taking a step back
in time. He is harboring
fate in his heart like
iron boots left aside –,
grievous greaves weighing things down in ferrum.
He fell back from
his wooden podium
showing a modicum
of care
by yearning the boat to come.
A cryogenized hull of darkness
was his mind, melting
in the warmth of a
dying tree a ways away.
He clutched his core
agony pushing far beyond sore
OPEN THE DOOR
HE’S GOING TO DIE
But he had a dream –
However black and white
he spoke to seam
and seal
would never end the color
of the turning wheel –
He had erred, but now
Winter ended “how.”
How he wished to
return to the girl in
fall, but
too late.
He already fell.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 1:21 PM UTC
You ruined me.
You destructed me.
Undid me.
And I bet you smiled as you slowly inhaled the ****** scent of the scratches on my heart. I bet you spun around in joy at the scathing remarks you sent my way. I bet you did. I don't even wonder if you planned it all, I know you did. You consciously made the choice to ruin me time and time again.
Now I'm in this mess because of you. I fell in love with hard to get; hard to understand as well. I don't care if you care, I care that I hurt. I care, at least I care, about me.
Only you could have planted a seed so deep in me and then never tell me about it. Only you could've put banter so deep in my heart that I would barely understand that banter is wrong. Banter is hurt.
But due to you, it feels like love.
To be honest, I cannot count how many times that seed has ripped open my heart with its growing roots, or pierced it with the numerous small thorns on the stem. It must have been countless times, because banter is hate and hate is the love of hate and all dark sides to the moon, not the white love of the unknown. But I never understood that. And it was you.
You who did this to me.
I could tell you tales that would harrow your soul, but I guess I will leave it at this:
You ripped my heart out
Your blackened tongue burnt my soul
You destroyed any hope of loving I had
You chased all my feelings and cut me off
You dragged all my hopes into the dark
and I hope
I hope you are happy
I hope you are happy, knowing that that seed inside me has bloomed, and that it probably will remain like that forever.
I hope you are happy, after having squeezed all the love out my soul and the words out my heart.
I hope you are.
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 7:56 PM UTC
Little Bird flew over the hill
because someone said the
green grass was bluer over there
Little bird was canary yellow
But only on the inside to see
He dreamed of
peacock feathers
Bird of Paradise
rthyms and ways
He was way over his head you'd say
But little bird
was born a sparrow
Brown , ugly , and ruffled
He wore all his emotions
on his wings to display
But one day the cat caught the sparrow
And it was quite a harrow
His feathers you'd might say
Became fiber the old fashioned way
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 5:33 PM UTC