"heats" poems
Your flame glows
And flame throws
Insane vibes
Than makes my viens flow
My body over heats
To temperatures Celsius unknown
our bodies taking measures
Heighten pleasures
Too bad to be a miracle
Too good to be forgotten
Memories clone
Yet, it's heaven sent
by principle
Our bodies quake with sensations
Unbelievable
Reaching heights without ******
unachievable
Take loving making to the next decimal
Feeding our appetites until we are plenty full
And our eruptions stop exploding
And we lay there motionlessly stile
Calm as a lonely
lake as satisfied as ice is chill
Cooling each other down
like the wind does the sun
Looking at each other like our work
here is done
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 11:40 PM UTC
I promise, my love,
that when I go home,
I will tell the stars about you.
They will tremble
when they hear
of how bright you shine.
They will quake
when they are told
of how beautiful you are.
They will be terrified
when they hear
of how your love
heats my heart on cold nights.
And most of all,
they will be jealous
when they hear
that I love you
more than the
whole galaxy.
B.K.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 3:22 PM UTC
Tentpole, stature tall and strong and
Firmly placed between the thin sheets
Members of the boy scouts, boy clan
Flames extinguished, his body heats
At dawn it rises, makes me wake
******* for the fire he gathers
Morning wood, embers of the stakes
Soon home; disapproving Fathers
Morning **** calls, but we're busy
Pack our bags, get all the work done
Juice of life makes me quite dizzy
Mem'ries of our weekend of fun
I'll be dish and spoon to your spoon
Spend nights together o'er the moon
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 6:47 AM UTC
Sunlight makes its move beyond the safe Clouds.
Clouds finally let the Sunlight go free.
Sunlight reaches toward the awaiting greenery.
Clouds hesitate to question its judgment.
Sunlight grasps the hands of Earth.
Clouds spy on Sunlight's careful movements.
Sunlight heats the world in a clear embrace.
Clouds meander further away in hiding.
Sunlight ignites passion within the plants.
Clouds rely on an evaporation vice.
Sunlight relaxes in the west, pleased.
Clouds find solace in the salty air.
Sunlight wakes up to the smiling blossoms.
Clouds glare from a distance.
Sunlight gazes at its new abundance of fruit.
Clouds long for a sweet release.
Sunlight notices its once dear lover.
Clouds acknowledge Sunlight's attention.
Sunlight begins to scorch the ground.
Clouds play upon the mountains.
Sunlight angers at the coyness.
Clouds laugh at the needy air.
Sunlight intensifies to torch the trees.
Clouds begin to realize the desire.
Sunlight glances in the direction of its hope.
Clouds gather up courage to make its move.
Sunlight begs for saturated fulfillment.
Clouds glide toward Sunlight in sweet surrender.
Sunlight kisses its precious love.
Clouds cherish its tender caress.
Sunlight probes its worth by revealing true emotion.
Clouds relinquish control and release the passion.
Sunlight holds the clouds so dearly.
Clouds feel peace letting loose all emotion.
Sunlight stares amazed at the Clouds.
Clouds feel the warmth of Sunlight.
Sunlight makes its move beyond the safe Clouds.
Clouds yet again let the Sunlight go free.
Earth can't survive without this temperamental love affair.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
Mrs Sharma is looking busy
Walking back from her yoga class
In Her right hand a bag full of potatoes
In her left hand, 2 kilos of onions
Its a freaking hot day in Delhi,
She stopped a taxi and hurried home
Aloo paratha her family's menu for today.
At home she went straight to her kitchen
Peeled and boiled the Potatoes
finely chopped Onion, coriander, ginger and chillies
Now where is the garam masala?
Here you are Mrs Sharma,
Salt Red Chili powder, Garam masala and some butter
Aloo Paratha with lots of butter,YUM YUM
Lunching at Sharma's home is Splendid
better than Mahesh Lunch Home in Juhu, Andheri.
Let's get started says Mrs Sharma
Let's make the dough
Make two chapati
add the filling to one chapati
and cover it with the second one.
Now Mrs Sharma rolls it slightly and heats it in the oven...
Let's ask Mrs Sharma,
Is food the elixir of life?
Yes very much she said
She feels like she is living for it.
As she spreads butter over the paratha
She says her mantra twice,
Eat healthy but don’t over eat.
She serves aloo paratha hot to her smiling kids
adds yoghurt to Mr Sharma's plate
she is so proud when she says to her family
Eat in moderation and eat healthy..
Smile and let's eat Aloo paratha Mrs Sharma's way...
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
With a raffling breath
I sate death neatly
I am now in trust
Dead
And being played into new life
There's a swelling of new strifes
and wavings from within
Heats of organisms
Worlds accelerating
Pulsion
Gases waste and gases invitations
take place where I have been
A celebration
A bedding
If only The Humans would leave
the 'Dead Body' be
Just when I am finally achieved
They make a bother
I'll make out a doner card
No, a placard
"No Preservation Upon Death !
Corpse Rights Remain !"
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 11:03 PM UTC
I remembered her face
On a winter night
Were my brain buried under snow of thoughts
what will i
what will i
say...
When her eyes glow in the moonlight
When I hear her soft voice wrap around my ears
I’ll turn my hand into a fist and hide it in my pocket
Trying to squeeze the life out of my nerves
Oh, her beauty
Oh, her beauty
How it makes my knees shakes
Oh how it makes my eyes turn
How it makes my words turn into liquid
But each night
My thoughts melt onto my pillow
What will I say
What will I do
I don’t care
I don’t care
All I want is to see her moonlight eyes
Moonlight
Moonlight
To see her beauty
To see your hair running down
Her bright face…
One day
One day
I’ll see her again
Standing in front of me
Melting the snow under her boots
And I’ll be standing there
Nervous as hell
Forcing the bundle of words stuck in my throat
And my frozen breath
Escaping the dark
But then I’ll wrap my arms around her
And hug her tight
Until my frozen body heats up
And I’ll look into her moonlight eyes
Moonlight eyes
And I’ll say
‘’it’s been a while hasn’t it?’
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
Cool elegance, an aura of joy you possess, a one happy girlfriend...but not mine...
Mine deep down...my all...my dream girl...but am not hers either...not for the world to see...
We know it...only us...the electricity.. when the **** eyes meet...and the room heats...
phones vibrating with ignored texts...trance...hypnotized by deep passions...not embarrassed to reveal your carnal nature
The moments together...a world of difference..no one has to know.... I'm just happy this way...she is just happy this way...
No one has to know...i will keep loving you...i will keep keeping this crush till we are 70...i feel you deep down to my sinus ...and you know that..,
And I know that too...no matter how hard you try...you can never hide how you feel from me
No one has to know....no one will ever know...my secret love
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
Crystal white, ice cold,
I'm blood hot
Running bold
Mistress sweet calls once again
To quench the fire within my brain
Crystal white, vice hold
My Blood forgot
Ice cold
Mistress heats the only pain
That builds the fire within my brain
Kissed the night, twice old
Blood clots
The cards fold
Mistress cheat pulls on the chain
The funeral pyre within my brain
Pistol fight, price told
Bloodied shot
running cold
terror street screams once again
The voice of ghosts of Mistress slain.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
Hope rekindles;
Flares under your skin
Heats in your ribcage
Flickers in your heart
Then it is blown out, leaving nothing behind but
Pain and darkness
Curdling in the pit of your stomach
Sinking at the back of your mind
Settling into your emotions,
Like it never left.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
The ripple effect of a rash decision.
Ignoring with a cold precision.
Glass cannot completely melt away.
Yet it never heats up the way they say.
A small crack in the upper lip.
An indentation, a simple dip.
If you don’t read the bible, Jesus will hate you.
But, Jesus, that is something I’ll never do.
The crack expands to a spider’s home.
A girl in a metal chair all alone.
Do you know what the gospel is, kid?
I don’t know if I do, but I wish that I did.
Splicing incision, multiple cracks.
Spiraling around in un-orderly stacks.
Mummy, I’m feeling ill.
Doesn’t matter, you are going still.
A piece falls to the floor with grace.
A trickle of water fills its place.
She throws her square hat into the air.
Whipping away the wafers and wine out of her hair.
The dam breaks away, the glass cascades in a sparkling haze.
Washing away the church daze.
Never. Again.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 8:37 PM UTC
I started writing a poem and somehow found myself
comparing your traits to that of a sweater,
and there might have been an allusion to buttery clouds,
So I decided maybe love metaphors aren't my thing,
but I don't need analogies to tell you that
your eyes make me think of tree houses and that
kneading your skin like dough is just as soothing
to my own soul.
If I could, I'd compare your lips to something
life-sustaining, your hands to the sole thing that
grounds me, but I can't think of
anything clever when our foreheads resting together
makes me see stars. When your breath heats my neck,
those stars explode.
You make my solar system change rotation,
planets straying from orbit, which is a stupid metaphor
because I'm not the universe,
just a dandelion in a field of assorted weeds.
You're a bumblebee hovering, maybe, or a cricket
lounging on my petals. That's
dumb, too, because I'm not rooted to the ground;
I have legs to run, maybe wings. Point is, I'm not going to use
comparisons to tell you what you do.
Every line has been used before and your love is like no other.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
Life!
Life is not about
Telling jokes on other peoples behalf
Behalf!
The bottle is empty or full of liquid
Liquid!
The primal message of growth needs moist
Moist!
Merges with at least two body heats infatuation
Infatuation!
Ergo: life, behalf, liquid, moist, infatuation===> The middle age is probbably the most magical stage of life
where infatuation absolutely and undoubtedly (will) occurs.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
An introverted saint
An introverted saint named after a saint
Who died for rebirth of faith
A ******* is very intuitive and alive
Like poem
But that’s not who you really are
You are running away from your past
Your pain you took risk to give rot to a friend’s innocent body without why
The way it glows how the light holds you in silence, taking care of you
Experience the energy of where all life began when you met a friend
And yet you keep it so close to you
So you don’t have to be afraid of who you are... you might lose your mind you refuses to take it factual. A ******* wants to spend the cell with who he is.
A ******* sees an angel for the first time is a friend when he told a friend is an angel without a ******** feeling in unclearly to complete desirable to be aware
Know your purpose feel your birth
Hear at first faintly then distinctly is a friend’s a state of harmony
The sweet strains of our union
Our friendship heats up the cold universe,
And give your tired desperate heart you lost your introversive
Purified by our kisses, are eternally healed.
It’s destiny by the way it’s weird feeling
It is magic?
A ******* is a weak man that he is extremely hazy
the way narcissism made him lack.
Your brilliance
Your heart is very weak because of flattery
You are not afraid in the world you get hidden away from a friend’s sight as light that from your introversion compare with extrovert in experience
But you can’t cook to save your life for who you are, you are so desperately to erase in anything with good thing come in your timeline to move to make sure you are safely where your home is with you
To believe in something that’s all around us
But hidden from our sight
The gift of the faith that destiny is willing to create us to be purpose to meet in happenstance that who we are
Life can be kind and zealous
Because you are beautiful. —They move me.
An introverted saint
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
Let 'em hear ya in the cheap seats
In the nosebleeds
Trashed and thrashed
The stove heats up the whole house
The beauty pageant is being judged by those who have been bribed and the biased
There's no room at the inn
To the barn, I guess
Ring in the morning
As today's hectic schedule chimes in
The chimney sweep preforms rhinoplasty on a bobcat
And sends windup toys to Goodwill
I christen thee, Backwards!
Here, take this seven leaf clover for good luck
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
Thus the Mayne glideth
Where my Love abideth;
Sleep ’s no softer: it proceeds
On through lawns, on through meads,
On and on, whate’er befall,
Meandering and musical,
Though the niggard pasturage
Bears not on its shaven ledge
Aught but weeds and waving grasses
To view the river as it passes,
Save here and there a scanty patch
Of primroses too faint to catch
A weary bee…. And scarce it pushes
Its gentle way through strangling rushes
Where the glossy kingfisher
Flutters when noon-heats are near,
Glad the shelving banks to shun,
Red and steaming in the sun,
Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat
Burrows, and the speckled stoat;
Where the quick sandpipers flit
In and out the marl and grit
That seems to breed them, brown as they:
Naught disturbs its quiet way,
Save some lazy stork that springs,
Trailing it with legs and wings,
Whom the shy fox from the hill
Rouses, creep he ne’er so still.
2.6k
April 23.
My birthday is tomorrow;
I took off work to celebrate.
My boyfriend and I are going to get lunch.
“Administrative Professionals’ Day” is today.
My coworkers get a cookie text
From my manager—
That’s an 8x8 square of cookie
Topped with saccharine frosting
And edible paper.
The printer jams.
Someone heats up fish for lunch.
Time drags on.
On my way home,
I pass by the cemetery.
A woman sits at the edge of the garden
Where her baby is buried.
She adjusts the Easter decorations she set out last week.
Pastel-colored eggs, a small rabbit.
Near her, his younger brother wanders about
Picking dandelions and
Hopping over graves and
Waving to passing cars.
The child touches his mom’s shoulder
And points out a bird.
They look at it together,
Then get in the car.
Time passes by.
Tonight, I think I’ll make pasta for dinner.
There’s half a jar of red sauce in the fridge
Perfect for one meal.
There won’t be any leftovers,
But that’s fine.
After, I sit at my computer.
My friends are around to play games tonight,
So I nurse a *** and Coke
And hunt ghosts
Until my eyelids grow heavy.
Time flies.
Finally beneath cool sheets,
I reflect on today—
April 23.
My birthday is tomorrow;
I took off work to celebrate.
My boyfriend and I are going to get lunch.
May 16, 2024
May 16, 2024 at 9:05 PM UTC
i am exhausted.
sometimes i say things that people never laugh at,
things that people never understand,
things that people never acknowledge.
i am not the person that people
are happy to hear from,
want to see often,
enjoy being with.
after awhile it gets old.
that feeling after i say something
that adds to the conversation,
and no one even acknowledges my presence.
the feeling of a large hand
gripping tightly on your throat.
the feeling from embarrassment,
that heats your body to a thousand degrees.
the feeling of your heart shattering
because no one even noticed you were there.
my eyes start to water,
my hands start to shake,
and then, i freeze.
not freeze, as in temperature,
but as in every fiber in my being
turning to nothing,
and my heart feels broken.
it gets hard to breathe in moments like that.
moments where i pretend to look like i am okay,
and pretend like i am not overly sensitive.
moments where i feel so unwanted,
that i pretend i am not myself.
i hate myself,
and i am exhausted of being me.
Nov 4, 2021
Nov 4, 2021 at 3:44 AM UTC
Let us Rise and Rejoice for the Wise Controllers of the Streets
Please give praise for the Keepers of Asinine Righteousness
Who have the power to read our minds easy as giving sweets
Esteemed Professors who are World Experts with Greatness
In Neuro-linguistic programming and know all the upbeats
For example anybody with working eyes can see with no cheats
The woman's complexions is not Black even without clearness
Alas I make a joke and lightheartedly say its Black in mirths
Nobel NLP Programmers jump in glee and frenzied eagerness
That is Trigger to void progressive actions with that lady petite
So Professors et vacuous masses devoid of brains go on heats
Sprinkling Blacks all over in project as useless as their dumbness
Tell not dorks I do not see her as black in any way but a tease
Another deluded wasted efforts from the addicted mindlesses
The poor lass graced with honey-gold skin tone is not for meets
Crass semi-illiterates play mind games on levels of bog peats
Psychotic obsessed nonentities with deluded tendentiousness
As if there's a meeting of minds with piffling anodyne greats
Dumbos declaring we are playing with your mind in earness
Show me how a genius compares with Quixotic foolishness
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
Rye whiskey is my long lost lover.
Though we break apart as I
Enjoy the fruits of wine and bitter,
In those dark hours of the morn I’ll return
To that gold that tastes sweeter.
We’ll meet again as old friends,
And I’ll keep drinking it until the end.
Rye whiskey is my long lost lover.
Rye whiskey is my long lost lover.
It heats the room in its glow,
It makes the band sound sweeter
And my baby sound softer
While the drums of my heart beat louder.
It takes all my troubles away
And puts them in a corner for another day.
Rye whiskey is my long lost lover.
Rye whiskey is my long lost lover.
It leaves me on the roadside
To make my own way in the night,
And chastises me in the morning
When I didn’t kiss her goodnight.
And in my dreams it flows through my head
And gallops every moment when I’ve left my bed.
Rye whiskey is my long lost lover.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
Like sugar from a shaker, snow falls on Saul the baker
delivering steamy biscuits from the shop he calls his home
to a drafty run down mansion where the princess on her pension
can be testy with her tension, hence she's living on her own.
Today he took her order, "One fresh bagel, for a quarter
'cause I haven't seen the likes of one since I left my childhood home".
Well he'd never baked a bagel, but he's not one to finagle
and wanting just to please her, finds a recipe from Rome.
And he's thinking to himself, "I must be way out of mind~
no woman's gonna want a baker's life"
but he carries deep inside his heart, the will to be a friend
hoping someday she will come around and one day be his wife.
So to win her deep affection he packs up his best confection
takes his chances on the back roads, now iced over in the storm.
Finds her waiting in the foyer with her thrifty 5 cent lawyer
complaining 'bout the day old bread and... "this bagel isn't warm!"
So..... he heats it on the fire, 'cause her heart is his desire
but she won't accept the bagel for it's not quite the right form
And he's thinking to himself, "I must be way out of mind
no woman gonna want a baker's life"
but he carries deep inside his heart, the will to be a friend
hoping someday she will come around and one day be his wife.
So he runs back to his bagel board and pounds the dough and rolls a cord
and shapes the perfect circle to a bagel lovers dream,
He boils and then he bakes it and to her mansion then he takes it
piping hot but now she wants it with churned butter from fresh cream!
Well he's starting to get antsy but he knows the farmer, Clancy
whose butter is fresh-churned and known by counties far and wide.
He heads out to the pasture and he buys what he is after
and returns to find, 'tis so unkind, the princess, she had died.
The baker in his stricken state swallows the bagel off the plate
he calls the cops, pulls out the stops and serves the day old bread.
He gives the details more than once of how he ate the evidence
and though he thought his story bought, they arrested him instead.
"Tis a likely story", was the only thing he heard
although they'd bought his baked goods, they could not buy his word.
"The Baker is a Butcher", is what the tabloid said,
"better to take your bagel cold than take it in the head."
But all was not as it appears, she owed the butcher in arrears
and when they went to check her craw they found a hunk of mutton.
It ended all without a trial, the butcher he did reconcile
and posted "Pay the butcher now and do not to be a glutton."
And Saul was thinking to himself, " I must be way out of mind",
no woman's gonna want a baker's life",
but he carried deep inside his heart the will to be a friend
and it turned rather nicely as she willed him in the end.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
Th’ast dar’d too far ; but, fury, now forbear
To give the least disturbance to her hair:
But less presume to play a plait upon
Her skin’s most smooth and clear expansion.
’Tis like a lawny firmament as yet,
Quite dispossess’d of either fray or fret.
Come thou not near that film so finely spread,
Where no one piece is yet unlevelled.
This if thou dost, woe to thee, fury, woe,
I’ll send such frost, such hail, such sleet, and snow,
Such fears, quakes, palsies, and such heats as shall
Dead thee to th’ most, if not destroy thee all.
And thou a thousand thousand times shalt be
More shak’d thyself than she is scorched by thee.
2.2k
We can escape, now,
it's smoky with a chance of curtain drawn,
our minds won't tramsit light
from our empty, covered windo- the train is here.
I'm ready to go.
And though I'm leaving on a train
with room for only one,
I'm hoping you can catch a cheap ride
hidden in my pocket.
Nobody checks your person, anymore,
Nobody cares;
Homeland Security lovingly fed
us fattened falsities
As the fat cats in suburban alleyways
tore off the thickest
pieces of marrow from the national animal
of our Fiction States of America.
I have known this
because I have seen it from my seat
in coach,
thank god, too, because the train is packed.
So fill up
if you aren't going to hop in,
wishing to distort
your mind with all of their public drugs,
community opiates
transmitting across electrical wires hidden
in the ground,
the trees,
the air itself,
stitched into the layers of
dark matter and cosmic foam insulating
our fragile and overdone Universe.
I hear their static,
that pantomimed reality,
caught inside carbon fibers running through everything,
running through me,
running through you,
running into and out of your brain like
a thief without pause or moral.
We could run, too,
the heavy bass notes of the
nurturing ocean could shield the screech
of the battered train's wheels;
the wheels need a rest from screeching, anyway.
Quick!
While the conductor isn't looking!
The wires will tell him you're here
until you're gone,
hidden in my coat pocket
inside a layer of my inner smoke.
Well, if you insist,
I suppose you may leave,
but once the wound of knowledge opens,
just know it never closes.
It will fester and
prickle
with the fetid odor
of truths turned into lies.
I know I'm talking
to myself, now, but I don't
want to let you go,
though I'll stay here,
safe,
in the train carriage,
hidden in smoke.
Smoke,
smoke,
smoke,
the train heats up,
breaths out smoke from its burning
and throbbing pipe.
The engine has built up
an overdose of heat,
trying to throw off the weeds trying
to grow inside.
They tried to enter me,
and they will soon enter you,
now,
without my smoke to shroud you,
to leave your naked wound
easily hidden in
paranoid dreams.
Screeeeee,
screeeeeee,
screeeeeeee,
the wheels screech out,
ready to go,
ready to run,
to run down the track,
to run through all obstacles,
to run through everything,
to run through me,
to run through you,
to run in and out of your brain,
blown away in a puff of smoke,
my memory has burned away
and blows off as ash
and smoke.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 7:32 PM UTC
The Race
An injury in sophomore year
caused me to miss the springtime meets.
I was sitting in a cast
while my teammates won their heats.
I am no brain, I can’t sit still
No chance I’ll ace the S.A.T.
But medal wins in track and field
could mean a scholarship for me.
Near Lewis is a cinder track-
an oval of a quarter mile.
So I come here to do my laps
And dream of victory for a while.
A short fat man goes jogging by
In sweat drenched shirt and navy shorts
Gasping, like a fish in air,
fleeing from his mortal thoughts.
I doff my sweats and start to stretch
I take no chances with this knee.
Soon I’m feeling good and loose,
it pays to warm up properly.
A tall thin runner, strangely pale,
About half of the track ahead
I‘ll pass him like he’s standing still
Then he’ll be chasing me instead.
I pass the jogger right away
The pale runner, though, moves speedily
I pick up my pace a notch
Just as quickly so does he..
I stretch my stride, he does the same
And gains upon me steadily
I thought that I was chasing him
It seems instead he’s chasing me.
I never raced this guy before
At any of the local meets
He appears to be as old as me
But his gear is “thrift shop” quality.
Sure enough, he’s gaining fast.
I dig down for a last reserve
I didn’t think I’d lost a step
Bad news, if it’s true, for me
I hear his foot falls close behind
And vainly try to stay ahead
I turn my head to see his face
It is the face of one long dead.
The ghostly winner makes a turn
and passes through the gate and chains
The cemetery lies beyond
That holds the urn with his cremains
“You saw him too” the fat man gasps-
“I thought that he had come for me”
I knew he only came to run
I recognized the ghost you see.
“Tommy Miller was his name
School Champion back in 63’
.He died crossing this finish line
an aneurysm in his brain.”
Unfinished business binds him here
A restless spirit, more than most,
The race is ever to the swift
The quick are beaten by a ghost
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 5:21 PM UTC
The sun rises in your smile
I see the moon in your eyes
Awakens my thoughts for awhile
Shining through your saddening cries
The wind blows over the subtle contours of your face
Absconding with the salt from your dried up tears
Leaving no evidence of the fevered chase
That never had ceased after all these years
The feel of summer heats up my lonely heart
With the touch of your lovely innocence
The expanse of the ocean couldn't keep us apart
Seeing your glowing eyes is worth a million presents
But that would be all the season could bear to offer
Tides would elope to the flute tune played by the moon
I'd waylay this day to stave off the coming of another
I'd freeze this day eternal knowing tomorrow would come too soon
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 9:12 AM UTC