"keenly" poems
yours is the music for no instrument
yours the preposterous colour unbeheld
—mine the unbought contemptuous intent
till this our felsh merely shall be excelled
by speaking flower
(if I have made songs
it does not greatly matter to the sun,
nor will rain care
cautiously who prolongs
unserious twilight)Shadows have begun
the hair’s worm huge,ecstatic,rathe….
yours are the poems i do not write.
In this at least we have got a bulge on death,
silence,and the keenly musical light
of sudden nothing….la bocca mia “he
kissed wholly trembling”
or so thought the lady.
31.4k
I don't care
I never did
I never will
I don't care about the stabs
I don't care about the lies
I don't care about the loss
I never did
I never will
I don't care about you abandoning me in the middle of nowhere or making me doubt every single person I meet or forcing me to look at the mirror and despise the foolishness I had.
I don't care about all the above.
I try to convince myself every night that I don't.
But, I do;
I fully keenly wholesomely do care and my care was my doom.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 6:42 AM UTC
Deep love within the heart
Ignite luscious flames aglow.
Spreads vast with just a spark,
Desires down below.
Keenly tantalizing,
Flawless colors and hue;
Unbridle free flying,
Loose reign while dreams come true.
Spreads rapidly, bright blaze,
Gold lighting of hope
Alive, aware, un hypnotize,
Curious Kaliedoscope.
A journey to enjoy
Burning fire devour
Life's burdensome's toy;
Amid a horse named Wildfire.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 12:43 AM UTC
From the green hill, blows downwards
a wind, gently titillating the languid trees
of this dense forest,the rustling of the leaves create,
an impromptu tune, proving they are taut strings,
yielding willingly to the sensual fingers of the wind.
Super moon,while raising, listens keenly awhile
as if she had never heard one like this before.
The wise silver owl, sitting on the high branch
keeping account of every stroke of night,with an imaginary wand,
as the conductor, catches the emerging mood that seethes
within the million pieces of orchestra that gently merge,
get exhilarated, finds a pause to punctuate it with a timely hoot,
the moment freezes, falls in to the repository of time for keeps.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
*as winter acquiesces to the blazing sun
a soothing breeze softly grazes tips of aspen
gently shedding past liaisons
a perfect panacea
allowing wild freedom for summer’s dawn
healing from the ominous night
a flower gingerly releases its grasp
leaning into golden rays of summertime
keenly aware of newfound vulnerability
it yawns into the light
a rousing essence induces
a silhouette of life once thought lost
prodding river’s rigid ice blue crystals
to melt and flow with buoyant wonder
kaleidoscopic-like waves
having weathered near annihilation
a sculptured consciousness remains
painting summer clouds with soft-hued wisdom
all awakens from the dream
and should the cold return once more
the sun will shine again
©2016janetaylor
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
Two fairies it was
On a still summer day
Came forth in the woods
With the flowers to play.
The flowers they plucked
They cast on the ground
For others, and those
For still others they found.
Flower-guided it was
That they came as they ran
On something that lay
In the shape of a man.
The snow must have made
The feathery bed
When this one fell
On the sleep of the dead.
But the snow was gone
A long time ago,
And the body he wore
Nigh gone with the snow.
The fairies drew near
And keenly espied
A ring on his hand
And a chain at his side.
They knelt in the leaves
And eerily played
With the glittering things,
And were not afraid.
And when they went home
To hide in their burrow,
They took them along
To play with to-morrow.
When you came on death,
Did you not come flower-guided
Like the elves in the wood?
I remember that I did.
But I recognised death
With sorrow and dread,
And I hated and hate
The spoils of the dead.
5.7k
There lies a rage inside.
Deep within, away it'll hide.
I taste the venom now and then.
The shadows slowly creeping in.
I dare never to let it go.
To turn reality into a hell I so keenly know.
Visions in my head, loop, again and again.
Begging hands to act in both blood and sin.
Just a shift, I can never lose control.
Of this ageless battle within my soul.
Else darkness will descend,
spread itself inside my skin.
Born with a secret from lives long passed.
Every body a vessel not meant to last.
I see it now, a cycle on repeat.
This cursed bond birthed in hunger and deceit.
In the end we always meet, eternal.
Through the burning flames of the infernal..
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 10:30 PM UTC
F-Fraternizing with people on the internet
A-Affable communication had by this set
C-Chatting happily as would a bird's duet
E-Establishing terrific friendships you bet
B-Bringing folks together in a sociable way
O-On the world wide web is where we play
O-Oodles of great mates go online every day
K-Keenly we are involved in a cordiality ray
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 6:47 AM UTC
In the wondrous story book of night,
I fully absorb and contemplate,
You were the one omnipresent,
in light years far and flames near.
As orbs of light, in many intensities and hues
the ray of infinite grace that envelops,
That feels like the caressing of lotus petals,
was you my eternal beloved.
Soft, frothing moon light has been
at times of pain my true consolation,
The moving comet my source of wonder,
that takes me to you in imagination.
A reader, I was keenly searching.
for meanings of things in light and dark
Being another character formed
of dust sedimented from many stars.
You are enshrined in the diamond
temple of my mind's still center
making you my lover was
in honor of my yen for sublime.
The story book of night has pages
on spirited mornings, noons and dusk
your benign presence in each step,
moves galaxies and milky ways.
I see your moving eye brows
in the tumult of dark rain clouds,
Your intense eyes flash love to me
when in pain,if I feel some doubt,
In waves one after another of ocean,
your hands embrace me to assure,
mountain wind from far distance
brings your songs nightingales sing.
I am a living monument that's breathed
from the elements , to keep on loving you
not ever a jealous lover,I am like a millioner
ready to sacrifice all just for your presence.
Is there any other lover with such care
who brings boundless grace, like you?
you've the very same eyes of my mother
that reach me the moment I fall.
In days I am moving within a dream
for which, you are the creator, moving spirit,
I turn the pages of storybook of night
whenever I want to be closer to your warmth.
A mirror you are reflecting my candor,
, more than anything I ever yearned for,
You are the river that flows along me,
to the ocean, eternally seething in wait.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC
Sunday's newspapers
come on Saturday,
coupons spill out
torrentially.
weekend manna
from
publisher's hell.
makes my breathing heavy,
from studious inspection,
so many needs unmet.
I fall to pieces
every weekend,
securely knowing,
I'm lacking in
so many things,
feeling my
insecure neediness
keenly.
my Target is
feverishly simple,
solution oriented.
no can find any discounts for
new rhythms,
new rhymes,
life high fivers
to satisfy,
adhere,
and revere,
that would be my
Best Buy.
but I'm clipped,
the coupons, not.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
In the dark night I was prevented from my satisfying slumber,
as I was troubled by my rooms dark corner.
Though my eyes were soon to be sealed,
may my dreamcatcher cure me from this dreadful darkness to be revealed.
Thankfully, the dreamcatcher protected me through this night,
as I was navigated to an existence so bright.
I was floating above the sea as I saw the lights
of thousand beaconing lighthouses from these ongoing heights.
Keenly guided from all insecurities,
I now clearly see the seas of opportunities.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC
This is for the father that does not consider to be a whole in his creations life.
This is for the mother who chooses to 'opt out' of being a giver of love to the fruit of her womb.
This is for the one who has chosen to be an absent parent..
This is for you...
WAKE. the. **** UP!!
What are you doing?
What is wrong with you?
It seems to me you may not fully understand the ramifications that your chosen absence will play in the life of your child.
So I will spell it out it for you..
Your child, your gift, your delight, the one who was created from your very own dna, the one that you willingly gave life to and brought into this world...
will remember everything you have not done.
And they will carry this as a load upon their back for quite possibly most of their life.
Each will carry it differently, but carry the load they will. Some will carry it with forgiveness, some will carry with resolve, some will carry with the added weight of a heavy heart. Some will carry defiantly and will never truly forgive.
And no matter how they position the weight you give, by choosing to be absent, they will still carry that load...
because of you.
And you will continue to add weight to that load every day you choose to be absent from their life.
Each missed opportunity will be a pound of disappointment that your child will carry... for you.
Each broken promise will be a pebble.
Each late appointment will be a handful of sand.
Each missed birthday will be a tablespoon of gravel
to fill their pockets.
And every achievement they experience, that you have missed, will weigh upon their mind and their heart.
And because of this, throughout their life,
they will continually try to win your love.
You hear that...??
They will try. and. win. your. love...
Because... it is not given freely...
so they will try to win it.!!!
because, bottom line...
let's face it...
you're a selfish ****
And because of your self centered behaviour, everything that they need, want and have to experience without you will be tainted with your chosen absence.
Every tear and heart break, every grazed knee, bad dream, smile, whisper, secret, colouring on the fridge door, every clay model, every needed word of advice, comfort, support and encouragement, every exam result, every moment of despair, loss, grief and first love...
each and every lost opportunity to say 'i miss you'
each and every unuttered 'i love you'
will be carefully, silently and invisibly weighed,
measured
and carried.
And i promise you this..
the weight you have placed upon them will be keenly felt
when it is their time to fly.
This is not to say they will not fly, because they will,
and beautifully so..
And with wings that you did not help to fashion.
And, because of your chosen absence, your creation, your child, your very own delight will always carry the weight that you have placed upon them.
And the weight of your absence is so much heavier than you could possibly imagine.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 11:27 AM UTC
Your poetry
Speaks of forever
While the answer
Keenly showing in your eyes.
Sunshine of my mind and soul,
You are such a beautiful,
Beautiful liar
Nonetheless,
It was the unwritten rhythm
Of your heartbeats,
That gave you away.
Jul 11, 2023
Jul 11, 2023 at 8:03 AM UTC
Dearest of them all
the light of my life,
without you there is darkness
The love of my life,
I do not find you in the pearl
or in the rest of the world
Like you said i will
I do not go to the "market"
Yes all day i sit still
And to live i have managed
It's not been long till you said
"Hold on to me love,
For in moments i am dead"
And moments later you left me
now watching us from above
And tales i tell my grandson
and he listens so keenly
Love like ours has done
immeasurable healing to him
Bask in your wisdom, the whole village
now comes to me for justice
They're rights taken and land pillaged
How much do they miss their king!
Yes for nine times i thought no
we cannot be so,
The time was seventy years ago
I was young and never imagined
You'll see in me what i hadnt
But i lost now the will to live
im old and not beautiful anymore
you at all the wonderful things at store
To tell me and to make me smile
Why? why couldnt you stay a while
But ill be there, my king
wherever you are our love will bring
Yes ill continue to live
But i'll see you soon i believe
I'll see you soon i believe
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
The clouds as I see them, rising
urgently, roseate in the
mounting of somber power
surging in evening haste over
roofs and hermetic
grim walls—
Last night
As if death had lit a pale light
in your flesh, your flesh
was cold to my touch, or not cold
but cool, cooling, as if the last traces
of warmth were still fading in you.
My thigh burned in cold fear where
yours touched it.
But I forced to mind my vision of a sky
close and enclosed, unlike the space in which these clouds move—
a sky of gray mist it appeared—
and how looking intently at it we saw
its gray was not gray but a milky white
in which radiant traces of opal greens,
fiery blues, gleamed, faded, gleamed again,
and how only then, seeing the color in the gray,
a field sprang into sight, extending
between where we stood and the horizon,
a field of freshest deep spiring grass
starred with dandelions,
green and gold
gold and green alternating in closewoven
chords, madrigal field.
Is death’s chill that visited our bed
other than what it seemed, is it
a gray to be watched keenly?
Wiping my glasses and leaning westward,
clearing my mind of the day’s mist and leaning
into myself to see
the colors of truth
I watch the clouds as I see them
in pomp advancing, pursuing
the fallen sun.
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'Kabali' and 'Badlapur' actor Radhika Apte will be the show-stopper in the upcoming Lakme Fashion Week in the ‘Gulzar’ collections of a prominent Kolkata-based fashion designer.
“We have been working with Radhika since 'Majhi the Mountain Man' days (2015) and she will be flaunting our fabrics as show-stopper in India’s premier fashion show which is keenly followed by Bollywood," the well-known city-based woman fashion designer told media after a fashion show in a city hotel last Friday night.
The Lakme Fashion Week is a bi-annual fashion event with the summer-resort show taking place in April while the winter-festive show is held in August.
This year the winter-festive show will be held from August 24 to 28.
Radhika will be wearing bright-colored lehenga since the show will be focused on beautiful India, it’s colours and contours, choreographed with the poetry of nature by Amir Khusro, the designer said.
“It can also be termed our tribute to a great name like Gulzar saab who has brought our lyrics and poems to a new level,” the designer Saroj Jalan said.
The signature style of the designer, whose works adorn Bollywood actors like Radhika beside well known models Lisa Sharma and former Miss Universe India winner Ushoshi Sengupta, is delicate floral patterns along with the use of Zardozi and array of hand-woven tusser silk and velvet enhancing the experience of the garments and “we will project the same in the Lakme week where the accent is on ethnicity,” designer Saroj Jalan said.
Supermodel Ushoshi, having recently debuted in the Bengali film 'Egoler Chokh', said “Lakme show reflects the different tastes of all leading Indian fashion designers who are still rooted to Indian heritage.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
Drawing things I cannot see,
Listening,
Keenly,
Too the strange things,
Coming from,
the albino dressed pavement smoothed,
Bedroom walls,
Braille textures,
slipping like termites,
or a strange smell,
dancing from the dusty old lady haired vent,
on the ceiling,
Braille raindrops,
escaping from your,
soul window sill,
fog,
gets in the room,
and we light cigarettes,
purple scented totem poled candles,
with out near future,
melting,
and dripping on the wooden counter-top,
which we dip our fingers into,
sticky like petroleum,
sticky like the sap from a forest broken snapped,
tree limb,
which we tasted,
which we ran danced hollered and orgasmed,
like the melting candle,
like the sapped,
broken kansas public tree limb,
and i,
took off your,
orange dress that you stole,
though only a few dollars,
i called bonnie,
you called me paradise,
though we danced gleefully,
in the slums snout snarling broken home windows,
pot-holes,untied shoes,untied fathers,lovers planning paradise,
inside the blue 80's oldsmobile,
with the stereo turned low,
low like the quiet hummingbird song,
of making love,
in the cold night,
under trees,
that was old,
and had probably seen many lovers,
come and go,
as its Fall leaves grew wings,
as its,
winters balding scalp,
scattered away,
like a field of dandelions,
or the birds,
that flew from nests,
only to fly south,
or like wise boxcar boxcar dharma bums,
sat on telephone wires,
at the intersection,
where two lovers planned paradise,
in the back-seat,
of a blue Oldsmobile,
and the night,
holy night,
and i,
**** mind wonderer without wings,
or sad singer leather boots harmonica whiskey drinker,
and Her,
white as stars,
dancing in a blind choreographed orchestra,
in the sky,
far,
far,
far,
even the highway,
has no exits,
to see this performance,
So i sit on a rock,
smoking a cigarette,
with a Fools smile,
as I,
watch beauty,
from the Key-hole,
that is,
Solitude.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
Even though your funeral was in the summer,
It felt like autumn the way the tears
Hung off Aunt Shelley's jawbone like cold raindrops
On the eaves of the old porch,
The way Grandpa's eyes were too red and wet and
A thousand years away,
The way Dad's sorrow poured out of folded arms and tight lips,
Soft like worn leather,
The way it rained too lightly to add any cliché dreariness.
I just couldn't think of that red granite box as you, even though I
Knew
It was the soft gray remains of your body.
Death is not like winter, cold and harsh
Death is autumn, life draining from bodies,
Life drip-dripping from stuttering lips and
Once-strong grips
Death is watching summers of laughter and hugs fade to
Hospital rooms and rain-grey skin and
Slow sad songs like wind in red-brown, dead-brown leaves
And feeling a slow, quiet loneliness invade your veins.
Your death was not cold, impersonal sterile white; it was the
Aching melancholy melody of removing
One shade of green
From a palette, not noticed in the painting at large
But felt keenly in the way the artist's hand no longer
Cues that brushstroke.
Watching you die was watching all the green leach out of the leaves
And turn them briefly, painfully on fire,
Standing in a field of emerald grass and feeling it
Crinkle and turn yellow-orchre under cold fingers
Collapsing into mud.
Watching Death from the outside is the single
Most painful part of your painless process.
When you took your last breath, your features were a
Picture-perfect memory of peace, even as my face was a
Mask of confusion, my chest heaving with stale hospital air
The way yours would never again.
I wanted to run outside and imagine all the trees turning red-gold
In your honor, mimicking your final
Blaze of glory in that last smile.
Autumn came early that year, though no trees
Turned
Til October.
Even in the middle of spring I can smell the
Rain-woods-wind-wine scent of your autumn soul
And it makes me smile.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
On the heap,
Thou dangle and screech
And bedeck, for I seemingly espouse.
The anecdotes and myths:
Engaged in a mutual pose.
There comes the hymn,
And the sway and the hum;
The abnormality and the deform
Halted on a single stance.
To dozen of the tokens
Whom I prejudged;
The prevalence of the chaos
That sleeps merely on my tongue.
To all the estrangements
From which I refrain,
Within the bawl of the tantrum, upon the hook of the day.
Farewell to all, farewell the haze
Farewell the cluster,
To the resolution found within a fane;
Where rituals confuse,
Where the practice becomes a fame.
There thou taketh solely,
A hymn and an interminable haze.
Whats the sense of the ovation
When no screen displays
A mourning motion
For which no motion craves?
I sigh, and mumble
To which mere consciences giveth
To me only, mine solely.
His to hear and his, keenly.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 8:50 AM UTC
With heavy sigh
A single leaf falls
The first I've caught in the act
It slides down my right shoulder
Kissing my skin with parched lips
'Save me,'
It whispers
"No,"
I sing
A single, skittering chipmunk
Bounds across the soggy banks
Of Lake Fred
Unafraid and nearly near enough to touch
But keenly and instinctually aware
Of my innate barbarism
He keeps his distance
"Did you see that?"
I call to him
Pointing to the crumpled leaf beside me
"Summer is dying."
The chipmunk stops
Cranes its neck and twitches its whiskers in consideration
And replies
'Of course it is,
What else would it do?'
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:57 AM UTC
I did not die,
I did not lose hope and cried.
My eyes did not what they imply
It’s the weather that made my lips dry
I did not lost my precious soul
My fire didn’t change into sable coal
I was still sure of my heroic role
It’s the weather that made me feel sole
I did not step into frowning abyss
Trying to heal some emotional illness
Darkness did not give me a seducing kiss
It’s the **** weather that I wanted to dismiss
I did not die
and probably never will…
But if I did
and became real ill,
well,nearly over my own hill
finally forced to pay the bill…
I’d jump on the table
Singing my favorite song
Fight one last battle
With some guy who’s really strong
I’d kiss the girls and get rejected
To hell with the money that I collected!
On the streets I’d act like awfully dense
Dressing funny, asking people for a silly dance
And finally lay on some keenly green grass
Whistle a beautiful melody for the whole mass
Of flowers and bees and butterflies
Until the very second that my melody dies.
But I did not die,
and I probably never will.
But if I did…
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 2:36 PM UTC
The mood seems desolate at dusk,
a time when emotions are on the rise;
The shining hours of day are gone,
and mystical images confront our eyes.
Not quite sure of what we see,
in the vastness of the indigo skies;
'Round about the glowing lamps of light,
keenly focused upon iridescent sights.
Are we witnessing life's mysteries unfold,
the way our elders' stories told ?
Yet darker still our evening grows,
shivering, shaking in the windless cold.
Sitting close on our front porch swing,
seeking wonders of imagining;
There they go--the ghosts of our youth,
which beckon still despite the sting.
We're not alone as visions float by,
and dawn reveals what the future may bring.
Frances McClelland
July 17, 2016
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
How is it that I am now so softly awakened,
My leaves shaken down with music?--
Darling, I love you.
It is not your mouth, for I have known mouths before,--
Though your mouth is more alive than roses,
Roses singing softly
To green leaves after rain.
It is not your eyes, for I have dived often in eyes,--
Though your eyes, even in the yellow glare of footlights,
Are windows into eternal dusk.
Nor is it the live white flashing of your feet,
Nor your gay hands, catching at motes in the spotlight;
Nor the abrupt thick music of your laughter,
When, against the hideous backdrop,
With all its crudities brilliantly lighted,
Suddenly you catch sight of your alarming shadow,
Whirling and contracting.
How is it, then, that I am so keenly aware,
So sensitive to the surges of the wind, or the light,
Heaving silently under blue seas of air?--
Darling, I love you, I am immersed in you.
It is not the unraveled night-time of your hair,--
Though I grow drunk when you press it upon my face:
And though when you gloss its length with a golden brush
I am strings that tremble under a bow.
It was that night I saw you dancing,
The whirl and impalpable float of your garment,
Your throat lifted, your face aglow
(Like waterlilies in moonlight were your knees).
It was that night I heard you singing
In the green-room after your dance was over,
Faint and uneven through the thickness of walls.
(How shall I come to you through the dullness of walls,
Thrusting aside the hands of bitter opinion?)
It was that afternoon, early in June,
When, tired with a sleepless night, and my act performed,
Feeling as stale as streets,
We met under dropping boughs, and you smiled to me:
And we sat by a watery surface of clouds and sky.
I hear only the susurration of intimate leaves;
The stealthy gliding of branches upon slow air.
I see only the point of your chin in sunlight;
And the sinister blue of sunlight on your hair.
The sunlight settles downward upon us in silence.
Now we ****** up through grass blades and encounter,
Pushing white hands amid the green.
Your face flowers whitely among cold leaves.
Soil clings to you, bark falls from you,
You rouse and stretch upward, exhaling earth, inhaling sky,
I touch you, and we drift off together like moons.
Earth dips from under.
We are alone in an immensity of sunlight,
Specks in an infinite golden radiance,
Whirled and tossed upon silent cataracts and torrents.
Give me your hand darling! We float downward.
2.4k
Gray Owl hearkens
the dappled daybreak knell
echoing through
the wildwood forest stand;
rock doves and frosty stones abide,
where a marooned heart doth dwell,
disrobed by the longest night's frigid touch
Timber stand grips tight
red clay and bedrock of ages,
postured tall and strong
as eagle's spirit throne
Pine cones hide
in the low drifting clouds,
ripe acorns tumble down alone
unto a windblown
shallow earthen grave,
hillocked beneath
the sky-high canopy
Bones of branches,
furrowed bark from burled oak,
wood-grains of pith,
natural gnarled achings
peeled by the shivering
wind's breath
Paling autumn memories
grow dim as the receding sunlight,
recollections of ebbing Jasmine's
mellowing fragrant balm
waft aloft in a favorite fading fantasy,
the edge of winter metamorphosis
bears down with a prodigious weight
of a different kind of retreating light;
brindled Queen Anne's lace
hold sway across
the tawny frostbitten meadow
imbuing the poignantly
whetting breeze
The blink of an eye winks,
to catch sight of
an intimate glimpse,
an unspoken
solitude holds forth,
the mesmerizing coo of rock doves,
reverently mirroring
the sanctity of the forest wildwood
lingering amongst the frosty
ferns and stones
The harmony of tranquil silence wanders;
only the bowing resistance of the boughs
manifest the shapeless wind’s
whispered breathe
swirling above the labyrinth threshold;
therein lies an unfractured fault line
rooted deeply beneath
the earth’s crust
like the sonorous heart
of a sanctuary hearthstone
Hence there is symmetry
felt in silence that only whispers
in the deep toned consonant
of our own harbored sighs
a holy human blood link
born of heritage wilderness heartwood
beats keenly alive
written by: harlon rivers ... December 2017
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
I love your appearance
and I'll never change that stance
seeing your smile makes me want to get up and dance
And I can't even tell you how your laugh makes me feel
You have the personality and looks too good to be real
like you have the best deal
but you're not cheap
and your frown would make me want to weep
or jump off a cliff that's steep
onto concrete
because no one else's smile can compete
and your hair makes me keenly aware
of how it's unfair to anyone else to compare
You win, since there is no comparison
like just breathing the same airs a sin
It'll make my day just to see your grin
(I have to mention you're not too fat or too thin)
Every feature looks great down to the shin
Take pride
and let me confide
that you're bonafide gorgeous
And I wasn't prepared for this.
But I'll let it happen
and study this picture like a map then
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC