"omit" poems
Trying to find solace in the suburbs
when everything seemed superb
like that cookie-cutter,
picket fence,
faux fur mentality
they instill at the start
Just an infant with scars
He reached for her baby bump,
Then slammed it hard
onto the stairwell
She fell, wept, and held
That lil princess
and prayed she'd never have the same hell
All grown up. Alive and well
shes got different demons
different intricate cells
It's been said
she is special she is awake
But, in many ways
She is the same
As that ANGEL who carried her 23 years ago
That's debt I'll always owe
A gift I'll never own
Carefully Constructed
and Creatively Sewn
shoved a soul into that shell
That'll one day guide her back home
Shes got her mamas tough, yet gentle heart
her smile, brevity and love for art..
she can write her *** off
like her
the wrote and the writ
Yet she's plagued by guilt
every ******* minute
GUILT for the life that she'd been given
GUILT for each exhale emitted
She prays that God will have the sense
to go back in time and hit OMIT
(on all chapters even close to the word 'human'
there's GUILT for feeling guilty even more for despising your own )
"I must've slipped through the gate, admit it!
Or recruit another for your mission
regretfully, I must solicit
that I'm not fit for this position
I'm no hero
I'm the villain
If ya look close you'll see
I spit venom"
Mama walks in
smiles and says
"WE.
ARE.
WOMEN!"
"Betta recognize and
quit your bitchin'
as of today, you are living..
You are loved
You are safe
You are ************* winning
WARRIOR,
CREATOR,
QUEEN,
GODDESS,
INCARNATE..
We are strength & We are the faith
never to be broken
but we still stay brave
The Legend wont start
or end with you
Its a fight stretched out
through time
You will understand soon
No matter how much you ask
"WHY"
It wont stop circumstance
wont stop lies
wont stop suffering
and will NEVER compromise
Your in the way of the wave, child
This..... the secret to life
When in the way of the wave...
its only a matter of time
S0 if youre searching for solace
Will you promise
To memorize this line
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 3:54 AM UTC
1355
The Mind lives on the Heart
Like any Parasite—
If that is full of Meat
The Mind is fat.
But if the Heart omit
Emaciate the Wit—
The Aliment of it
So absolute.
7.3k
Life’s moments and happenings are like little thieves
They don’t want any money
They still take it
Putting salt on cracked lips, stealing the warmth of a heart
Sobs resonate in lonely halls
Everything reeks
Of lifeless dust
Even darkness can’t fight them off
Or push away the pain
The cold, swift figures taste like hatred
Longtime friend with the soul of a sister
Offers a consoling embrace
It bleeds good feelings
Now they want our money
Thieves aren’t fair, nor logical
No rhyme
No reason
Life’s a poorly written song
Bad music *****
The bold melody clashes
With its vague accompaniment
We didn’t want them so we welcomed them
‘There must be some way out of here’
Said the joker to the thief
I don’t think there is any way out
The precious tokens of life should be protected
By an army of mindlessly trained children
Who fall in love with the thieves
Whose forgiving minds omit the fear
Thieves call us easy
We are forever sobbing
Cries heard only by past selves and invisible belongings
When we prove we are great
And pass impassable tests
Everything will return
We aren’t capable of such feats
Our memories sing us haunting songs
We cry out with our salty lips
And empty hearts
Robbed of any motivation
Robbed of any care
Robbed of love
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
103
I have a King, who does not speak—
So—wondering—thro’ the hours meek
I trudge the day away—
Half glad when it is night, and sleep,
If, haply, thro’ a dream, to peep
In parlors, shut by day.
And if I do—when morning comes—
It is as if a hundred drums
Did round my pillow roll,
And shouts fill all my Childish sky,
And Bells keep saying “Victory”
From steeples in my soul!
And if I don’t—the little Bird
Within the Orchard, is not heard,
And I omit to pray
“Father, thy will be done” today
For my will goes the other way,
And it were perjury!
6.6k
A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern Poetry
To you, my aunt, who would explore
The literary Chankley Bore,
The paths are hard, for you are not
A literary Hottentot
But just a kind and cultured dame
Who knows not Eliot (to her shame).
Fie on you, aunt, that you should see
No genius in David G.,
No elemental form and sound
In T.S.E. and Ezra Pound.
Fie on you, aunt! I'll show you how
To elevate your middle brow,
And how to scale and see the sights
From modernist Parnassian heights.
First buy a hat, no Paris model
But one the Swiss wear when they yodel,
A bowler thing with one or two
Feathers to conceal the view;
And then in sandals walk the street
(All modern painters use their feet
For painting, on their canvas strips,
Their wives or mothers, minus hips).
Perhaps it would be best if you
Created something very new,
A ***** novel done in Erse
Or written backwards in Welsh verse,
Or paintings on the backs of vests,
Or Sanskrit psalms on lepers' chests.
But if this proved imposs-i-ble
Perhaps it would be just as well,
For you could then write what you please,
And modern verse is done with ease.
Do not forget that 'limpet' rhymes
With 'strumpet' in these troubled times,
And commas are the worst of crimes;
Few understand the works of Cummings,
And few James Joyce's mental slummings,
And few young Auden's coded chatter;
But then it is the few that matter.
Never be lucid, never state,
If you would be regarded great,
The simplest thought or sentiment,
(For thought, we know, is decadent);
Never omit such vital words
As belly, genitals and -----,
For these are things that play a part
(And what a part) in all good art.
Remember this: each rose is wormy,
And every lovely woman's germy;
Remember this: that love depends
On how the Gallic letter bends;
Remember, too, that life is hell
And even heaven has a smell
Of putrefying angels who
Make deadly whoopee in the blue.
These things remembered, what can stop
A poet going to the top?
A final word: before you start
The convulsions of your art,
Remove your brains, take out your heart;
Minus these curses, you can be
A genius like David G.
Take courage, aunt, and send your stuff
To Geoffrey Grigson with my luff,
And may I yet live to admire
How well your poems light the fire.
6.5k
Tell me about
your bicycle lights,
do they shine?
like embers in the
dark of night
or are they faded?
like far away stars
who omit some days
that they are there.
forget your bike.
I'll come find you.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 8:28 AM UTC
No, I don't want to get a tattoo with you,
I may not have a mark on you, but I'm covered in you.
Our past has brought with it a dizzying myriad of hardships,
Some by my hand, some by yours,
The only difference is I've changed,
And you still lie.
No, I don't want to get a tattoo with you,
Why would I share something so meaningful,
When you keep so many secrets,
Omit my existence to others,
And lie to my face?
No, I don't want to get a tattoo with you,
Because the idea of looking at my body,
And having a permanent memory of our lives,
Is a sickeningly sweet lie I cannot face.
No, I don't want to get a tattoo with you,
It'd be fake, just like our relationship with one another,
A lie we should've gave up on sooner.
No. I don't want to get a tattoo with you.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
Now that you're older
It's not about hair,
Consider the here and now;
There's no fooling with the passage of time,
Birthdays now greeted with whimpers and whines.
If you stay out til quarter to nine
You've missed your Red Rose pour.
Should we commit you,
Or simply omit you,
Man, you're sixty-four.
....................................................
We're getting older too,
But if the truth be told,
Never as old as you.
Now you can't frolic,
Or party til two,
You aches and pains own you.
Scan your body daily for foreign lumps,
By mid-afternoon you still haven't dumped.
Bladder in turmoil,
Kidneys are weak,
I could mention more:
All your joints creaking,
I think that's you leaking,
Man, you're sixty-four.
Always depend upon your diaper to conceal and not reveal
What you drank and ate.
We'll leave that with you.
And carry ID, Jake,
You'll forget you're you.
Make use of posties,
And Mary-Jo too,
What's old may now seem new;
Indicate precisely what you'll do and say,
Memory's surely slipping away.
You're still an alpha, thanks to ******
Don't expect much more.
Should we just boot you,
Or simply just shoot you,
Man, you're sixty-four.
Seventy-four's at the door.
A thousand weeks til eighty-four.
At ninety-four get ten more....
In good health.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 11:47 AM UTC
the cake I made this morning
was a disaster
the ingredient to get it to rise
I left out of the cake batter
when the timer rang
to say the cake was cooked
I looked in the oven
and the cake was as flat as the cook
it is vital to have baking powder
in this cake recipe
and to omit it from the ingredients list
has made a fool out of me
this afternoon I'll be without a fine cake
for afternoon tea
and I'll have to settle
for some bread and honey
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
Time is all that sets us free
To all the wonders, that can be humanly perceived
Time is all that binds us
To mundane, almost emotionless routines we have conceived.
Time is the ticking of the clock
That gnaws at us; leaving no immediate mark
Time is the face that has come to mock
It creeps on regardless; you notice it turn light to dark.
Time is the invisible candle that everyone innately holds
It gets lit from the moment we open our eyes
Time is not the wick that gives berth to flame
Rather it is the waxes that burn and then vaporise.
Time can and will never stop
Moments go by with the blink of the eyes
Time..., it does not favour
It isn't biased, it doesn't get swayed by truths or lies.
Time is the entity that governs almost all
It will tell when it deems it's right
From seedling to tree, hatchling to flight
A weakness to strength, the frail to might.
Time is the quest
That we have strived to conquer
Time is all of us
We have secretly craved for life much longer.
Time would only permit
All that I could pen in time
Time will always suggest to omit
So I could capture it all in rhyme.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
Mnimalists uproot everything,
Aiding natural entropy.
Poets can do likewise.
Omit redundancy;
Scorn verbosity,
Make words work
Hard.
Articles shunned,
Prepositions abhorred;
Conjunctions - need none.
Edit,
For our sake.
Snip,
Fit words together.
Make words work
Harder.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
When we began to love each other, in my mind, I saw a room. The bedroom of an old farm house; windows open, and soft, pale, green curtains moved lazily about the sills. Light of late afternoon slipped in, whilst a faint, blue summer sky waited outside. The door to the hallway is open; the rest of the house - still. A bed is the only piece furniture in a room with wood floors and white walls. There are only sheets on the bed, old cotton sheets, heavy, limp, and cool. This room was our togetherness. Since he died, I am not in the room, and light in it is cooler. It is evening and no one is home.
I am waiting at the door of the story with peaches in my hands. The door is shut, and the peaches are unripe. None of their warmth and sweetness can be smelled, their fuzz clings to them like tight new skin. When we wait patiently for things to open, we stay with them and be, and they ripen, and the door opens. I wait for the peaches and the door as they wait for me. A story through that door will show me and harm me, it is with peaches I may come through.
I was a small child when my mother told me a story of peaches. When I remember it, I remember the peach tree across from our old house. Short and squat, with shining, skinny leaves; the tree crouched in the rose garden. My mother told me about the peace and bliss of heaven, and that when we went there we became angels. She told me that angels longed for the earth sometimes, and have bodies, because angels cannot taste peaches.
When I taste and smell peaches now, I try to give myself over to them, to live and feel the taste of them, to not take them lightly, to not keep them foreign. The day that he died, I found a nectarine in the kitchen, and carried it with me, praying to it to keep me in the world of life, to remind me that moments of peaches are worth the pain of aliveness.
Every story starts with the breaking off an indefinite number of things that have come before. To try and tell the story of Lucien from the beginning, means I will omit the stories of before, the peripheral stories which came before and bled into his, like color on wet paper.
I suppose there are so many ways of telling a story. Not one will be perfect, but each is a prayer. Can you feel this? Can I make something? Are our lives commensurable? Do my words mean what your words mean? We shall see.
This story, too, is a prayer.
A prayer for a new house, a new tree, and a new beginning.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
Through a tunnel I walk.
Stumbling upon the demons I stalk.
Straining to understand their words.
Yet afraid of what their message may hold.
The walls and path are all ablur.
As further along I do blunder.
Stumbling and falling,
To rise once more.
Searching for a magical door.
To release me from this caliginous gambit.
Then the goblins and trepidation omit,
To deliver me anew to the suns bright glare.
And release me once more from the captivity of despair
May 11, 2023
May 11, 2023 at 9:07 PM UTC
What is that reality that appears to me in dreams,
chock-full of misgivings and doubt. I counteract my fear of life
with my fears of slumber,
dust in my eyes and stiff as lumber.
In truth - I'm not stiffened
by fear,
by nausea,
post-pubescent sacrilege,
or all of the above.
I'm not up-kept,
grizzly with ennui;
I'm dizzy, confiding my loss.
I feel the lips that kiss
but can't be drawn: from mind,
stencil
paper
pen,
on sheets of thick
pale and
cellulose,
for the heart to mend.
My unsteady hand
is my fearful friend
A soft embrace
from a warm mind
Somber
and so full of Life
clung to by the scent of Death
Endowed
with an eternal promise and regret
from veins of plants
or the glow of stars.
Cold, mechanical debt.
(my heart, so full of...)
(my mind, so hot with...)
(my body, trembling in...)
I am gulf-like
a stream full of trees and glass
echoing a promise of shattering wind.
Will I be published
after my death,
asleep predating, a life conceived.
Will I live to see myself alone,
and to discover
that which I'm not?
Or will I stutter
and wallow a curse,
Up towards the sky,
Until the final verse.
On a boast
or chasing the Rail,
pale as dirt, and shallow still.
Will my true love abandon, break, strain,
Burn away the wax,
or hurry to blame?
Omit my evils from the star-charts,
then just to vacate the void.
From the half-broken corridors of rocks,
nooks, crannies.
Carry laughter through the night
burn the effigy bowed-down,
before dawn's courageous,
ever-splaying light
Angels,
of Carlo and Marx,
plenty by noon
festoon,
again by day
thus replay,
Endeavor to infinity, fair child.
Remold the light by Day
and remold the Day
by Night.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
forward forward forward
going somewhere moving forward
whether progressing or regressing
growing or unlearning
coming or going
living, dying
everyone believes they are moving towards something
and as everything happens all at once
each perceptive reality is entirely different than any other
and each consciousness travels, and does, and is.
each consciousness believes it has a purpose or a path.
the purpose is not to see into nor plan the future.
from the civilian to the hero tv shows and movies
have consistently glorified the ability to see visions of the future
generally this is followed by someone trying to prevent
the happenings in said vision from becoming reality
and distinctly failing because they "saw into" the future
that their own energy influenced
but the true super power is to be able to look into the past.
to prevent the omitting of details and data
to avoid a rewrite of our conscious interaction with this planet
not to white out the chapters that bear the truth in the textbooks
to recall history so it does not repeat itself
my question is then
do people disguise the wrongdoings of those hidden by the passing of time?
because they are ashamed of the mistakes of their ancestors pasts?
because they are ashamed of their participation in past consciousness's?
because they are ashamed of the atrocities humans have inflicted upon each other and themselves as well as their home planet since the beginning of recorded time here?
or do those who have the power to omit and hide history
purposely rewrite it?
do they mask the pains of the past so the rest of us will forget?
so that even they can forget?
so their next consciousness can unknowingly, while predestined,
have hand in crimes against the world all the same as committed in the lost past?
how many times has someone written these words
or a similar combination
only to delete the post?
burn the pages?
backspace the message?
stop themselves from speaking them aloud?
cover the symbols?
pass out of conscious living mid sentence?
lose them to a past lifetime?
how many times has this cycled through the same way?
how many times have I been me?
how many times have you been me?
how many times have I been anyone?
how many times have I been?
is there a rhythm or is it all as scattered and random
as the thoughts that bring you
to this kind of an understanding of the habit of misunderstanding?
the kind of thoughts that bring you back to the birds nest because you were too early for even the worm?
they will all catch up eventually
after all they all think theyre moving forward
and they don't even know where they've been.
they don't even know that they've been.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Grasping her every arm,
In unowned mittens and scarf.
Tattered, the eyes red as Mars.
Though all she can do—
Is gaze to peoples jewel afar,
And wonder in optimum.
The best possible way to omit;
A lifelong scar of tantrum.
An infinite tribulation mimics.
Mediocrity sneaks to pry.
Uncanny euphoric figments,
Biding the year-end tide.
To lay undone ashes of shame.
She mourns a winterscry.
Putting off the endless dolor,
Till death ends that butterfly.
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
Spitting occult lyrics to snow confusions.
I being able to slow my own notions,
Am called the Conformist.
Am not crazy. See my brain?
I swear am just eccentric.
New blessings and abilities become insanity,
Look, this is just an overflow of positivity,
Still, saying am crazy, wont back me down,,
Am just eccentrically gifted by himself different.
Why not for the sake of being admit uniqueness?
Cant change who am made, to this admit pleasing.
A poet I am, not a writer, to me commit ceasing.
Why are my unique thoughts referred 'twisted?
Omit that **** and know eccentric means gifted.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
Why is it titled;
Unforgettable?
Will it be a poem that
Brings forth memories?
Or is it to instill
Sorrow and sadness?
Perhaps its to reflect.
To gaze into the poets mind.
No no,
It can't be.
Can it be to relate with us?
As we pass each other as drones.
Doing what we know;
Work,
Eat,
Sleep, and
Dream.
Does it traverse deeper then that?
Unforgettable.
Such an compelling word.
At times quite daunting.
Now back to the question at hand.
Its nothing.
Its not a poem for one to relate.
Not to omit feelings.
There was no purpose.
An yet I wrote and
You read until the end.
A poem of nothing.
Yes yes,
That is quite unforgettable.
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 9:44 AM UTC
No light or air touches this broad chasm
And few have been known to ascend from it
Reconciliations to phantasms
All sensation and love you will omit
Why try and claw your way to the surface?
The darkness embraces you like no other
You become addicted to the abyss
So you spiral down further and further
It is feasible for one to break through
To take that solitude expedition
I know the specifics of this deep blue
For I have risen to behold the sun
Keep kicking your feet and reach for above
Exhaling your gloom and inhaling love
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
The routine sun rose
Sinking thinking
A swollen scene of city wonder
Small color blunders bleed the jungle dry
But I try
And that's something the camaraderie sighs at
But still with that fact,
I go.
Faux lives carriage by
Made of paper, made of dimes
Teenage crimes can supply felicity
IN public SIMPLICITY.
Omit apperception moreover audition:
Copy and paste the taste you had when you were young and drag it to oblivion.
for the eventual:
the sensual isn't essential
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 4:45 AM UTC
I have to admit
That I immediately knew what the media meant
As I grew up I drew out-
Side lines
Meaning kinds when you omit the 'n' so I'm sent
To set askew a few lies, yes my butterfly knife flies like a feather pen oh I've been
A berserker moving farther
Further herding words heard for war it's forward
But since before he was drafted roughly but justly
Just to sink in ink engrafted ****** because he's
Made for brigades who blockade it to shock it
Force it shoot it and make it play its poor music to Bach it
Oh face it, we rock it
The battalion's out there and they're shouting
I'm silent but they rattle
Yeah my rabble of stallions, they're rowdy
But of course, off course it is not all Norse my love because
They say the other north
Yeah your horizontal course turned up with a
Tincture of madness
And that is the one, single error and I'm glad of it
If you catch it
Maybe a troublemaker by nature but baby a peace speaker missing demeanor
With misdemeanors when getting meaner
But I practice a bit
In an out-there train re-accident be-
Cause the battalion's out there while they're shouting
I'm silent but they rattle rapidly
Yeah my rabble of battle lions rabid
To vaporize vapid rabbits
They're rowdy and
And love is getting much louder than growling it's
It's sounding much louder than growling
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
I'm on a social networking site on the internet,
What is the internet?
Forgive me for my ignorance 18th century friends,
It's a connection of machines that can share information.
Yes, and that "social networking site"
is part of the connection of machines
to try and make people feel less lonely.
It does feel strange sometimes when I'm on there.
And then the possession inside the machine says;
"but without me you wouldn't know this music, this picture, this place, this girl."
And now, for the first time, I am not subdued.
For the first time, I answer back, but what things would I know without you?
What forests would I have walked through? What people would I have met?
What noises would I have heard?
O the less trivial things I would have learned.
What streets would I have crossed (both in this layer of reality, in metaphor and metaphysical)
What girl's eyes would be staring towards mine, instead of those of a camera's.
I've got to talk about the internet
I've got to talk about the facebook^tm
(though in a year it will be gone)
It feels all so inauthentic
so I indulge in the scary technology
but then omit it from my memories
when I see your pics online
I write about them like they are authentic
genuine photographs I have yellowing
in an album in the attic
I don't have an attic either
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
My dear, it rained last night
And I remember
The alleviated rise into
Lush sobs and lavish emotions
The way your dilatation relieves
Every worry and anxiety
But sometimes when we speak
A violent lie radiates
And last night you were naught
But an alienated virile sot
A view unholy I omit
I remember the tin roses on the tiles
Devastated, shattered.
Sometimes you hum
Your hands delicately miming secret memos
And I can see it in your eyes
Irises shining like teal devils
And the music carries you
White with adrenaline, pupils likes violists
Headwaiters lie, strumming tin violins
Their alienated visions wilted with passion
I see the way she cleverly conceals
Lies as vows to you
A veil called "us" she puts on "me"
And I call for mutiny
But youth is vim, vim is now, and now is lies
Every hug from you is just a violet whim
In noisy rooms
My vision is misty
My aura dies little,
Oh if only you could realize your reign
You’re the master, the ringleader
But you’re lazy; you work without zeal, you’re idle and lazy
Eyes glazed, agile hands getting greedier
Have you ever seen
A dearer lion?
He roared, the lonesome rider
Alone, an alien.
Well sometimes you lie
And I dare to become
An oral denier
My radar detects one lie,
Then two...
You become red
Redder than a ****** lion's ear
Adieu, you say, with a gently undefined lilt
My tears speak more reality than your words
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
Mine eyes have seen the statues being torn down from their plinths
erasing our shared history at the Citizens expense
those who rewrite the past commit a grave offense
when Truth is trampled on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
The Truth is trampled on.
Soon they’ll revise the history books and omit the civil war.
Our Youth won’t have to learn about the “lost cause” anymore
To tell the truth about the past will be against the law
then truth is trampled on.
There was once a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel,
"Six hundred thousand had to die before our land could heal;"
When a Hero, born of woman, crushed Rebellion with his heel
When God was marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
The Truth is trampled on.
I have heard the trumpets echo die; its absence makes me weep
I see Marse Robert join the rest upon the ******* heap
He who was skilled in victory and gracious in defeat-
This history must live on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
This history must live on.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 9:46 PM UTC
In her,
nature
a seed
planted by her mother
one
she wouldn’t feel
until the first
of womanhood
inside of her chest
in bloom
a well of gratefulness
a rooted inner compass
a quiet
but awakened
awareness
a feeling
to trust
but no substitute for love
but enough
enough to show her
it was possible
how sweltering heat
could be rainfall
how seasons
and time
could be here
and gone
the world
was waiting
the sun
held all aglow
accountable
to living
expected not to shy away
when she herself
was giving
"Omit outwards",
she said
"Radiate like me
attend to your senses
let wind be a tide
to rush against your skin
to rub the nape of the neck
to cool the temper of your breath
let my darling,
grass
be a place to rest
climb up
on the shoulders of trees
or just
sit beside her
and feel herstory
firm
beneath your feet
foundation
for every path
for every choice
you chose to walk
and listen
to the silence
as night begins to fall
go to sleep feeling
the day was but a dream
everything sings in you now
your heart is wild
and beating
and all the world
is a mirror
of that inner feeling
where she finds
in her,
nature
is breathing.
-
July 24th, 2013
(a poem inspired by the title of a writers group I am in. )
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC