"passer" poems
The only proper way to be a conversationalist is to convince yourself that you’re boring. If you can strip back the hard shell of the ego, and look down on yourself from the eyes of an apathetic God, you will likely (and hopefully) see just how boring you really are. It isn’t a sin to be boring, in fact there are many advantages to honest self-depreciation.
The main advantage, is the way you approach a conversation. “Interesting” people find it difficult to silence the affected score-keeper that dominates their internal dialogue and ruins any chance of an honest and engaged conversation. It is the voice that reminds you to show interest with your body language, and keep a dumb happy gaze laser pointed into their eyes. This dialogue is obsessed with authenticity and genuine conversation, and therefore a natural sociopath.
Luckily, you are the stunning definition of boredom, an extracted dictionary cut-out of un-interesting, and nobody could possibly give a rats-ass what you have to think—least of all the Voice that controls the inner-dialogue. That Voice has packed it up to find a more interesting vessel…maybe the person standing across from you in conversation.
Because you are so boring, and they are the Oxford personification of intellect and fascination, you should pay careful attention to what they say—no time to worry about how they’re perceiving your reaction to whatever it is they’re saying. You are too busy to notice what sort of body language you may or may not be using to validate their half of the conversation. Instead, your time is spent carefully hanging on their every word, digesting it and projecting the whole bit into a colourful scene in your imagination. Instead, you’re too lost in the excitement of their infinitely more interesting life and impossible wealth of knowledge offered to you with each word that they speak. Instead, you are actually listening to the words that come out of their mouth and not the ones that speak to you from the inside of your own mind.
This is what it means to be in conversation. This was the point of our social nature. And in a world of needy social-media junkies grabbing at the cuffs of potential ‘followers’ and ‘likes’ and trendy passer-by’s, the last thing anyone needs is the high-pitched whine of another “interesting” millennial.
Lucky for you, you boring sack of yawning sloths, that you aren’t interesting too.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
Birds ate there all eatables
flapping their wings as a dance
trimming and preen of the wings
jump here there, losing no chance
black, blue, brown their cute colours
short, long, slim, heavy, lightweight
wings and flight memorable
all in hurry to have fate
chirp in low high sound, fresh mood
they were neat, beautiful smart
search everywhere want of food
giving an end, at the start
each one looking for some good
bit sip enough to quench thirst
no one waiting, for its turn
a cute gay bird, find it first
while the lyrics touch my soul
chirp, chirp, chirp was their tweet, song
making a norm; fresh my mood
melodious their sweet song
ripe fruit there serve passer-by
there were trees to grant a shade
there was rule 'No Restriction'
beauty of leaves not yet fade
pan was waiting to serve them
one sharp sip hurry to fly
child fell down while knocked at rock
help! Help! Shoutinnocent cry
sound dangerous, **** of earth
crackling, falling, housing, wall
help, no rescue love or hate
site was changed in front of all
no charm, fame, concert at all
there was no work, club or shop
speech for help was useless try
any search team, rescue flop
winking eyes now teary one
no-one could found there a bun
there no signs of living one
no care there, no deal, no done
birds ate there all eatables
flapping their wings as a dance
trimming and preen of the wings
jump here there, losing no chance
chirp, chirp sad song low high sound
they were neat, beautiful smart
search everywhere want of food
giving an end, at the star
each one looking for some good
bit sip enough, quench the thirst
no one waiting, for its turn
cute bird could not find it first
while the lyrics, touch my soul
chirp, chirp, chirp was their sad song
making a norm, my sad mood
melodious, fair sad song
no fruit there for passer-by
no trees there to grant a shade
they were buried, there, somewhere
no green leaves at risk of fade
all the owners slept and pressed
sound dangerous lifeless rock
ruined everywhere tragic song
mud, stone, sand, all-cause of shock
no help, care there, love or hate
there was silence as no play
no pan waiting there at all
birds could find a broken tray
you reveal it then I know
my pangs are more than a sea
there is link between the two
soul and body, You and me
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
Among orange-tile rooftops
and chimney pots
the fen fog slips,
gray as rats,
while on spotted branch
of the sycamore
two black rooks hunch
and darkly glare,
watching for night,
with absinthe eye
cocked on the lone, late,
passer-by.
5.7k
It is funny to see banners wishing Happiness displayed with cinematic glamour,
the pictures and hordings of Banner heroes.
The one at Tannery Road junction was peculiar to mention.
Here it was common
The captions "Happy" used to summon names of sundry festivals-Local and national, even internstional.
What's uncommon was the bold prints
of a hero's name ARUMALAI outshining
The caption and his larger than life picture establishing the photographer's digital brushing skills.
A passer by wondered who'd be this Arumalai,
Is he so great as to be advertised in polivynil?
His glorious deeds may be what they want you to heed
Still never ever seen or heard of his manners
Anywhere than in these motley banners
Just as a function
at the Tannery road junction
Each one passed by this colossal glance attracted provoking protracted ruminance what do this expensive banners really mean?
In another occasion
the glaring glorifying picture
of ARUMALAI followed the tag
Corporator,
Below the man posing a DICTATOR.
That was a period to a period of mystery!
Banners changed with seasons
with greetings on religious occasions
Festivals of importance
Birthdays of men even
with crowded profiles of hailers
Whose unrully manners
Too clogging up the banners
Like a wanted list of jailors.
One day a strange banner
hooked by the Tannery cross over
Spooked and shocked every passer-by
There the usual banner cut out
the larger than life image blings-out
Arumalai the BBMB corporator
Posing as dictator!
There was no wish of any kind.
It was a notice startling any mind
The sad demise of ARUMALAI
The BBMB corporator
Still possed as dectator
By his living promoters.
"He was sick and the local dispensary advised a minor operation.
He was administered
the necessary treatment.
Was referred to a super-speciality
centre and was declared dead.
His sad demise was advertised, he was forty.
His chummies complained of medical negligence", was the only news summary
in major news papers...
What was the reason for the minor surgery
What're the preparations
for the corporator's operation
All are mystery for a causal itinerary
passer by crossing over the Tannery Road junction, wondering at the strange envountering with banners
that come and go
Keeping no annals
Floating on the mind for a while
Stopping at the red's knell,
Moving with the green signal
The rise and fall of heroes
As binary one and zero
The banners tell a story tertiary
Of the rise and fall of a luninary
Within a plane ofmomentary
Variation of red and green
On the Tannery road's screen.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 5:13 AM UTC
Leave me where you dropped me, like litter in the boulevard.
You're just another passer-by,
who sees my home in the dirt.
Pretend it wasn't you who made the mess, if it helps you sleep tonight.
I suppose I'm disposable,
now that I've been used.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
4k
173
A fuzzy fellow, without feet,
Yet doth exceeding run!
Of velvet, is his Countenance,
And his Complexion, dun!
Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass!
Sometime, upon a bough,
From which he doth descend in plush
Upon the Passer-by!
All this in summer.
But when winds alarm the Forest Folk,
He taketh Damask Residence—
And struts in sewing silk!
Then, finer than a Lady,
Emerges in the spring!
A Feather on each shoulder!
You’d scarce recognize him!
By Men, yclept Caterpillar!
By me! But who am I,
To tell the pretty secret
Of the Butterfly!
3.7k
Humans.
Essentially contradictory in nature.
Complex.
We see but a glimpse of the stranger's life.
A ripple on the surface.
A reflection of our own world.
I was angry.
He died and I was angry.
I felt no one knew the depth
Of the pain and guilt within me
- No one knew him,
How could they understand?
I was just another passer-by
All they saw was a ripple
A happy face
(A brave face)
A reflection of their own mind.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.
The brown waves of fog toss up to me
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that hovers in the air
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.
3.6k
I am a thousand different things
I'm people, objects, nature, animal
I'm woman, man, girl, boy, child
toddler, baby, foetus
I'm all you could dream of (not) wanting
I'm all you wish you were (not)
I'm (your) anger, sadness, fear, regret
I'm (your) happiness, joy, hope, love
When I write, I'm a character
fiction, autobiographical, biographical
I'm lived, burned, broken, insane
I'm madness, virginal, loose, free
closeted, bi-curious, let's wait it out and see
I'm intrigue, a passer by,
I'm the observer, the observed,
voyeurism, peeping tom, negative film
Moss, McQueen, Klein
I'm art, symbolism, post-modernism,
I'm poetry; written and spoken
I'm the woman you read of; her
I'm the girl who made you cry
I'm full to the brim of (your) inspiration
I open doors to the past, then slam the door
in your bright doe eyes
I close doors to my future, and sneak back
through cracks in the floor,
just to get back
I laugh in your face, and burn holes
in skin at your absence
I kick dirt in my eye, then cry wolf
blinded,
I'm the severest of contradictions,
I say yes at no, no to yes,
I decide on impulse, and cry on cue
Beauty, romance, love, lust
poetry,
all the questions I am made of
I answer in the written word
mute,
You only know me,
(if of course you dare)
by reading my rhymes,
(non judgmental stance)
and loving me regardless,
(don't expect perfection)
If you're going down
the same road
start today,
face your demons,
be the contradiction.
© Sia Jane
--
*"So unimpressed but so in awe
Such a saint but such a *****
So self aware so full of ****
So indecisive so adamant
So rock and roll, so corporate suit
So **** ugly, so **** cute
So well-trained, so animal
So need your love, so **** you all"*
Robbie Williams - Come Undone
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
i used to have
some smiles
7 of them in fact
7 pretty little smiles
one for each day of the week
each brighter than the other
we had monday, she was patient and honest
but we had to give her away because
we saw a passer by who
needed to borrow her for a day
and so we gave her away
the stranger replaced her with a frown
but that’s okay because
we still have tuesday with us
tuesday who is kind and innocent
oh, wait
no
we don’t
because along came a friend who
had a broken heart and
tuesday didn’t understand why but
she wanted to sacrifice herself anyway
before she went she said
it’s okay, you’ve still got wednesday and the others
oh, wednesday
the tough softie
he fought for them when needed
he was loyal, he was brave. a soldier
and i guess that’s why when
my best friend lost her brother
wednesday felt like he had to be there for her
so i let her have him because
at least i could see her smile on wednesday
and before he went wednesday smiled at me and
he said
hey, you’ve still got thursday and the others
then thursday and wednesday bid farewell
two supposedly inseparable soulmates
thursday, sweet and gentle to match
wednesday’s toughness
wednesday was his hero
i guess that’s why
when my sister was in pain
thursday wanted to help
just like the others
thursday hugged me goodbye and
wiped away my tears as he reminded me
it was all for a good cause.
he kissed friday goodbye and asked her to be good to me
and friday promised she would
but she left too
she left while we were asleep
she picked up and went
we don’t know where but
she was always the loud and reckless one
we miss her though
and i think the loss of the others finally
made her
snap.
i don’t blame any of them.
it’s for a good cause.
that morning we woke up
saturday, sunday and i
all staring at one another
i took them in,
the polar opposite twins
saturday with her cheerfulness and wildness, her free spirit
and sunday with his sturdy consciousness and his good morals.
they looked at each other and looked back at me
and what they said broke me
completely
“we’re moving out. we’ve got a promotion and a house. we’ll still visit from time to time, but... we got a job where we can help the others .. it’s for a good cause”
and i feel my shoulders slump as pain ebbs through me
and i say
“okay, i understand”
and we say goodbye
see, i once had 7 pretty little smiles
one for each day of the week
but one by one they left me
they went on to do something great
and here i am now
with my straight mouth and dull eyes
please don’t ask me for a smile
because i don’t have any left within me
©️Elissar Mustapha
15.01.2020
Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 5:11 AM UTC
Angels walk among us,
Each and everyday.
Angels walk among us,
No matter what you say.
The Lord sends them to us,
When he's not ready for us to leave.
Yes,
Angels walk among us,
Though you may never see.
And there I prayed,
Making peace with the Lord.
When I heard a sound.
The flutter of wings perhaps?
Or, Just the sound of an angel,
As her feet touched the ground.
My prayers were interrupted,
So I snuck a quick peek.
And there standing before me,
My eyes beheld an angel.
Her garb was plain,
And she had raven black hair.
I know now she was an angel,
Who was standing there.
She appeared as normal,
as you and me.
And she asked,
If she could pray for me.
But it was an angel,
Sent there to save me.
I was so very low,
And thought I was ready to go.
But the lord wasn't ready for me to go.
And had sent his angel,
To insure I did not go.
Yes angels walk among us,
In many different ways.
Angels walk among us,
And most will never see.
Yes angels walk among us,
The Lord could choose you,
Or even me.
Yes angels walk among us,
The Lord sends them to us,
In times of our need.
A child had wandered,
Much too far away.
To an unsafe place,
She should never be to play.
Yet the Lord chose a passer by,
Who'd never gone that way.
To spy the young child,
Who was in a dangerous way.
To inform her parents,
Of where, She'd gone to play.
To insure she'd survive,
Yet another day.
Yes,
Angels walk among us,
Despite what you say.
Angels walk among us,
Pray they never go away.
Yes,
Angels walk among us,
Though you may never see.
Oh yes,
Angels walk amongst us,
One came and saved me.
Coleman
Nov 23, 2020
Nov 23, 2020 at 4:45 PM UTC
With trembling knees, I took my position. The stage was set.
Before me sat a school of eyes: transfixed, gazing with anticipation. Piercing the silence with an unfurling of paper, I stepped forwards, my mouth pressed to the microphone.
A kick of adrenaline, engaging of breath and I began.
“My inspiration.”
Humble Houghton MBE; centre-half, captain, Man City.
A lioness leader, Durham born and raised.
With writing and wit, I’ll heap the praise.
England debut at just 17.
Free-kick expert, living the dream.
Old-school-gritty-no-nonsense defender.
An accurate passer - return to sender.
A right-footed shot to burst the net.
Dedicating her life, she doesn’t forget: school teams, amateur level, Sunderland weekends.
A cup final beckons: the star of the show, the women’s game - she’s watched it grow.
Now girls put on their boots, their shinnies and smile.
Aiming to go that extra mile.
The right to play football, the right to be free,
Raising awareness of MND,
Best of the best, who can it be?
Stephanie Jayne Houghton MBE.
Stepping away from the microphone the applause raining down, I knew I’d made an impression on people. Just like Steph had on me.
Jul 9, 2021
Jul 9, 2021 at 3:31 PM UTC
melting into mush
the ice cream cone
a party hat
crushed
ants
begin to gather
small black sprinkles or bugs?
how quickly the treat is forgotten
abandoned for scavengers
and the shoes of passer-byers
to oblivious to change their path
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
742
Four Trees—upon a solitary Acre—
Without Design
Or Order, or Apparent Action—
Maintain—
The Sun—upon a Morning meets them—
The Wind—
No nearer Neighbor—have they—
But God—
The Acre gives them—Place—
They—Him—Attention of Passer by—
Of Shadow, or of Squirrel, haply—
Or Boy—
What Deed is Theirs unto the General Nature—
What Plan
They severally—retard—or further—
Unknown—
2.8k
Phrase Courte d'amour
Si tu veux une fleur il faudra la cueillir mais si tu veux mon cœur il faudra me séduire.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Je suis un arbre, mes fleurs c'est toi. Je suis un ciel, mes étoiles c'est toi. Je suis une rivière, mon bateau c'est toi. Je suis un corps mon cœur c'est toi.
Avec une larme d'émotion merci de tout cœur. Je me sens la plus heureuse sur terre grâce à toi mon cher je t'aime.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Toi qui illumines ma vie et m'inspires la joie. Tu habites mes nuits, tu habites mes jours, non ça ne change pas et tant mieux pour moi. Phrase Courte d'amour
Tu te souviens pourquoi on est tombés amoureux? Tu te souviens pourquoi c'était si fort entre nous? Parce que j'étais capable de voir en toi des choses que les autres ignoraient. Et c'était la même chose pour toi mon amour.
Phrase Courte d'amour
**** de vous je vois flou et j'ai mal partout car je ne pense qu'à vous, je sais que c'est fou, mais j'aime que vous.
La lune est comme un aimant, elle attire les amants regarde la souvent, tu trouvera celui que tu attend la main il te prendra pour la vie il te chérira.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Phrase Courte d'amour Pour vivre cette vie j'ai besoin d'un battement de cœur, avoir un battement de cœur j'ai besoin d'un cœur, avoir un cœur J'ai besoin de bonheur et avoir le bonheur j'ai besoin de toi!
Un baiser peut être une virgule, un point d'interrogation, ou un point d'exclamation. C'est une épellation de base que chaque femme devrait savoir.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Il ne faut jamais dire c'est trop **** puisqu'on peut toujours devenir ce que nous souhaitons être et aussi avoir ce que nous avons toujours désiré.
Le soleil ne s'arrête jamais de briller tout comme mon cœur ne s'arrête jamais de t'aimer.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'éternité c'est de passer qu'une seule seconde de ma vie sans toi, mais qu'importe cette seconde si à mon retour tu es toujours là.
Aimer est un sentiment d'appartenance à une personne de confiance.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'amour n'a pas besoin de carte, Phrase Courte d'amour car elle peut trouver son chemin les yeux bandés.
Dans ce monde l'amour n'a pas de couleur,pourtant le tien a profondément détint sur mon corps.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Le cœur est comme une fleur quand elle manque d'eau elle meurt.
L'amour que j'ai envers toi est incompréhensible aux yeux de tous ... Même de toi.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'amour est un mot que j'écris pour qu'il soit encore plus beau.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'amour se vit dans la richesse comme dans la détresse, dans la pauvreté ou la beauté.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'amour commence par donner de l'importance et finit par l'ignorance.
Les plus belles choses dans la vie ne peuvent pas être vu, ni touchés, mais se font sentir que par cœur.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Qu'importe un océan ou un désert, l'amour n'a pas de frontières.
Il Parait que quand on aime, on ne compte pas, mais moi je compte chaque secondes passée sans toi.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Toi mon cœur, mon amour, ma joie, je te dis ces quelques mots en pensent à toi, je t'aime et je ne peux pas vivre sans toi, à chaque moment, à chaque instant, je pense à toi une minute sans toi et tu me manques déjà, alors toi mon cœur, accepte moi, prends moi dans tes bras, embrasse-moi une dernière fois.
Poeme courte d'amour
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
Red eyes
Seething heart
Pulse racing
Get ready
Sneaking through
Taking, breaking
Tripping, slipping
Note passer
Spitballer
Locker shover
Hopping fences
Disobey
Never learn
Heartbreaker
Drinking, reeking
Staggering
Fighting
Till your
Black and blue
Steal and lie
Oh why
Not caring
Let loose
"No. I didn't do it."
Smirking
Mischief maker
No
Troublemaker
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
"Do you notice,"
says a passer-by
to the begging Diogenes,
*"that people rather offer alms
to the lame, blind and maimed?
They do not offer alms
to a philosopher like you.
Why is it that you think?"*
"That's because,"
says Diogenes
*"people think one day
they too might become lame, blind or maimed -
but they never think they'd
ever turn to philosophy
So they ignore me..."*
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
Five for fighting
hands to the face
personal foul
player disgrace
Illegal contact
leap in the fray
willful head shot
leg astray
Encroachment defense
mouth guard out
roughing the passer
back field bout
Grounding the pigskin
mis-aligned
horse collar tackle
clip from behind
Knee on knee
offside end
unnecessary roughness
too many men
Gross misconduct
poke in the eye
hooking the shooter
sticks up high
Match ejection
over the top
face off folly
penalty shot
Unsportsmanlike conduct
chopping the block
slew foot infraction
hammer lock
Stick to the head
kick in the crotch
**** end jab
adhering the watch
Slashing the d-man
spearing the wing
running the keeper
back checking
Intentional grounding
stoppage in play
punching and hacking
delay of the game
Striking the ref
aggressor in fight
obstructing the line out
ear in a bite
Loss of downs
hands in the ruck
pinching and boarding
illegal upchuck
Rules of the battle
by the bye
pushing the limits
with a wink of an eye
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
...and there’s no one there to hear it,
does it make a sound?
________________________
My poetry performed—
before a crowd of johnny-jump-ups
Their faces toward me in unison—
they listen
Intense, motionless energy
Velvet applause of purple and
Yellow yelling!
Encore
of performing in the perfume
with a troop of lilacs
They will remember me
While I— await their return to May
through billowing miles
of drowsing sachet
breathing euphorias
between the lingerie of clouds
What happens after ecstasy?
Grieving in life’s presence?
Loss of mind to self-possession?
_________________
...and when my sense of smell gives out
I will hold on for a while
to the walker of hearing
trying not to stumble past
the song of thrush
beyond me in the blurring leaves
once so clearly—
crinkled, shiny, and infant green….
_____________
As a child I held on to nothing
for dear life
I could cup a storm in my hands!
Could run with the rhythm of a horse!
I could fly in my mind’s eye
if the ferns I used were only wings!
If I pretended hard enough
I could eat my own home-baked mud pies!
If only I could be—
more than a fledgling of eight
so earthbound, clumsy
_____________
But while the lilacs were out of town
thunder met the flash
and gutted summer!
I ran for dear life!
from the amazing distance of its echoes
pelted by its gentle gift
Snagged by growing things—
the clinging prattle
of their momentous tendrils....
______________
Lovers run off the path
past water lilies
along the swollen veins to the river
toward a grave and pounding heart
The Ancient Flood was jealous....
Now when the wind softens
and rain is tossed
last, and only from the leaves
may their encore be cupped in the hands
of some passer-by
Remembering—
that either because of a trifling wind
or the weight of time...
a tree fell here
clubbing the river’s bank senseless
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
I wish, most of all, to have had a tangibly physical notebook to write all this in. instead I use the 'note' function of my smartphone, smoke a cigarette. busy on forward, it's Pandora.
one of those acid-high coffee overbouts, feeling the brain compress inside the skull. for an hour. for a few.
some man in tattered-all's gets angry when I state I have no quarter. like I'm lying when I say it, and must be lying because my pants aren't worn like his. bus and car alike ghost past, the monastic rise of the local music conservatory pokes at the skyline, straight at the overcast.
I toss "If on a winter's night" by Italo Calvino atop the third step of the church stairs leading to the church doors, the Seventh Day Adventist Church, Where we meet Jesus. I begin to write this poem, huddled atop my cellphone as if I were in silent debate with a lover, only sitting to make a point.
to the left is a McDonald's flying a McDonald's flag. A man with a thoughtless white ball-cap and a thoughtful tattoo walks past with a McDonald's dollar drink in his right hand, pointing his arms in opposite directions to illustrate the dimensions of something he wants. "See?" he says to the woman he walks with, her face scabbed over with acne scars.
my eyes are tunnel-visioned to the screen every time I follow a thought, or the glancing past of a passer-by like the woman with the black scarf, black hair, black sweater, grey pants, black shoes.
the orange 'don't walk' sign pulses 7 times, and then sticks, as if waiting for a high-five.
I reach into my backpack for a cigarette.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
I am
A street without a name
A pictureless frame
A dull knife
A still life
I am
A question mark
A smothered spark
An unread book
A stolen look
I am
A blank page
An empty stage
A heavy sigh
A passer-by
I am
A ship with paper sails
A train on rusted rails
A flightless bird
A Dream Deferred
I am
An overcrowded mind
A word that hasn't been defined
A lighthouse that no longer stands
Two feet sinking in the sand.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 12:22 AM UTC
#*Gently cross over the wooden bridge
You have places to go
The bridge has to be there for every passer-by
Dawn to dusk, weathered, not yet to dust
Into the forest deep,
where the rivers rumble and roar
and sing lullabies*#
May 20, 2025
May 20, 2025 at 1:38 PM UTC
As a passer-by I only watch
across a darkened room,
marvelling at your healing touch
that turns the searing sting
in my burning heart to one
that doesn’t burn as much.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC