"recoils" poems
The two brothers wait for me arrive home,
They call themselves Anxiety and Fear,
Fear with his grimace smile,
Welcomes me in with his rigid glare,
He takes one look at me,
Reminds me I am vulnerable and fragile,
Anxiety plays along,
With his insolent tone,
Tells me I am an ignorant fool,
Mocking me of my wisdom,
Fear reminds me I am blind,
I know deep down they are right,
Fear is talking with a big smile to Anxiety,
The two brothers begin to laugh as I sit and calculate,
My heart begins to ache,
Anxiety points out the truth,
I can’t deny how I went wrong,
Fear places his hands on my shoulders,
I start to cry as I am unable to conceal these thoughts,
He whispers in my ear he will always be there,
Anxiety places his hands in mine
He always said one day I will suffer
No one to save you,
Like vultures they begin to circulate,
I must stay calm,
I rise firm to my feet,
So you want to mess with me?
Fear retreats to the corner and hisses,
It doesn’t matter what you have to say,
How long you keep these thoughts at bay,
Anxiety continues to linger around,
Analysing every inch and sound,
I was naïve and innocent to follow to your dark psyche,
Fear attempts to shut me up,
Yelling nonsense in my ear,
Anxiety joins in playfully,
Twisting and turning my stomach,
I take a deep breathe,
I will not follow blindly to the devil in disguise,
I will not tolerate these fears and let them ride me,
I will not let anxiety take over my strive,
My devotion will be dedicated to creativity and insanity,
You are just made believed.
The two brothers wince at my capability to be brave,
Anxiety recoils and hallows a piercing shriek,
Fear grimaces and spits venom at me,
I catch the venom and throw it back at Fear,
I owe you nothing
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 8:19 AM UTC
She tastes her tongue
-stuttering, spluttering-
and recoils -bitterness
and bile- slobber down
the side of the chin,
spitting it out.
She tapes her tongue
to the front of her
teeth -so that it
does not touch her
uttering buds going
down-
Slurping loudly
the syrupy silence
and its sounds
her thirst grows
to frenzy
Sacrificial
blood offering
-trembling-
to the ancients
within her
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
At the very end of the forest you will see
A lonesome silhouette standing in the sea
It seems gazing at the infinite horizon
While bathing under the vivid light of the moon
It was clearly a silhouette of a person
A maiden with a hair that was adored by dawn
And a body of an hour glass in the unknown
Sparkling as though diamond on a podium
But it is not what peaks my curiosity
It was the feeling that surged through me
Like seeing a very candid photography
Void with lies and ambiguity
But when I tried to reach out to the lady
She recoils from me instinctively
Now my thirst to know her identity
Burns in my throat painfully
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 12:57 PM UTC
To-night is dark, so
step lightly and carry
a large lamp into
the howling woods
Wisdom says run, run
to dark caves and
harrowing silences
mirror the bottomless
The abyss, gazing
headlong into itself,
recoils in horror,
shudders dis-eased
And only lamp-light,
courage flick'ring
in oppressive depth
persists, defiant
A stain on un-becoming
a trampler of stars
peddler of filth
who knows all the answers.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
I stand in front of the mirror; It’s confusing to see,
A thousand faces looking back at me.
A gray haired old man,
A boy of eighteen,
One guy is nice,
The other selfish and mean.
One knows where he’s at.
Another is lost,
He looks for direction
No matter the cost.
One has much confidence. One insecure.
One gives up easily, and one can endure
The trials and hardships
Inherent to life.
One is dull, plain, and boring
Another sharp as a knife.
One is happy and joyful,
One can’t stop the tears,
That fall freely and frequently,
As he ages in years.
One is satisfied with what he’s accomplished to date.
Another looks at the world with envy and hate,
And wonders why others
Are passing him by,
Should he laugh at himself?
Or silently cry?
One believes in a power,
Much greater than self,
Another, a hypocrite,
Puts his faith on a shelf.
One knows lots of people; One a loner by choice.
One never speaks out. One revels in his voice,
Tells his story to all,
Who will listen (pretend?)
While they wait and they hope
That the story will end.
One still has hope,
Another hope-less;
One tracks dirt through the house.
Another cleans up the mess.
One looks at the world, poised to attack,
Another seems not to care; he is calm and laid back,
One wants to know more,
One has seen way too much.
One wants to hold tighter,
One recoils from the touch.
There are too many faces,
None of them clear,
So I turn out the light,
I walk away from the mirror.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
Looking down from over their bodies - I count them.
My split mind at once rejoices in and recoils from that counting.
Peering back over my shoulder I make
dark associations.
It’s as if I was afraid of becoming lost
the way the bodies made a trail like bread crumbs,
leading back from the places I had been.
I walk with the Holy Light.
I walk with my dark companion.
I walk between the spines of the body shrikes.
They harvest all my crumbs and remind me I am lost.
They hook the bodies high from spikes
so I look up to make the body count.
I can see the Holy Script
but I can’t seem to find the way.
Red and gold beacons in the dream,
flickering off and on like syncopated declarations
as if saying:
Here I am
Here I am
Here I am.
All elbows and knees I slip between the webs of the
orb weavers and the cactus spines of the butcher birds
while they count the bodies for me:
Here they are
Here they are
Here they are.
Hang-dog and hard of breathing I have my medicine.
I’m hanging from the sleeping cliffs over
hell’s half acre and the high deserts.
I remember my brother flying me to California on a great olive branch.
He fed me sushi and smiled while he watched by brain heal.
But I was coming for the bodies.
My count was smaller then, but it was high enough for him
and his hands were the keepers of the flame.
The fire there was exiled and quietly he laid it by.
My brother spread out over the carpet of time like
the faithful departed with the weavers and the shrikes and
mounted bodies in the sky.
A child appears before me on the walk - eyes like a baby deer.
His mother is two blocks behind, so he asks three questions while he waits:
Why are you smoking?
Where are your hands?
Is it getting dark soon?
He leaves me to wonder where my hands are and where the dark is,
the Holy Sage smoking at my side.
Like some dark sabbath.
Like some reading of the will.
Like some dark and holy delta sleep in a crib of red clay.
I have a feeling I have been gone a very long time and I
want to be home now,
but there is buzzing and chirping and a red light and
Saul of Tarsus holds a great tome before me and with my hands
I hide my eyes.
I am the dreaming of the world of dreams.
Therein the Holy Light rages like the flare of 1000 suns
while my eyes are shuttered tight
like old memories all gone beyond the sorrow.
The old oath keepers are all plates and screws.
The golden woven orbs and cactus spines are all empty on
the altar like a decommissioned slaughterhouse.
So I go and make a body count.
Jul 31, 2020
Jul 31, 2020 at 8:00 PM UTC
Sometimes I think I’m crumbling from the inside out. I can feel a parasite knawing at the coffin encasing my soul and exposing the pretense of overconfidence for what it truly is- dust.
There was a time when a smile from a man on the street made me feel special. Now it tenses my muscles and knocks on the bedroom door of fight and flight. If it came down to it, I know that acceptance would win.
I once saw a TV special about how coffins are becoming larger and larger because of obesity. When I was eleven, my brain was overweight with the awareness of the novel I would write and the ballet company I would star in. Lately, the obesity of my dreams is directly related to the size of the graveyard residing in my brain like an icy sea frozen mid-breath.
My best friend hurts herself because she doesn't think she’s pretty. I renounced my faith a long time ago, but I always pray that she won’t be among the one in four women who are ***** because a man told them they were pretty.
The leering, drunken man outside the movie theater built my coffin. The disease of his hand stroking my shoulder put out the fire in my brain like malaria kills 1.2 million people each year. Like the 1,871 American women who were sexually assaulted today. My skin still crawls where he touched me and my mind still recoils when I catch myself wondering if my oversized sweater and Converse sneakers were too provocative.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
His teeth brush her skin and she flinches.
Breathy gasps on shifting eyes
Slide across the icy air, and inches
Of separation mark porcelain lies.
Porcelain teeth mark crimson brands
And whiter still the skin where wedding bands
Rested not long ago
Upon skin that recoils from his perfect hands.
And choices that only she can know.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
Crooked bones, coal, steel,
clanking and deafened with laboured breath,
that heaves up and hacks out as we crawl
and ache and sort and hunch and collect our
black diamonds, as we mine down,
down the rocks and the darkness until we can erupt into the sun
like worms haggard with dust and rot and breathe. Again.
As each vertebra recoils from being wound tight.
We are the pit.
The ancient shapes in the Davey lamp
chiselled from the coal itself.
And the song in our voice
is hammers and dynamite.
We will be here,
always,
under your feet.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC
In the coastal forest at Odiorne Point
Paths meander under and over
Bramble so odious as to create an impenetrable wall
And distant sound of swell and surge
My nose recoils from the endless spoor of sea
Where upon a rustling of leaves drew my attention
To the vain wanderings of a scant grey squirrel
If I were a meager rodent of the furry tail persuasion
I would have purpose, direction, and courage against the iron horse
However, I am just a man of no resolve, course, or valor
Therein lies the rub
And coastal jaunts should never be made by depressed men
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
just a hint of fever
and he recoils
recalls
when first the malaria
hit him like a
a dump truck full
of iron garden gnomes
left him shivering
sweating
swimming
in pain deeper
than the greatest
Great Lake
before it broke and
he was smashed
flat
left crapulent and woozy
a still stagnant pond
where parasites
permanently
petulantly
patrol
awaiting their turn
to make another visit
and say hello again hello
~mce
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
The city is shut, sparing its prey until tomorrow. Night rules, dreams creep down the street, eyes dead
Her poised being is the center of universe, that girl
She is loath to beg yet for the twenty fourth time of the night she sings out, God?
It’s two in the morning and they are sitting at the balcony, God and her, both holding a cigarette
Mother and father are in screaming colors but she is, only, the darkest blue
Two of them are contradiction, a vexing rendezvous but they yearn for each other so once in a while they talk
People talk
A boy across the house is found dead
Parents roaring, raging, crashing the ground, he’s wearing a pair of new basketball shoes. Blue.
He is one of million, a delicate kind, very comely, a subtle presence. Neighbors murmur maybe God
fell in love, maybe God enraptured by the boy. But God is peeking behind the closed door with the girl
Between their fingers still a burning cigarette
Maybe it’s the taste of Marlboro Red, the girl
wishing an epiphany, a revelation, for its been too long, the girl and God
writing each other’s eulogy. The girl has been dead for God and God has been dead
for the girl, ruptured for a very long time, there’s no way back. No long talk
can fix the burn of cigarette,
the eternal crippling affliction taped up in every cavity inside the holy temple of their body
A lady in the house with doors and windows painted blue
is murdered. She was having a dalliance and neighbors talk
behind their open bible. God cringes, God recoils, her god is a beige-tied, cigarette
scented with hair slicked back. She was in his thrall, calls her name in a mesmerizingly fetching way making her girl
again, an ingénue with a pair of chatoyant eyes. Bodies clashing, her muse, they fuse, he choose to ruse, dead,
God is amused, time is lapsed, but perhaps she was not divine. A lady in someone’s car trunk, murdered, dear God!
Inhaling. Conflating. Cigarette
smoke all over the veins. A bright blue
car parked across the street. A week since the boy died. A week since the lady went missing. People talk
about somewhere this week another dead
body is going to be found. Maybe in the park under the slide or on a high school bleacher, like the girl found God
under her bed. The first encounter of God and the girl.
God
and the girl run out of cigarette
counting the days God and the girl
Next time won’t be cigarette and balcony. God and the girl next time at a bar with blue
sign where sinners and saints sipping absinthe because God won’t talk
to anyone but the girl. God and the girl sipping absinthe because the city is shut. Eyes dead.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 2:23 AM UTC
The beautiful Tiger strides as her
muscles ripple with strength
She is a stunning power house
which moves with the lightness
of a feather
Although never with an arrogance
of a king, but with a knowing
of a great general
Her many strips earn't though an
evolution of battle and conquest
The air flooded with a juicy orange
as her many strips drift and float
out like the waves of an ocean
We all become transparent as all
is gathered within the glowing
eyes of a tiger
With her light lime eyes she
***** the whole world in
And a dash of yellow to cut
through everything
Like bright bulbs they shine and
possess a gravitational force
Enjoying a deep comfort with
her surroundings for she fears
nothing, as the jungle wraps her
in a warm quilt she feels cozy
Her vibrant colour that celebrates
with the trees will disappear to
the colour blind as she vanishes
behind leaves
Caught in the nets of a tigers
glare her presence will cascade
all around you
Pulsing heart you become paralyzed by
her stare as she fires hooks into you
Lost in the jungle, she is the jungle
If the Lion is king, she is the kingdom
As you stand in the presence of her
magnificent beauty her fire will
engulf you
All a blaze, forest fire orange flames
bellow from her lively fur
As you feel the tremendous power
of this fiery dragon
A thousand chainsaws cut the air
as you are beheaded with a roar
Every bone shall rattle every cell shall
cry as fear is drilled into you
As she blasts a second roar you feel
her fiery force as she burns a hole
right through you
The crouching tiger recoils her every
muscle with a thousand frustrated
springs, she ready's for the pounce
Crackle and spark as a combustible fire
swamps the air, friction burn
Ignited she explodes her energy
burst through a self made vortex
As we see fire jumping
As she leaps through a secret passage
a tunnel in the air
Hunger driven her jaw widens and
a gateway opens as she rockets
forward with a relentless appetite
Time stands still as she leaps
through the air
Her flight so effortless she could
be stood still in space as the world
travels to her
As a black hole is opened she *****
her prey in
So much fiery energy can be enjoyed
when the power of the Chinese dragon
is released
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
*The Branch Bore A Bud,
It Was A Cocoon Of Life,
Soon It Would Errupt
The Young Leaf Emerged,
In Springtime's Renewed Sunlight,
Taking It's First Breath
The Leaf Grew Each Day,
Side By Side With Other Leaves,
They Would Speak Softly
Rain Would Come And Go,
And The Leaves Would Ask For Sun,
They Would Beg The Sky
The Days Grew Colder,
And Nighttime Consumed The Dawn,
The Sun Gave No Warmth
The Leaves Were Different,
They Were Red, Yellow, And Orange,
Ripened From The Cold
Slowly They Let Go,
One By One They Met The Earth,
Concealing Her Skin
The Leaf Recoils,
It's Flushed Cheeks Now Colorless,
The Branches Are Bare*
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
The rain lets up as the sirens start
One world fell in two parts
Remarks silently spoken of reality being broken
Idea recoils further into isolation ruled by false allegations
Under exaggerated hyperbole transcribes the true feeling hidden above the covered-up abomination
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Shrill, elegant scales,
swirl to form the mighty beast.
Fire spectacular, crimson sheen
splayed; a dire circumstance,
flowing around the base.
Attempt to merge within the vision,
the whole shape recoils;
not in fear, but in haste,
for the contents under pressure
would destroy,
a perfunctory account,
of the grandeur that must lay beneath.
Away with form to a single point,
free to contemplate the burden...
reduced to the atom, where I split
and split and split,
and swirl in to the mighty beast.
From the vantage, I show my crest,
my tongue a serpent's, my eyes glow
and cut across time, my wings an ornate fusion;
in this context simply ornamentation,
but none have gotten so close as to reduce to
an atom, and follow to a single point...
so I let out a mighty shrill sound and burn my surroundings...
spent and swirled,
a reduction comes after a sword strike,
a critical blow...
pierced heart.
No Matter, I swirl to a single point.
Lay eyes upon me again,
my metamorphosis shall rise,
and for that blow, I shall unleash new form,
and let forth a deafening call
to my ancestors, for the strength to endure.
I swirl,
and swirl,
and swirl.
http://www.robross.ca
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 2:56 PM UTC
It is noontime, Senlin says. The sky is brilliant
Above a green and dreaming hill.
I lay my trowel down. The pool is cloudless,
The grass, the wall, the peach-tree, all are still.
It appears to me that I am one with these:
A hill, upon whose back are a wall and trees.
It is noontime: all seems still
Upon this green and flowering hill.
Yet suddenly out of nowhere in the sky,
A cloud comes whirling, and flings
A lazily coiled vortex of shade on the hill.
It crosses the hill, and a bird in the peach-tree sings.
Amazing! Is there a change?
The hill seems somehow strange.
It is noontime. And in the tree
The leaves are delicately disturbed
Where the bird descends invisibly.
It is noontime. And in the pool
The sky is blue and cool.
Yet suddenly out of nowhere,
Something flings itself at the hill,
Tears with claws at the earth,
Lunges and hisses and softly recoils,
Crashing against the green.
The peach-tree braces itself, the pool is frightened,
The grass-blades quiver, the bird is still;
The wall silently struggles against the sunlight;
A terror stiffens the hill.
The trees turn rigidly, to face
Something that circles with slow pace:
The blue pool seems to shrink
From something that slides above its brink.
What struggle is this, ferocious and still--
What war in sunlight on this hill?
What is it creeping to dart
Like a knife-blade at my heart?
It is noontime, Senlin says, and all is tranquil:
The brilliant sky burns over a greenbright earth.
The peach-tree dreams in the sun, the wall is contented.
A bird in the peach-leaves, moving from sun to shadow,
Phrases again his unremembering mirth,
His lazily beautiful, foolish, mechanical mirth.
1.5k
She was just a young goddess
About what modern people would call a "teenage girl"
Running through a field of lotuses,
Her white dress lapping at her legs
Her golden hair whipping in the wind
Her friends, they call out
"We'll be asleep. Don't wander so much,"
She reassures them she'll be fine
With a smile and a nod, they rest in the field of flowers.
Flowers catch the young goddess' eye
Appealing with its bright colors
And lovely shape,
She thinks, Who could resist such beauty?
For the answer is none,
Maybe not even the wisest of mortals
She bends down, the flowers poking at her covered thighs
It's a bright flower, just like the blue skies
Proserpina, our lovely and innocent goddess, she picks until her heart's content
Flower after flower.
One is gone, another shows up, and so goes to the cycle.
She's gone too far, but Proserpina doesn't know that
She's about to sit and inspect these lovely flowers that she has picked
When there's a rumble below the earth.
Alarmed, she recoils, ready to break into a run
The ground opens up, a man in armor
This is the one they call Hades, God of the Underworld
Proserpina, alarmed, cannot see his face for it is pallid
Pale and sunken, but that doesn't matter now.
Hades, with his might, grabs the young goddess, who is screaming for help that she does not receive
Help! I am being abducted, but why me, a goddess,
When there are plenty of mortal women?
Proserpina doesn't know the workings of a god's heart, no,
Especially one who's her father's brother.
She's taken down under,
Where death rules and ghosts go by, like some sort of dead city
Inhabited by soulless spirits
Proserpina, it seems, will not be seeing her mother or the land above in
Quite a while, but Proserpina, soon she will not care.
Ah, to be young, and to be a goddess.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
***your inky recall
recoils under
my skin
took its toll
in beastly
violent shades
black & blue
darkly drawn
bad blood
crimson oozing
burnt scars
indelibly sunk
into my psyche
encas'd my heart
in ice temples
glass'd apprehension
left its mark
upon the soul
marr'd of spiteful apathy
bane of my existence
retreating behind
secrets of
closed doors
remembrance's***
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
**Mostly after seven, she trudges back from work,
like a ship badly wrecked, towed in to the dock,
"Perhaps dismantling is the only option left"
she bitterly muses, waiting for him with a glass of wine.
"Getting out of the office" he laments over the phone,
"is crossing a wire fence with electrical charge"
work never ceases, nor day and night, clearly demarcated,
avarice of the corporate is sticky dark tar of night,
spreading beyond the borders; like workdays it extends.
Become difficult to keep head above the waters,
swelling every moment.
One works like mad, as if there is no tomorrow worth the wait,
and it goes on till the moment one arrives at the dead end.
The more one works like a dog, the faster ends up
as a dog in the manger, but who cares?
Yen to make profit touches the sky,it's demands insane,
the urge to **** comes, when pressure mounts
and deadline comes close; during a presentation late night,
he watches with insatiable urge, two ***** eyes
go down and **** his tender erogenous spots
that's when mind in slumber shakes the body to its roots,
"She'll be at the end of her tether" a thought goes home and recoils.
Life is a flashy party, jaunts to strange lands are the ***** high,
children, not even in thoughts, the time to count ***** are far,
when the latest model car arrives, the neighbors are in awe,
but soon, the vacations become a pain in the ***
conversation with her becomes labored, mostly nods and grunts
"What's wrong with you?"both shout at each other at once,
that makes them laugh out loud, child like they are in fact,
what a predicament is this, laughter and sob are no different!
A dangerously close shave life is; full of nicks and cuts,
quick fix ***** and walks on the brink are routine.
When he gets in the room she sleeps alone,
she tells someone over the phone aloud:
"I am badly ****** again and again, literally I mean"
life of a nerd and a techie, celebrated pair, envied by others
has this as the foot note, after rows and rows of success.
"Why me?" they both in their lonely beds in adjacent rooms
Yell to the Gods at the top seats, staring at the white ceiling.**
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
someplace else, icarus has taken one look at the sun and recoils like a banished angel. lo, the cheerless shadows befogging. lo, the waxen wings he clipped — swallowed by solid ground. lo, the skies melt above the sea, in horror, as he falls in place over his bones and sinks into his sunless chest.
Feb 12, 2022
Feb 12, 2022 at 5:19 AM UTC
A bother this boy has grown to be,
No one else has yet to see, what this boy can truly say and bleed,
Attempting to shove out the pain, push this agony behind him, it festers.
Current condition collapsing to a dwindling blank stare,
Oh my this boy seems utterly broken and bare,
Only to implode into a shrill of cries and shrieks this boy releases tears,
"Someone will hear, I must stop this before I am revealed.",
State of mind recoils in protest,
This poor boy only desires some proper rest.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC
I always wonder why it is
That seeing someone else's tears
Creates such awe in me.
I want to ease your pain
But I am also
Transfixed by it.
The mask slips
When people cry.
The seams rip
And all of a sudden parts of them
That are never meant to be seen
Writhe in the light,
Raw and agonized and
Beautiful
As hell.
I do mean that- hell.
It is both
Divine and perverse
To witness someone else's pain.
I always hold my breath
As if I could shatter their soul
Just with the knife's edge of my gaze.
When you cry
Most people politely look away
For their own comfort
And tug their disguises closer,
Check their pinnings
Reminded of their fragility
By the gauche display
Of yours.
When you cry
I
Freeze like a photograph
And I see you as a child
I see you as a god
I see you
As a rainstorm reaching its fingers across
All the ugly concrete and glass we build
And getting inside
Underneath
To make the trees bloom.
When you cry
I see you like I see a painting
Hung in a museum so quiet you want to hush your heartbeat
Just to keep the stillness electric.
When you cry
You are so bright that when I glance at you
And look away
I am blind for a moment.
There is something about seeing that loss of control in another person
That one second of utter truth
The brutal, consuming honesty that comes with tears
That reaches inside, for those who dare let it,
And wounds exquisitely.
There is a bare second
When the part of them that recoils from the light
Clasps shriveled hands with the answering piece of you
And both hurt-
To see and to be seen
But that moment
Reminds you that you are alive
And
Why.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
A lone pearl trembles.
The basilisk eye closes,
weeping its last tear.
Failed conquistadors,
every good man in their tow
drowns in the dry air.
Venom in the dust.
The serpent slinks and recoils.
A vesica pouts.
Not one soldier spared;
a white flag hangs in tatters.
Both sides won the war.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC
A part of me loves with all of my heart
A part of me hates right from the start
A part of me hides with secrets of the past
A part of me cries for that love that will last
A part of me longs for the passion I once knew
A part of me recoils and only opens to few
A part of me hopes for a brighter tomorrow
But the part that is hidden drowns that with sorrow
A part of me reaches for your loving embrace…
But turns and runs in fear, leaving no trace
A part of me stumbles on words held so high
A part of me wonders if there are any as lucky as I
A part of me trusts….
While A part of me grieves…
So the part you see smiles…
While the other deceives.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 3:21 PM UTC