"salted" poems - Hello Poetry

The road behind bares us a backdrop, too many nights find us fractured in our thoughts and the dreamers we once were are far from the two people who stand today. We're broken, mere splinters of our shipwreck past, driftwood on a shore that drowns every time the ocean breathes. The path is littered with slaughtered dreams that didn't bleed. As time and tide wait for no man shall we find it a tragic scene? simply erased with the sunsets demise? No one gets away without a scar and mine speak a road map to chaos and a found hello to you. Mine own scars are fingertips gouged into the sand and faded but salted by tears of the ocean, inerasable by the tide. A soul washed up upon the shore, a road map etched delicately into fine bones. You can trace where I'd been before. All roads lead to your hello. In broken lines and have uttered phrases and one too many empty night. Backdrop of chaos does paint in the darkest colors you could ever imagine . How does it gets so flawed by our own creations and vices my dear? Does it still ring ever so true? The bell rings true whispering distant voices Empty nights are just bottles lined up as dead soldiers We contemplated our own truths and fell victim to our own vices The backdrop is black, no colour beneath skin. Honestly? Where does our downfall begin? Two ships underneath the nightscape past the spark once understood the flame and nothing more . In empty alleys, like cats to prowl, we find our moments, and then bury our thoughts to lay for no others to see. half written papers and half heard conversation the keys of the piano haunt the silence as myself shadows that still remain. Nothing is but a thought and those are like dead flowers laid to waste a reflection of far better times The night crawls to meet the day as it has so many times before. The thought of the minds bottle lay empty upon the table. A fond farewell is but a sugar coated goodbye. And I seldom have minced my words to mask their sting. The page forever bleeds. Pages that lay scattered on a ***** floor Bleeding ink into cracks that will forever more hide the spirit of our souls.

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Jan 29, 2015

Jan 29, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC

john-patrick-robbins-aka-gonzo

Nightscapes And Broken Dreams. Co Write With Helen

The road behind bares us a backdrop, too many nights find us fractured in our thoughts and the dreamers we once were are far from the two people who stand today. We're broken, mere splinters of our shipwreck past, driftwood on a shore that drowns every time the ocean breathes. The path is littered with slaughtered dreams that didn't bleed. As time and tide wait for no man shall we find it a tragic scene? simply erased with the sunsets demise? No one gets away without a scar and mine speak a road map to chaos and a found hello to you. Mine own scars are fingertips gouged into the sand and faded but salted by tears of the ocean, inerasable by the tide. A soul washed up upon the shore, a road map etched delicately into fine bones. You can trace where I'd been before. All roads lead to your hello. In broken lines and have uttered phrases and one too many empty night. Backdrop of chaos does paint in the darkest colors you could ever imagine . How does it gets so flawed by our own creations and vices my dear? Does it still ring ever so true? The bell rings true whispering distant voices Empty nights are just bottles lined up as dead soldiers We contemplated our own truths and fell victim to our own vices The backdrop is black, no colour beneath skin. Honestly? Where does our downfall begin? Two ships underneath the nightscape past the spark once understood the flame and nothing more . In empty alleys, like cats to prowl, we find our moments, and then bury our thoughts to lay for no others to see. half written papers and half heard conversation the keys of the piano haunt the silence as myself shadows that still remain. Nothing is but a thought and those are like dead flowers laid to waste a reflection of far better times The night crawls to meet the day as it has so many times before. The thought of the minds bottle lay empty upon the table. A fond farewell is but a sugar coated goodbye. And I seldom have minced my words to mask their sting. The page forever bleeds. Pages that lay scattered on a ***** floor Bleeding ink into cracks that will forever more hide the spirit of our souls.