"strikingly" poems
"Purple Orchid"
A symbol of rare beauty
Exotic. Delicate. Mysterious
Precious, in every way
Lost in a tropical land of
Purple Haze,
I am there
Whispering with a tinge of
Innocence yet wild
With passionate dark desires.
A calm stability of blue and
The fierce energy of red
Stimulating mystery and thrill,
A darkened flower
Of refined passion
With strikingly lush petals,
Intoxicating.
In his mind,
I am
A
Purple Orchid
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
Black girls are the most juicy and sweet candies in the world: melanin masterpiece of nature, bubbly as sweet soda. Dark skin color is the most pleasant and sweet light color. Skin is like chocolate candy, sugar-marmalade taste of lips, only a dark-skinned girl can give the most juicy, juicy and sweet kiss with her big sensual lips. The skin is soft as chocolate sponge cake. Her skin shines beautifully in the light like jam, soft body parts like pudding. Lips and intimate places are so sweet as if juicy, hot, hot dark chocolate, feet like ice cream waffles. The color of her skin is like a sweet delicacy, a gorgeous dessert, sweet chocolate cream, chocolate mousse, an unforgettable sugar taste and you get into the taste, skin as if emitting hot moans of *** The blacker, the juicier and sweeter the skin, juicy relish, the hotter its sexuality and passion, like a panther with strikingly beautiful eyes, like a powerful magnet beckons to itself, fascinating for its beauty.
Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 12:52 AM UTC
I want to apologise.
Broken relationships, I shall eulogise.
To those I know (or, knew);
Forgive my absence when you needed a warm caress and a hug,
But instead got frostbite, a torrent of snow or dew.
I am sorry for drawing a sword
When you were hoping for an olive branch;
I can be as thorny as an all-knowing lord.
I wish my heart was limitless,
And my kindness infinite –
I dream of love that is fearless,
And of joyousness completely exquisite.
Yet, that is not who I am –
I can be a calm ocean or a tempest,
A total commotion, or peacefully at rest.
I can be enigmatic and reserved,
Or, I can be charismatic, if the mood is reversed.
We are not good or bad;
We can be lewd and strikingly mad,
Or cunningly shrewd, or maybe sad.
We are the yin and the yang;
We all tend to sin, to our demons we hang.
We are objects of pure fascination,
In constant fluctuation,
A recalcitrant reconciliation.
So, I will say it one more time –
Look into my eyes, see through my guise.
I apologise to those who had no shoulder to cry on
And sought mine, when I was not there.
I hope you’re fine, and that someone showered you with care.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 10:25 AM UTC
You choked on chariots raw. Red egg yolk suppers, churned of the milk oceans this morning you kept.
The lintel of stone turned toward dusk. Some great dynasty of submissive spirits catering your morning
Out on a cart of muse, forms of heaven cannot even hear you. You are a soporific knot in the tale of your Old womanhood. In this infinite Tuesday morning your small black eyes, like an oil tanker toppling over The intense azure sea- shipwrecked, and lost.
Departing from your childhood you slurp Coca-Cola from a silver straw. From the corner store and inside Winter yawns. There is no face, only strikingly beautiful black hair. The body under you is at home in all
My hand's fingers have to fill. All the clothes that you could carry for the two-way adventure. There are
Never enough bubbles between your lips and the glass bottle you have. Only the score of the whistleblower. And the poor symphony you had prayed for into the dial-tone phone, the deep Wilderness, that stiff forever-ago budding from your coffee cup. Neurogenesis lifted from your Fingerprints and emblazoned into this lump of human ingenuity. The hopeless octave that cut us all short.
Every short story that was left untold. There are the brief deaths recoiling in your spiritual architecture. The ****** of morphia has bourn me awake. Inside you are often unscathed, vanishing as some of Tonight's parts assemble you, on you blue is a beautiful color. The sweet retreat that gave you life or the bountiful deaths that counted you too cutely by your side. You are the sun in my black coat. Here is my sea, your sea, you'll see.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
She moved towards me like silk moves in a breeze. Her glow was soft, yet strikingly strong. Eyes brown and big like an oak tree in summer with rays of golden sun stung throughout. She moved as if an angel slowly awakening inside her. Her long brunette hair shimmered as it gracefully fell along her shoulders resting upon her ******* I would call her body smooth like softly blown waves in the sea, but no justice would it give to her. Her smile could make any woman stop in her tracks, just to appreciate the glorious happiness it brings. Her laugh brings joy like the peace nature brings in solitude. A total eclipse of winters cold, only allowing warm spring and summer. Hips a sailboat rocked by a beat only she could know. Sweet kisses with lips that taste like the most perfectly ripe fruit. Her hands touch as water does; politely gracing your skin and leaving you with droplets slowly fading. Her glance love-filled as a lover of many years might look at you. She is beauty from the inside out; she is graceful with every step; she is everything I want, and so much more.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 10:12 AM UTC
I hate looking at you.
You are so strikingly beautiful
And so viciously ugly
When I see you, you lock your eyes with mine and give me a devilish smile
You tilt your head forward
You’re trying too hard
I want to scream
**** you
Hurt you at the very least
Punch you right in your beautiful ugly face
I laugh to try to make you stop
But inside, I collapse.
Please, please stop looking at me.
You’re piercing right through my ugly, sexless body
Right into my nervous, teenage soul
You are so beyond me
I hate you for that.
I’ll always hate you for that
I know you feel superior to me
I know you use me
I know you take comfort in my cynical, society depreciating, feminist convictions
My mumbling garbage of sadness
I know you think I’m smart
but at the same time pathetic
I know that you want me
Because you think you can have everything
I know you need me
Like you need anyone
Because you can’t stand to be alone.
Yes, I know you can’t stand to be alone.
Your wretched body that you toss around like an object
All in a vain attempt to be wanted
But you still end up alone.
You aren’t what you think you are
What you want to be
So don’t you look down on me like that
With your practiced sultriness
I say all these things in my laugh
But you’re oblivious
You look away smiling
Like you’ve won something
I collapse inside
I want to crumple
I’m too tired for violence
Too sad
So I just sit on your couch
Perturbed by the silence
Even when I hate you most
I’m afraid of what you imagine of me in the silence.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
You can strikingly feel the magical migration of ions
Controlling the electricity you breathe
All the pleasant sensations of silken charges
Sharing in your sweet ecstasy
A very slight whisper of the purest sensitivity
Skillfully washes into your pores
Releasing a smooth rhythm of tempting delight
Promising your senses so much more
You yield in response to the rhythm of the migration
Cherishing sweetly the spellbinding sound
Of each breath as accepted by your willing spirit
Infused with the taste of the whispers you have found
Is this just a fantastic illusion, unhinging your mind
This migration you now find you embrace
You ask your spirit in a fit of rising rebellion
With a satisfied smile on your face
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 6:26 PM UTC
invisible force,
not to reckon with
subtle with power
sway, circulation
flow and erosion
to feel your touch
hear your passing
never truly see you
but in the trees' dance
they are alive and strong
yet never move on their own
you give them a life
that they can never have
you give them the song
the rhythm and beat
to dance to
like a sparkling of their fingers
and the twirl of their hair
you give our world depth,
shape the sand and earth
in ways we can never achieve
forge mountains and
break what we so
pain strikingly *****
you are the might
who moves oceans
the strength who uplifts houses
the delicate touch
of making a dandelion sneeze
the exquisite sweetness
of swilling leaves
we try to harness you
imitate you
adore you
fear you
though we can never
stop you
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 11:35 PM UTC
In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes. Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.
In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
/
Many and
Many years later
My Poetry books
That I had lost
From the middle of the bookshelf
Within Thousands of many other books
Where I have found
Utterly Unknown
Some Pages
Yellow
Pale
Is very difficult to read
Yet quietly reading
I read with a lot of the force
Crawling.
As a Small child walking
Many years later,
Understand
Know
Become that Strange Poem
The Poem
Showed me Dreams
Told me to Love
Strikingly,
Bought all the Colors of my Canvas
Drawn your Images
That happened,
Many and
Many years before
In my Heart and the Soul
Then
You and I
Grew as a highly Sophisticated
Metaphor,
In an extreme
Cohesion,
Nice One
My Heart put on your Heart
In a Romantic Tune
Bode on a Small Boat
Toward a Tough Sea,
That happened,
Many and
Many years before
In the Song of the Sea
Then
Sudden Sea Storm Came
Made Substantially Vortex water
We Drowned
Lost you
That also happened
Many and
Many years before
In this Sea and my Soul
Today I have found you again
In a Sprung Dream
As I lost you
Many and
Many years before
As if I'm standing
On the Shore of the Sea
You as a form of Sea Angel
Come forward to me-
/
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
There are plenty a pair that are cloudy
A lot with green, hazel, or gold flecks too
But never in my life can I recall or remember
Another with eyes of such a strikingly clear blue
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC
.
In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes. Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.
In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
.
In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes. Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.
In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.
.
Feb 26, 2022
Feb 26, 2022 at 9:41 PM UTC
Hi there. I think you are beautiful people and poets if your name is on this list.
Here is the list.
There are more but if I just paste every poet I like on this site's name then it doesn't meant anything there are too many so I'm going to post later ones with the names of the poets I really like but I'm going to limit it to ten per post.
I strongly suggest you check out their poetry because it is amazing.
The order of the names has nothing to do with the quality or my favor they are all equally loved by me in different ways for their work which is all a different shade of beautiful.
I invite everyone to post a poem with 10 beautiful poets' names on this site that people should check out.
Yet another one of my challenges. If you do the "10 Beautiful Poets Challenge" add "10beautifulpoets" as a hashtag so people can find it.
Also feel free to message me if you post one of these so I can check them out too :)
Just a great way to let people know about specific beautiful poets out there.
Include something about their poetry specific to that poet beside their name. :)
Here is my list for the day:
-AllAtOnce magnificent and seriously extraordinary poetry
-Spencer Craig genius and wonderfully written
-D'Arcy Sahn Hilarious and lovely writing with good meanings
-Ena Alysopriano Powerful and phenomenal writing seriously life changingly exquisite
-Theara Steglaidias Incredibly spectacular poetry and such original fantastic ideas and well structured
-WickedHope Particularly relatable, BEAUTIFUL work AND poet
-Sir Poet Genuinely kind poet also STUNNINGLY superb and deep poetry
-Thomas A Robinson Excellent poet and poetry, fabulous work
-The Creep That Loved You Divinely marvelous poetry you need to read more than once and awesome poet (pretty awesome name too ;P
-Parsavagely Kompenere Unbelievably relatable and strikingly delightful deeply moving work and wildly talented poet
So yeah!
Check them out! :D
PLEASE REPOST THIS SO THAT AS MANY AS PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE GET INVOLVED IT WOULD BE COOL TO TELL LOTS OF OTHER PEOPLE ABOUT AWESOME POETS SO THEY GET OO ENJOY THEIR WORK TOO AND MAKE IT LIKE, A THING. 10 BEAUTIFUL POETS CHALLENGE. I ENOURAGE YOU TO PARTICIPATE! :)
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
Parents would prefer kids stay away
from these three jobs,
cause as they'd say
*There's no way to make any money.
At least you can sell paintings with art
or hock a few bucks with albums from your music.*
No parents encourage children into any of these gigs,
especially prophecy.
Today, a kid would be fed pills for breakfast
if they expressed any interest in becoming the next Jesus or Buddha.
Suppose Moses decided to go try an open mic comedy night
instead trading his commandments for a set list
but I bet his adopted parents would have lectured him just the same.
At least Moses would have gotten a few laughs.
The job descriptions are strikingly similar,
just like the outcome
a 50% chance the audience will applaud and chant
or watch you in heavy, maudlin silence... sweating nervously struggling
to maintain a sane face while raucous thoughts of loathing and doubt chew then spit out pieces of heart and soul forcing a confrontation of an emasculated existence for five to seven minute while....
whoa, hi, sorry.
Must've been having a flashback for a few seconds,
forgive me.
There is a difference though,
in the mindset of this trio.
A poet knows they're crazy,
a comic ponders if they're nuts
while a prophet thinks everyone else is just cuckoo.
I can see why parents don't want you to
go near these three jobs,
problem being, it's more of a calling than a culling,
and once it's answered,
all I can say is, well...
good luck.....
have fun.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
East, they said,
and east we went.
Onward, upward,
to what they called "The Ruins" at the mouth of Emigration Canyon
A failed building project that left nothing but a few giant curved brick walls.
We parked our vehicles and trekked up to the top of the highest wall.
Cracked open a few brews, sparked a few smokes and gazed.
We gazed out upon the twinkling lights of the Salt Lake valley.
Our view extending to every point of every mountain top creating a giant bowl of glimmering city soup.
I took a sip of my beer, a drag of a Lucky Strike,
and leaned back, my focus slowly fading from the valley, and directing itself upward to the vast sky, obstructed only by a few purple clouds.
The stars were bright and visible that night.
Maybe it was the cigarette, but in that moment I felt remarkably lucky.
The small talk, and jokes made among friends,
The beauty of everything now in sight,
and knowing how it was once nothing.
The thought of every light we could see from the valley containing people, currently living their lives,
We pondered,
How many people are crying?
How many laughing?
How many dying?
How many being born?
Reborn?
Our lives are strikingly meaningless,
And how beautiful is that?
The coyotes howling in the distance reminded us that the land was not ours to keep,
only ours to visit.
We had taken in all we could, for the time being, of an illimitable world.
We ventured downward, west,
and back to our lives,
insignificant as all the rest,
and tried to hold on the the feeling of being above it all.
Being
Boundless
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
the noodles are elegant, lovely and fair,
i see now there's a reason
why you're called angel hair.
buttery smooth, and golden light reflection
it's strikingly radiant
the epitome of perfection.
the sauce is as red as my cheeks
when one is deeply in love,
far higher than a mountain peak.
look, it flies in the saucepan
alluring is not a word to describe,
but truly, it's so hot, it needs a fan.
the meatballs are spheres of joy
what geometry could calculate its area?
though it ignores me, i tell it to not play coy.
how lovely the ringing sounds of sizzles,
light my ear with fireworks unheard,
oh, how my feelings are a shizzling!
oh spaghetti, my love, my joy, my life,
it's unnatural to see my tears fall on the plate.
you are my happiness, my leftover bowl of strife.
i mourn when there is none left
for breakfast in the morning,
but i dream of you when i go to bed.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
saving up your love for a rainy year,
scrounging and saving every fleeting smile and shallow kiss and
miserly, hunched over with the weight of your own suffering and despair,
each scrapped-together pile of crumpled-from-your-pockets shreds of I.O.U.s and featherlight touches.
too afraid to leap and risk, you'll never grow or invest your affections into the stocks of Lisa and George LLC, or Francis and Kelly Inc.
so your love is bound to crumble into fragile dust, the fruits of your labours withering into mouldy piles of seed, stem, and flesh.
the could-have-been and might-have-grown dying, before even living to flourish and erupt into glorious blooms of the strikingly ethereal and otherworldy.
but not for you, not ever for you.
you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
and you'll burn before planting your love.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
The sounds are astounding
My mind is completely at its wits end
The scents of our bodies
The compassion
Unison
****** and powerful intakes
The many desires are out spoken
Pain strikingly pleasurably
Stopping is impossible
Rapid thumps
This is serious
Becoming over the top
The gasps become groans
The sounds become screams
Names
We are climbing
The ******
The ground shaking truth
The beautiful
sensual release of it all
Our minds become faint
Our bodies now in a exhausted state
The heart is pounding
We drift
Into a seducing slumber
Until we wake again
For another addicting ******
******
Leon Wolf
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
you are all of the mind’s dirtiest trick:
a weathered image of Magdalena,
a sleight of hand and a swirl of skin.
defying the laws of inebriation like a culprit
set loose, or the pallor of the moon excreting its habiliments.
the old rancor of the tree from its spurious beating. vestal buds of autumn
frugal hands of drizzle in April, prostitutes pirouetting, pried open,
dissected in faces of the tabloids (their almost acrobatic supremacy on centerfolds)
all mangled like the unclear, yet certain picture of a 1990s havocked
retrospect.
you are all of the mind’s filth: a putrid modal-jazz entrapment
and I am that sad fellow at the elbow room of some dislimned establishment
falling as lithe as poppies in spring
only when my mind starts to sing freely, a clenched, harmonic framework
will my bones start to unloose in the ether, death with its ammoniac perfume,
closes in like an unwanted visitor with a bounty of silence drowning everything.
i imagine you anything but lustrous this evening.
there are certain points in the pressures of your gravity
that levitate to mere intersections of the finer points of ecstasy.
i imagine you all soft and plump as a word of salvage
without the vigor of blandishments when you start with your
own way of moving i imagine you as blunt as a dull knife
plunging into me – i imagine your sidereal satellites fail in their coverage
over impossibly the blackest of skies in February,|
i imagine you anything but clean
and all white and spruced up with the most
drenched light, real to the touch and swiftly moving across the afternoon
like wishing you all but perverse and anomalous
and strikingly beautiful.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
Dusk is busy with her daily bit of frenzied painting,
in the western horizon messed up by dark, fat, nimbus
with an intense wish to make it look strikingly different,
from that was in display yesterday and the day before.
The colors appear in fluorescent flashes and in the next
instance changed in to mixes of more ruddier hues
suggesting a separation, an invasion of black night long.
The beating blue waves of sea are all red with empathy
and the sun is pleased to come down for an ablution
in a sudden change of mind, swims to self immolation.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
Why does everything that makes sense
Get hung up on a fence?
And every thing that doesn't gets emergency delivery In an ambulance
So I'll just throw down lightning bolts like Zues while I'm in this booth
They tell me not to lie, but they can't handle the truth
A sinister minister lookin' for a simple cure
You can have my lady, cause she's just a lady and I don't call her baby, but maybe if it gets hot out you can give her back when I need it shady, cause she's a shady women she's a crazy lady
I'm kickin' down, tokin' up
Sipping down the fifth of jack in my cup
One night stands, smeared numbers on my hands, this wasn't my plan, but I'm takin' advantage while I can
Fall in lust for a perky bust, I can go forever before I bust
It's a must for me to leave you on the bus cause love won't get you into nothin' but a fuss
I know you feel like you trust, but I'm a rolling stone not your boss and don't you know the saying " a rolling stone gathers no moss"?
Why does everything that makes sense
Get hung up on a fence?
And every thing that doesn't gets emergency delivery In an ambulance
So I'll just throw down lightning bolts like Zues while I'm in this booth
They tell me not to lie, but they can't handle the truth
Strikingly frightening creating electricity with simplicity like lightning
And if you ain't heard this, it's worthless for me to be a wordsmith, you and your absurdness can go jump out a birds nest
Stay down when you hit the ground, go pound for pound
Or get on my level and go toe to toe with the devil
I'm hot as a tea kettle
Put me back on the stove,
watch me rise from the flame
and blossom like a rose!
Why does everything that makes sense
Get hung up on a fence?
And every thing that doesn't gets emergency delivery In an ambulance
So I'll just throw down lightning bolts like Zues while I'm in this booth
They tell me not to lie, but they can't handle the truth
-J.A.M
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
My 5 o’clock shadow shielded my 4 o’clock guilt
The shady gentleman in the corner is a no one
The man to his left, a soapbox of stilts
Still, a matchbook
Strikingly same
A celestial speaker
A back of green to maim
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
Time did not wash
Her memory away
Time could not
Her beauty fade
She was loved
by all who knew Her
So beautiful So perfect
Wonderful in every way
She always said
She was a singer
That modeling
was a lark
She was a
wondrous singer
and a strikingly
beautiful model
She then the rage
of all around
The stars were
then for Her arranged
She was like lightning
striking minds with beauty
and touching hearts
with caring joy
But love was what
She was all about
We shared our life
and shared our love
But tragedy struck
and we both moved on
Many years went by
when I got the
saddest news
that She was gone
Taken early in life
and now passed on
Oh my Precious Darling
Whom I still love
Now forever
alive no more
Yet still I pray God
She is blessed in Heaven
Because She was
so wonderful
in life on Earth.
-R.
(11.17)
-LA
-4B
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 6:06 PM UTC
"When you can't sleep,
Write poetry.
When you can't write,
Sleep.
When you can't do either,
It's time to dance away
The fear of strikingly crude words on paper.
The fear of dreams that foretell futures.
The fear that questions asked
Are not dismissed, but answered,
Honestly.
Dance away brief moments of distain.
Dance in the night's waves of raindrops,
Dance in the wind's minute synapses,
These moments are eternal
Within the mind."
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 12:41 AM UTC