"supposes" poems
Estimate tells us the avg. height
of a female in the U.S. is 64 inches.
This is quantitative. Unfeeling of prospect,
the numbers fascinate and baffle.
Recent estimation supposes
1500 active volcanoes on the earth of which
500 have erupted since history,
the invention of writing.
Such a short time ago.
Measuring in quantities, the earth is
4.5-4.6 billion years old.
Creatures of like sentience who never wrote about
volcanoes, the age of their earth.
Quantities hum of something borrowed.
So tight-wound, so deeply close, and yet still.
Something not ours.
Blind, free of invention.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
Write something honest.
Write something true.
For you. I know it's hard.
I know it hurts.
I know you're terrified and shaking,
I know the words feel sick in your mouth and **** you,
I don't want to be sick, I don't want to be here,
but you must.
We must.
Keep writing.
No,
Focus.
Focus on me, baby.
Focus on your fingers,
your tongue tracing the words behind your teeth.
Focus on the rhythm, the cadence of keys clicking,
the calm of a storm having raged.
Having sought, having not found and broken, but still breathing.
You are still breathing, aren't you?
Am I?
**** you,
**** me for thinking this was a good idea.
No, wait.
Don't say that just yet.
Don't surrender before the fighting's begun.
Don't look if you never planned to leap.
Don't preach with no intent to prac-
No. You, Wait.
You sit and ******* wait awhile.
There.
Where I can see you.
Don't pretend that pretending isn't what we're good at.
What we're made for.
Don't spill your secrets like the world will thank you.
The world doesn't give a ****
The world doesn't care,
about your slights, your dreams, your fantasies.
No one gives a **** about your hopes.
No one's going to cry along with you, so stop it.
Shut up.
Honesty is for the virtuous,
and we, have all of us sinned,
again and again.
Your vulnerability supposes anyone would care to read...
Why?
When we'd all rather write?
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 9:21 PM UTC
She doesn’t let herself think about it anymore. She has a schedule now, a timetable, something that might look like a life if you don’t scratch the surface too hard.
Wake up, call the hospital. Tend her garden, call the hospital. Get driven to the hospital and sit with Dean for hours, hours, hours, go home, cry. Lather, rinse, repeat. The only thing that changes in her life is the sky and the inversion it brings.
She walks on the sky when it clouds, because it’s more solid and sure under her feet than the traitorous ground that swallowed her children whole.
She bargains when it rains, to God or Big Brother or Allah or the deity of the day, because if the Jehovah’s Witnesses are right and their god is a merciful god, He will give her family back.
Once there was an earthquake and she smiled so wide she thought her face would hurt, stood between two rickety, heavy bookcases, prayed that she would die.
The most tragic part of her life is that she doesn’t. She knows this, knows it runs through the marrow of every bone in her body, which has to be why they all ache when they see the sunrise, as if to say another day, another tragedy .
Today she wakes before the sun and hugs her knees to her chest, sits there for a good three hours after he’s called the hospital and heard the same thing as always - the only thing that changes in her life is the sky - “We’re sorry, Mrs. N----, he’s the same.” Every day it’s the same, the same, the same-
-but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Same dingy cab, same crotchety driver, same stale cigarette smell. She lets herself smoke in here because if she’s lucky that’ll **** her first, but she doesn’t fool herself into believing that. Her luck ran out the moment she heard that shot from the door, heard her husband scream and saw all the blood staining the foyer-
But she’s not thinking about that. She’s smoking and she’s listening to the sound of the tires pummeling the ground mercilessly and she’s thinking maybe I should be that ground and she’s not making much sense at all, because she doesn’t sleep anymore and she thinks she might be halfway to insane by now.
They pull up outside the hospital. She’s always surprised her feet haven’t worn a track in the ground yet that leads straight to Dean’s room. She supposes she doesn’t need one.
She pushes the door open and the spark of hope he can never suppress dies with a silent scream, because Dean is the same, her life is the same, she’s the same and the same and the same and she hates it.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
The flapping of the listeners ears.
Their meddling noses.
Careering through the undergrowth
Thick skinned and worthy of massive respect.
Their ears listen,
But sadly their eyes didn’t see.
The poachers passing by the Baobab tree.
The huge noble beasts.
No-one supposes.
That elephants ever forget.
That’s what the people say.
I guess they forgot the sound of the poachers’ guns.
And they’re probably not scared of mice either.
Mice are pretty nice as well.
© Livvi
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,
With doors that none but the wind ever closes,
Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;
It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.
I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;
‘I wonder,’ I say, ‘who the owner of those is.’
‘Oh, no one you know,’ she answers me airy,
‘But one we must ask if we want any roses.’
So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly
There in the hush of the wood that reposes,
And turn and go up to the open door boldly,
And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.
‘Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?’
’Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses.
‘Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!
’Tis summer again; there’s two come for roses.
‘A word with you, that of the singer recalling—
Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is
A flower unplucked is but left to the falling,
And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.’
We do not loosen our hands’ intertwining
(Not caring so very much what she supposes),
There when she comes on us mistily shining
And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.
2.6k
She sits in the back of classes
Answers all the questions
As if there to her all alone.
She annoys those around
Like no other.
She spews out another answer,
And sits back with a smug smile.
She thinks she just a little better then the rest.
She basks in the glow of self satisfaction,
Looking disdainfully down on those around her.
All the While insulting those who laugh or smile,
as if their Happiness annoys her most of all.
Do you think when she looks around,
And realizes she has no friends,
That she just supposes she’s too good for them?
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
Vous êtes brune et pourtant blonde,
Vous êtes blonde et pourtant brune...
Aurais-je l'air, aux yeux du monde,
D'arriver tout droit de la lune ?
Et cependant, on peut m'en croire,
Vous êtes l'une et l'autre chose
Comme Vous êtes blanche et noire,
Des cheveux noire et de chair, rose.
Mais peut-on dire dans le monde,
La plaisanterie est commune :
« Si votre belle Amie est blonde,
Elle est blonde, elle n'est pas brune ».
À moins d'arriver de la lune,
Peut encor dire tout le monde :
« Si votre belle Amie est brune,
Elle est brune, elle n'est pas blonde ».
Pourtant ! le savez-vous mieux qu'Elle ?
Leur répondrai-je (Tu supposes)
Eh bien ! moi, je ne sais laquelle
Elle est le plus de ces deux choses.
Bien que personne n'y consente
Et qu'elle semble inconséquente,
C'est une brune languissante
Et c'est une blonde piquante.
Aurais-je la bonne fortune
De mettre d'accord tout le monde,
Concédez-moi donc qu'elle est brune,
Je vous accorde qu'elle est blonde.
Elle a, pour faire à tout le monde
Une concession encore,
Une longue mèche de blonde
Dans ces cheveux bruns, qui les dore.
Enfin, je vous dis qu'elle est brune,
Je vous répète qu'elle est blonde,
Et si j'arrive de la lune,
Je me moque de tout le monde !
Après tout, ce n'est pas ma faute
Si, sous ses longs cheveux... funèbres,
Le corps blanc dont votre âme est l'hôte
A du soleil... dans ses ténèbres.
2.4k
i was beefing with another girl
in a two year old inconsistent blip
summer by summer, mad then silent
churning of the rapid water hourly
get nothing done at all, but fall into
a rotation without a darker cause
simply forgetting what it was
exactly that started it
whatever was curved
around the dusky breeze, bro
overtook the over the shoulder look
vortexes into a lazy bubbly whirl
in the lake we would hang out by
i’ll come around if you do
but we don’t talk
like we used to on the way
to the supermarket
but i’m on my way
to the “lost and free as i could be
me”
it’s as all i’m meant to be
supposes me, supposes you.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC
Learning and unlearning
Goes in full circle
Learning is the pathway anybody is supposed to take
Nowadays information is packaged in the way to us
That unlearning has also been one of the essentials
Learning neither has a start
Learning nor has an end
The learning to unlearn
Is a most nowadays
Unlearning
A kind of learning too
Learning is a process
A never ending process
But one supposes it to be an effect
Hence we aim learning
Supposedly has some destined milestone
So we take a step to learn
A scenario
Not perceiving that learning is a process
But a destiny to achieve
Leads to a controlled way of knowing
Only limited things
That we already planned to know
Here we know things
But only that are predestined
But don't learn about what is going around
And not learn what really learning process is
The controlled way of such learning
Leads to limited perspective
And limited ways of thinking
A scenario
What was to be learned
Was gathered previously
Hence the accomplishments such ways
Brings about the sense of pride
And oneself attaches to it
The attachment now leads the learning to stop
Gradually within oneself
As the long awaited accomplishment is achieved
There may not be room for further learning
As hard work has been done already
Creativity tends to vanish
Ego sets to feel in and within.
The time passes on
Some years go by
Time's they are changing
Oneself is in the same state of knowledge as before
No creativity endures
There resides the gap of the learning and knowledge
Brings about the gap in understanding
Now it demands to having the before learned unlearn
This only sets the room for learning
In the present and the time to come
Hence, a full circle
Of learning and unlearning
A fresh start
Trying to learn
Now the learning goes on and on
And on and on
It does not have a destiny to accomplish
It goes on to eternity
The true learning begins
The oneself now feels no pride
But humility and kindness in learning
Is the sole path of learning
A sole path to awakening.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 11:10 AM UTC
There is, one supposes, a certain nobility
In simply carrying on with the whole **** thing,
Though that assumes some epiphany,
Some clawing toward grace, or at least common decency.
He had, in some once upon a time,
Cast his lot with a better class of people, so to speak;
It had not ended well, though,
In line with how such things are resolved,
His fall not a spectacular, tempestuous thing,
But a gradual, veiled affair, not a fiery spectacle
With metaphorical medals cut away, epaulets stripped,
But a shaded silence, a shrouded yet palpable shunning.
And so he is here, in this fading little city
Perched forlornly on the banks of a nondescript little river,
Having taken an apartment above a pair of offices
(One occupied by a seemingly ancient and disinterested lawyer,
The other by an ostensible private investigator)
Which is sufficiently large and reasonably warm
Come the seemingly perpetual winter.
He lives, if not in such a manner
As he was once accustomed to, comfortably enough:
He has his practice, and an adjunct position
At the little cow college down the road in Alfred,
And there are the occasional women,
Sad divorcees marooned in this hill country,
Dewy-eyed undergraduates unable to discern
Suit coats that are a bit shabby and somewhat passe
(There is a haberdasher in Buffalo whose garments
Are in the neighborhood of up-to-snuff,
And he could certainly manage a trip
Down to New York for better tailoring,
Though he would be traveling in places and circles
Where he is not remembered fondly.)
Stepping outside, he encounter snowflakes,
Light and unprepossessing,
But he studies the sky anxiously, apprehensively
(One learns that he must pay Nature its due fealty in these climes,
And give into the primal, the instinctual)
For he knows what can transpire
When the wind blows off the big lake out west just so,
Turning innocuous flurries into a malevolent blankness,
Making the landscape inscrutable, alien, utterly terrifying.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
We shot the movie
in chrome-based Black and White
Thinking we were '80's hipsters
with a sharp postmodern overbite
And three days later
we were cracking up
in the editing room
over a three-way monologue
on horrible lighting
in midday TV living rooms
Well that was July
and now August is ******* us off
My fashionably long hair is turning mulleted
and I've picked up
an off-season cough
And now you're somewhere in Brooklyn
trying to catch a break
Your hair's been cut
into a schoolboy's bob
and your new friends all
look like fakes
I'd never thought it'd be you
when I'm staring at a screen
it's funny how later in life
we focus
on what we once thought
were inbetweens
Our old friend is working like a robot
trying to make the weekend fit
I guess he supposes it's better
to be lit up just for christmas
than for the constant party graveyard shift
And I guess I'm supposed to believe you
when you tell me
"it's all still pretty fun"
eating beans for breakfast and supper
and spending Saturday nights on your own
But maybe I'm just jealous
there's probably a lot of truth in that
I suppose i'm just getting nostalgic
for the days when I was the only boy
who could make you laugh
The three of us never cut it off too severely
so I'm banking on that long weekend
were we'll meet up in some ex-undergrad hangout
and pretend we're all still best friends
"If we were born five years earlier"
Remember, I used to tell you
"We all won't be so cursed
I guess you were right in saying,
"our lives are going to take on the plot
of Metropolis, but in reverse"
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
Our garden's masterpiece,
Fairies in each fleur-de-lis,
Blossoms of gauzy glory,
Perennial veils of fairy stories,
Beribboned spangled treasury,
Fairies flitting so flowery,
Our queen of ruby roses,
Posies for all, one supposes,
Flowerets the best cuddle,
Essence of Spring, residual,
There are fairies in the flowers in the garden,
One ruby rose--then a garland!
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
Cat three-tooth, cat stone-deaf, cat sidewinder walk,
Old Bealman stalked the croaking, the croaking,
with forepaws meek stroking
airs of a summer cool night.
*Bealman, Bealman, Meow & Sealman,
Pacing, still racing, one two three man.
Bealman—frog fisher & free.*
Delphinium, the roses, lupine interposes
a shadow of fortressed green leaf
disguises the notion my Bealman supposes—
to seize, dismember it through,
make self-concocted, dishering frog stew.
*Bealman, Bealman, Meow & Sealman,
Pacing, still racing, one two three man.
Bealman—frog fisher & free.*
Night hours accounting, morning’s surmounting,
a bird warning Bealman, his patience to thin.
Croaking still blending, a flower stalk was bending,
two legs, peaking out, sent Bealman straight in.
*Bealman, O my Bealman, Meow & Sealman,
Pacing, still racing, one two three man.
Frog fisher & free.*
I saw Bealman beaming; I saw Bealman beaming.
How cats manage beaming I’ll wonder again.
Since Bealman was twenty, any beaming is plenty.
I loved my old Bealman, my frog fisher friend.
Bealman, Bealman, My Meow Dear Sealman,
Bealman—frog fisher & free.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC
Snow (January 1935) - Poem by Louis Macneice
The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.
And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes –
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one’s hands –
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.
Louis Macneice..
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
I don't need a mirror to remember who I am
I don't know how long you've been gone
I don't know how long I've been alone
She's gone now
I barely remember
I've scarred myself to bring little pieces back
I close my eyes and try to picture
I now indulge in the details I never bothered to mention
You were taken in a brutal fashion
Now I’m the embodiment of a laceration
My ability stolen
Now I live but only for revenge
Life doesn't just stop when you close your eyes
How am I supposes to heal if I can't feel time
I can't remember to forget you
I've burned trucks loads of your stuff
When they took your life
They took mine too
I've lost it all
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
She sits on her bed
brushing her long brown hair
with the brush
her mother gave her.
She has had a bath,
needed after being
with him,
the way he was,
and for so long.
The bath so relaxing,
the water just right,
being able to lay there,
water over her,
suds from the borrowed
bath stuff( Gabrielle
need never know),
she feeling the water
fondling about her *******
washing him off,
dissolving him
in the suds.
She brushes him out
of her hair,
each long stroke
and a bit more of him
is gone.
She stops and thinks.
Mid air the brush
and hand stay.
Was it always that way?
No, there was a time
when seeing him
was a pleasure,
she actually used to get
excited when he
was to come,
actually looked forward
to his presence,
his love making,
the things he used to do,
the way he did them.
Now, she dreads him
being there,
making love to her,
his fingers in her hair.
She brushes again,
downward strokes,
takes out the knots
that gather at the ends.
Was it ever love?
Was it other than physical?
Just a game of the ******
She puts down the brush
and gazes at herself
in the old fashion mirror.
Still passable,
still presentable,
still has it in bucketfuls
as he used to say.
But, no,
she supposes not,
never really got to her heart,
never quite made it that far.
Liar, she tells herself,
you loved him more
than any other,
used to lay awake
at night thinking of him
and his next call,
it wasn't just *** after all.
No, I suppose not,
there was that strong
element of love,
that other than just
the physical,
other than the ******
But that makes it worse
not better,
the fact I loved him once,
she tells herself,
takes it deeper,
takes it to the core
of the heart,
that place where each
string of nerve,
each particle of being
is torn open
like a ripe fruit
and ****** dry.
She's just had ***
with him,
just the physical,
just the lying down
and taking it bit.
Now, she loves him not,
the lying, cheating ****
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
Sat in the car at the back of beyond.
Beyond reasoning what I'm doing here.
I fear.
Anti clockwise rhythms, rhyming with the guy who's nice.
My head's obliterated and my heart is cool as ice.
He's a box of soppy.
She's a box of stroppy.
Confusing muses puzzling.
Nudging.
Percolating.
Brewing.
Never beer or whine I fear.
She supposes she can maybe love him again.
After the sunshine blew thunder and rain.
Maybe a little love be retained.
Enigmatic future.
(c) Livvi
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
Dark hair. Two pins, keeping each other company.
Green eyes like transparent emeralds
and skin like porcelain dolls
carried by a loving girl
given by her mother
taken by none, until later.
Through the city I make my stroll
but I've already gone and paid my toll.
Hair like slinkys left outside too long
curling thrown aside, up, and away
eyes like thunderstorms over blue sea
watched by lovers
fled by less than lovers
never closed, until later.
Through the city we make our stroll
but I've already gone and paid our toll.
Have you seen the cafe? the one with the pig
inside, licking peoples feet and running about
like a dog with no training, like a person with
no idea what they should be doing?
I challenge you, O my love to challenge me.
do I bring out a potbelly pig in myself with you?
isn't that what you wanted?
It would be cute, if I could manage it. maybe l8r.
Through the park we take our walk,
never really needing or wanting to talk.
mango tea and meltdown tears
don't do anything to my existing fears.
They just bring me along, again, to feel closer,
to convince you that you're not simply a poser
but a person that's more than you. more than me.
Thus saith the lord, the lord of hosts.
Around the lake you start to talk,
and I listen closely while we take our walk.
Hissing geese and widowed ducks
only show the gratitude of those things
that are happy to recieve your bread of life
and my grin of awe at you, feeding them.
Hair like palm trees in the wind, tall, thick
happy to have you under his care, he supposes,
but even happier to have you in his arms
watched by others
envied by more.
never saying goodbye.
Hair, getting longer. Have you pearl earrings?
two pins saying hello to the top of a desk
and to the rim of a crystal cup
lips like a rose petal, touched by one in my hand.
Lips carried by mine,
given by both,
taken by none other, evermore.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC
Glad Roses . . .
I can fix sad roses . . ., she says
And her smile confirms
Like rain on the earth
That indeed sad roses
Is familiar turf.
But it’s not so easy
This task in my mind
The world with its roses
Is definitely blind.
They’re scentless you see
And sad for that reason
These roses I give
No matter the season.
So it isn’t the wilt from
Stem to the hilt
Nor the mad range of
Colors that drives me so sad.
But the lack of a scent
And the image it recalls
That hammers at my heart,
Raises my walls.
I can fix sad roses
Her smile supposes . . .
As she arrays them in a vase
Then turns and pauses
At the frown she can see
Is still on my face.
So she takes my hand and
Pulls me in a way
That suggests dancing
As we begin to sway.
And it’s then that my senses
Pick up the scent
Of timeless embraces
And memories well spent.
I can fix sad roses.
I can here her voice murmur . . .
And her smile is my smile
As we waltz down the aisle
And the laughter we hear
Is from a child at play
Or a family gathered
At the end of the day.
And the roses are real
Red, white, and yellow
And the music is moving
And her touch smooth and mellow.
And its night on our porch swing
In a light breeze
And the roses are shadows . . .
With a backdrop of trees.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
In the gutter she sits.
It's raining again.
The drain is calling to the bobbing twig.
The twig that she snapped from the sapling.
She's so bored,mummy's at work again.
Now she's sitting in the rain.
Ripples at the flow with her cheap laced up shoes.
Her shoes all stained with salty water residue.
Kicking at the water.
She truly is her mother's daughter.
Stubborn to the rotten core.
Mother's job is not too pleasant.
She's a pheasant plucker.
She always works on rainy days.
Her daughter knows not what she does.
Mummy says it won't be long.
You know she needs the money.
She oughts go home.
But she'll still be alone.
The owl in the tree at roadside suggests she finds a towel.
Great notion, but little lassie can't speak owl.
The sky's wide open now.
It's pouring frown.
Releasing it's stress.
Wet shoes, wet skirt.
Sodden hair, soggy vest.
Supposes she really should go home.
Her hair's just a dripping mess.
Soggy tresses.
Time to go home little girl.
Mummy may be worried.
(c) Livvi
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 5:13 PM UTC
the star of the star of the morning
is restful and breathful and free
the star of the star of the evening
blossoms dark as a shadowy tree,
the waves drive out far in their rivers
as blue as a star in the sky,
and the darkness relents for her shivers
must finally die.
waves turning and burning and dancing
clouds wandering e'er ever on
and the darkness that finds the new morning,
as cold as stark night's bitter song,
oh, brother who wept for my sisters
no tears as alive as their breath
swept out where the wild sea blisters
and pain knows of death.
wild whispers, wild birds and the fury
of waves that sing out to the clouds
the death then of life that we bury
laid out in the whitest of shrouds
the sea, oh, the sea, how she sings me
a song of a dance never sung
and her rhythms soon calm and placate me
her bell solemn rung.
and sweet love is the journey i strive for
as blue as a mysterious sea
and the love is a fruit full of succor,
and the moment will live e'er free,
you stand tragic as a painting so mournful
alone as a poet who rests,
and the lull of the storms here at night fall
the sea's treasure chests.
the day wraps the night in her roses
and night wraps the day in her sight
and midnight's soft moonlight supposes
that day is a journey e'er bright,
and love was a love still forever
and love had no rose in her bower
for the floor of the sea like a feather
the delicatest flower.
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 7:45 AM UTC
Abortion for some is a stubborn memory,
Mistakes, a mishap, a brutal ****
Shameful memories that wasn’t call for
Unwanted Fetus, no more abortion
Said the lawmakers
No more jobs, for the clinics
no more work for the undertakers:
no more daily entries to birth registry
Women, has the right to choose
Lawmakers has the power to brutally
Say we don’t care: closed all abortion clinics down
Let the fetus grows, and become a man
And brutally **** again,
Lawmakers had the power to choose
A ****** can continue to **** and impregnated again:
*Charles Dickens (1812–70)
QUOTATION:
If the law supposes that,” said Mr. Bumble,… “the law is a ass—a idiot. If that’s the eye of the law, the law is a bachelor; and the worst I wish the law is that his eye may be opened by experience—by experience*
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 3:34 PM UTC
Will you stop pouring paint into my ears while I’m asleep
The dreams are nice but I have to address the pigeons
perched on the window in the morning
what are these you tuck inside ice cream sandwiches
They taste like Indio during spring
Let’s go to the coast and have the ocean temp us with freedom
Like it used to
Remind me of the clouds, untouchable to everyone except fireworks
And the children who light them, even if it’s only for a second
I suppose I can’t stop you from painting inside me
Just be careful of the water lilies you left
Pour all the colors inside me, I supposes
Feed me to seagulls, they’ll **** me out somewhere over Nantucket
And some tourist will say
wow!, that lighthouse is so colorful
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
That which slips by is time.
He reaches a point in life filled with dismay
And supposes it is here that he shall stay.
Her presence will do him well, well enough
That you could stretch and almost call it love.
And there is no point to wish or yearn
For they reached the point of no return.
And they will do just fine.
Thank god this story isn't mine.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC