Sweet Caroline
Your eyes gleam a story so untold by things that have evoked you to begin a lunar eclipse to see the shattered epitome of what they want to see
Your life has been theirs for a while, Nevertheless, you left the stage with no remorse for mistakes that were made during the scene
The secrets have consumed you and your true intentions of being a beautiful butterfly.
Tattooed on your body for the resemblance of your journey of growing out of their murmurs and hypocrisy.
Your lips tell me an intense ****** thought as your pretty little smile meets your soul and eyes at once.
How could you ever turn her down
A good girl with a good identity but a creature roaring of a silenced seductive innocence.
She feels so good
Never does she have to speak and you can still feel her eyes reaching for your soul.
The urge to grab her by the waist and tell her pretty little heart that she can rest assured
that her beautiful persona has bloomed into what's been hiding beneath her surface of swallowed emotions and risks.
She walks with freedom as she allows her feet to walk alone with no one over her shoulders
anymore.
When she wakes up she feels the anxiety of oversleeping from the terrors that chase her mind to exhaustion and trauma.
Why is it that we become addicted to a quiet being that walks with a broad spectrum of genuine expressions?
When you smile at me I feel the way your words walk up to your brain only to not speak on them but to roll your eyes to show the way you feel.
I hear you when you don’t speak I see you when you wish not to be seen.
Wander down something you’re afraid of but don’t want to be afraid of, meet me there.
You’re as soft as your impression.
Ocean eyes make me ponder on your adversities not spoken on
Addicted, not obsessed, addicted, now as I reassess your quietness I shall find your soft hands that I’ve not felt but only in my dreams.
Meet me on the 11th floor of your biggest secret and tell me if your heart is still healing from the carrier who consumed you and watched you walk.
Tell me if those hands are something you regret running into when you couldn’t sleep.
The absence of what could’ve been makes us crave discomfort and unforgivingness.
Show the world your heart is free and not abused though the memories you used to have led you to believe you couldn’t be you without reassurance and continuity.
My darling my fingertips wish to explore your soul and give you a home.
Oh, sweet Caroline.
Come home.
This is one of my favorite pieces I've ever written.
