i was once accused of writing too vertically, and, to me, that meant you will never be a poetand i never pretended to be. i only knew that i loved you, and i needed to tell someone about it. and that everything else, save writing for you, was a waste of my days, and the person i pretended to be while doing these other things was not a person at all
(
Read more... )
Comments 3
that, in itself, is poetry to me. i was waiting for the word after "of" and it hit me, belatedly. i felt like someone just kicked me a little. amazing, really.
Reply
your words are beautiful...
Reply
Remember that one time, when flight was happening by sound
On a December night that sang so sweet, we sat by the sea that dried out
And wind who wildly pounded on your sleepy ghost pullover first
Then twinkled a serenade so deep so shiny, entangle fibers, light
Behind us fields of heather purple-heated by the moonlight mild
Above us the dominion of stars felt the summon song and swallowed gravity
Asside us the oblivion of vanished verticality and melting perpendicularity
We flew for miles till the steady last refrain smiled how she is almost fading...
Left us by the road, right next by the the rock so grey
Amongs the roaring phantom waves just by the dry out bay
We heard them all the way to home, to bed and sleep
Reply
Leave a comment