(no subject)
Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away. ~Carl Sandburg, Poetry Considered
You need to pause...
to appreciate me and
the raindrops, as they cling to
the spiders web that connect my
fingers. Stop... and realize the
beauty of the widow, laying eggs
in my hair, contemplating the
butterfly that's caught
in my chest.
Put down that stick
little boy, don't try to ruin
the masterpiece
nature has made.
The dream was like a thousand black hawks
covering the sky; keeping the sun
from being seen with a thousand black locks.
As in a house of mirrors
whereas wherever you turn
it changes a bit, the maze seems to learn.
The key was taken, like a strict father
hides the chastity key to the belt of his daughter.
"And in that dream of death, what dreams may come?"
There is no way out
you must face your fears and fight
mustn't cry, it'll blur your sight of the enemy coming
from everywhere and nowhere
You're back in the house of mirrors,
Do you see your fearful face?
It's all become clear.
----this last one I'm still working on a bit-----
I can squeeze my eyes shut... or keep them open.
Not that it matters... you're all around me, fresh and often,
scenes of passion in your eyes, your focus on the melody
and taste the notes that hang in the air.
Strength so gently strumming, every moment is so sweet
I want to kiss each memory that dances across your mind.
The vibrations from your guitar, happily laying in your lap forever
baring my soul, pour yourself in, my eternal waterfall.
Your mist a million new memories, the rocks laying beneath
a foundation as I stand in the in the pool of your music,
the water constantly rising, surrounding me with peace.
I can feel your sun beaming down in apparent rays,
and I smile. Because I am home.
Ugh. It's like a thousand degrees in my room. The window is wide open, I'm not wearing pants, and the heat is practically off, I don't know what else to do. FML. I hate being hot.
You need to pause...
to appreciate me and
the raindrops, as they cling to
the spiders web that connect my
fingers. Stop... and realize the
beauty of the widow, laying eggs
in my hair, contemplating the
butterfly that's caught
in my chest.
Put down that stick
little boy, don't try to ruin
the masterpiece
nature has made.
The dream was like a thousand black hawks
covering the sky; keeping the sun
from being seen with a thousand black locks.
As in a house of mirrors
whereas wherever you turn
it changes a bit, the maze seems to learn.
The key was taken, like a strict father
hides the chastity key to the belt of his daughter.
"And in that dream of death, what dreams may come?"
There is no way out
you must face your fears and fight
mustn't cry, it'll blur your sight of the enemy coming
from everywhere and nowhere
You're back in the house of mirrors,
Do you see your fearful face?
It's all become clear.
----this last one I'm still working on a bit-----
I can squeeze my eyes shut... or keep them open.
Not that it matters... you're all around me, fresh and often,
scenes of passion in your eyes, your focus on the melody
and taste the notes that hang in the air.
Strength so gently strumming, every moment is so sweet
I want to kiss each memory that dances across your mind.
The vibrations from your guitar, happily laying in your lap forever
baring my soul, pour yourself in, my eternal waterfall.
Your mist a million new memories, the rocks laying beneath
a foundation as I stand in the in the pool of your music,
the water constantly rising, surrounding me with peace.
I can feel your sun beaming down in apparent rays,
and I smile. Because I am home.
Ugh. It's like a thousand degrees in my room. The window is wide open, I'm not wearing pants, and the heat is practically off, I don't know what else to do. FML. I hate being hot.