My Dearest Summer, Hurry please! We long
for warmth and sunlight only you can bring.
We want for flowers, birds (they, singing, belong
in trees). Follow quickly after Spring,
if you cannot find your way. We lay
waiting on the beaches, sprawled among
the pools and sun prone places, wiling away
our time. Patient for your touch, the young
and old alike sit sighing at their doors,
ready to rush into your light. Embrace
us once more, dear summer! Hardwood floors
covet your conductive heat. People’s faces
yearn for color. So Summer, I’m on my knees!
If you can (or can’t), make haste, please!
OH MY GOODNESS
I didn't think that I could write in anything even resembling structure, but I tried my hand at sonnets a bit ago and discovered that I love them.
This one was inspired by Alia ♥
I like writing poetry. Not all of it is going to be a historical epic or an ode to something. These are like little glimpses of the subway in my mind; my train of thought isn't always artsy or symbolic or deep or meaningful, but I like to think that art takes ordinary things and makes people see a sort of beauty in them. So, look around- I've been doing this for a while. Enjoy ♥
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Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Poetic
I was a poet, in my dream. Kisses fell like snow falls like I cannot recall upon wakening. Words embraced me in my mind and I never wanted to leave them behind, but they flew from my mouth to fly south with all the other birds of paradise. Even my goodbyes left me, and all I could do was what I know- hold and love and kiss like snow.
I have a lot of weird dreams, in case it wasn't obvious.
I have a lot of weird dreams, in case it wasn't obvious.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Cowardly
I wrote the letters fully intending to send them to their recipients and then I would be free. I was very pleased when I finished my writing, and tucked them in a pocket of my notebook. Since then, I haven’t even looked at the folded things. Maybe I fear that if I touch them they will sprout wings, and then they will be free.
Stupid letters.
Stupid letters.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Demise
Someone twists a knife in my gut, and I cannot see. I fight against the attack, but I’m only fighting me. Every time I think of him- the way his hair blew in the wind, the color of his eyes, the way his voice rumbled when he said goodbye- I am the cause of my own demise.
Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself...
Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself...
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