You pressed the heels of your hands into the hollows
of your eyes, more like hammocks than bags yet still
packed with everything on your mind (so I guess the
imagery is right in the end). Sometimes I doubt if you
think of me of as good friend, because when I ask if you're alright
you tell me that you're fine, and I know it's not true. But then
your dams break and you spill your guts and I offer you tea
and cake, sad with your sadness but pleased with your trust.
I enjoy being trusted, because I tend to trust people.
I really want to explore the "bags under eyes" concept.
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 ♥
1 comment:
"sad with your sadness," love it.
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