cold teeth, chattering hymns. Come to me still feverish & holding on to hurt, ask me to show you what you're worth....Come to me, still lost at sea, with spare parts & bottled hearts shipwrecked. I'm your ribcage. (Amanda Torroni)
but still it was nothing. A tinge of no feelings and warmth. I am so cold, that I am no longer here. You may place your hand on my cheek, but I am no longer here. You can no longer feel me and when you enter the house, walk past me. Keep going until you lose memory of me...
"I'm passionate about poetry because I'm an oceanic person, meaning, I love what's underlying. I love the conversation that isn't just verbal. I love the shadowed mystery and waves and underground. If I had to choose one thing to read for the rest of my days, give me poetry as to...
To see my heart and soul.
No lips but yours,
Pressed firmly to mine,
Soft, warm, intoxicating...
No hands but yours,
To hold tenderly in my own,
To feel them moving over my body,
Thrilling and arousing me to my core.
No arms but yours,
Holding me and pulling me
So close to you...
ways you might like to think so, she did not have hair that dripped gold, her eyes were not the color of the cold sea , her smile was crooked and bent, her lips were chapped and thin. She did not have a gentle laugh nor did she speak humble thoughts but a she was beautiful in...
Where the silent moonlight falls. On the floor are mysterious footsteps. There are whispers along the walls. And mine at times is haunted. By phantoms of the past. As motionless as shadows. By the silent moonlight cast(Henry W. Longfellow
diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth
Then took the other, and just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted...
just shells,but the voice of the sea,the Moon and Sun reflected,the hands of the waterrushing to touch, rushingto pull me close and tell mestories of love and bitterness.I’ve collected the play and cryof gulls and doves and pelicans,the crawl of crabs, footprintsand hearts...
I seemed to have loved you numberless times, in numberless forms...
In life afer life, age after age, forvever.
My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,
That you take as a gift, wear around your neck in your many forms,
In life after life, in age after age...
and yet not starved;
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seen the sweetest thing under a roof.
Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite...
dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be ; she loves the bare, the withered trees; she walks the sodden pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am fain to list; she's glad the birds are gone away, she's glad her simple worst grey is silver...
that I made.
It's called 'A Rose On Concrete.' Tell me what you think!
"Dreams are nothing but absurd
That's what they choose to believe,
Oho! They must have never heard
About the rose that grew on the concrete,
Why do they choose to be blind
When the truth is there to see...
that you find in good mornings text and smiles the kind that comes with butterflies and stolen glances the kind where you laugh for no reason and a smile is forever glued on your face sweet simple, honest, pure...then there's the kind that finds you at a 2am phone calls and the...
You lie so still,
Like a work of art.
Where there was laughter,
Silence fills the ears,
Where there was joy,
Sorrow is reflected in my tears.
One is the loneliest number,
It does ring true,
The thing is I never really minded,
Until after you.
Friends to the grave!
that send letters
back to England three centuries ago,
no postage stamps that make letters
travel back until the grave hasn’t been dug yet,
and John Donne stands looking out the window,
it is just beginning to rain this April morning,
and the birds are falling into the trees...
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge --
'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her...
to feel what shall not be spoken of but only felt by your most sacred moments in time. To see what your heart feels, what you think as you observe your day, those thoughts you keep stacked away, always nagging at your skin, wanting to be released but not to be shared. I want to...
it's funny how hello is always accompanied with goodbye it's funny how good memories can start to make you cry it's funny how forever never seems to last it's funny how much you'd lose if you forgot about your past it's funny how “friends” can just...
Something deeply spiritual. The way we fall into one another so naturally like our love was carved of the earth. There star system bursting at our fingertips when we touch we're in tune. Our hearts croon the same old song. The universe planned for us. I know it, I know it..( B...
porque estás como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.
Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado
y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca.
Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma
emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía.
Mariposa de sueño, te...
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of...
and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have held me
till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered voices that not again
Will turn to me...
I do not grudge
My two strong sons that I have seen go out
To break their strength and die, they and a few,
In bloody protest for a glorious thing,
They shall be spoken of among their people,
The generations shall remember them,
And call them blessed;
But I will speak...
and black and beautiful. She drew it about her
like a shawl and so divided herself from the world
that not even Age could find her. Now and then she
steals into the men's societies and fits her voice
into their holiest songs. And always, just there,
is a shadow...
de una forma inconfesable,
de un modo contradictorio.
con mis estados de ánimo que son muchos,
y cambian de humor continuamente.
por lo que ya sabes,
el tiempo, la vida, la muerte.
con el mundo que no entiendo,
con la gente que no comprende,
have some work published some day (if the Hollywood superstar thing doesn't happen first)..but in case it takes a while here's her first published work..text to me by her elder sister this morning.
"I wonder why
The moon is high
It's like a pie
Up in the sky"
mind;bathing me in sweet acronyms,traced upon curve in calligraphywhile whispering in prose our dreamsand...he'd dip his quill; inking upon my skin,noun's and verb's I'd absorb into my heartthen...my poet, whispers again sweepingme off my feet in syllabic count;taking control of...
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again...
are like sugar on my tongue or the way velvet feels to the tips of fingers
I can’t stop wanting or touching, lusting for your blood where rumors in the night feed me such a sweet desire
crying out for my soul to step closer, closer I hear the...
after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half acre, square mile, island, country
knowing at last how you got there,
and say I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
there soft arms from around you,
the birds take...
A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.
They said, "You have a blue guitar,
You do not play things as they are."
The man replied, "Things as they are
Are changed upon the blue guitar."
And they said then, "But play, you must,
A tune beyond us, yet ourselves,
A tune upon...
a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown little wood, a pool that nobody's fathomed the depth of and paths threaded with flowers planted by the mind...Katerine Mansfield