It was a beautiful morning And nothing was wrong I woke up with that feeling Like a mockingbird song So cheerful and uplifting I felt that today Was going to be a good day One without troubles One without doubts One without fears I got up and got dressed I had breakfast and went to work I got back and had dinner So far nothing spectacular had happened the good feeling from the morning
Busy city, Lights flicker endlessly. On and off, Off and on. Cars zoom by, Traffic always jammed. Each light a story, Most aren’t shared. All seen from a distance, But never too close. Whispers in the wind, Most you don’t hear. Trapped in a cycle, Repeats, never ends. Wake up early, Long days end tired. But I know of one light, From an apartment window. It doesn’t catch your eye,
The plate wasn’t always blank. Before the dishwasher soap scrubbed it too clean I had drawn on it: A ladybug, red and black, Colors that squeaked As markers touched white porcelain— Special markers, she said. We each made a plate that day, One, two, three, lined up to dry, The extras still stacked in their box, White as the snow that had kept them there.
We are poets. We fell in love with tragedy and lusting over bittersweet. We reminisce and romanticize, waltzing around and toying with all we love and knock it down to capture that moment of beauty, unfurled and gritty, raw and real.
We sunk our teeth into each other and wrote about our radiant yellows and glittering whites. We dipped our fingers in inkwells and wrote on each other's shoulders.
At first, it's quiet. But not quite silent. It is a tranquillity. And there is still an unworldly presence that you can hear. A power. In it. In you. It is a tangible substance. Dense, oily, heavy. The power will engulf you. Crush you in its unyielding grip if you're not careful. For it is dangerous. But it is kind.
Second, a small swish. Your legs. Pumping furiously.
while we have this time together, i want to waste not a minute of it. the petrichor nights and the delicate days, i want to spend them all with you. i want to breath in the moon and its white stagnant light while our fingers get tangled in the constellations. i want for nothing but to write odes in the black ink of night and steal words from the lips of the earth. i have never liked the ocean,
Pick the pieces of my writing apart and look at them angrily, another day forced to smile trapped by your expectations of who I am supposed to be as I feel I am failing inside. Trying to keep it together, insanity beckons me, it would be a relief to bound out of the restraints of this forced sanity.
Sanity, what is sanity? is it the limited constraints of people who think so narrowly,
Cleaning up the attic, late at night, When I laid my eyes on a divine sight, Such was my delight it touched my heart, Cause beauty of that kind, Couldn’t be described even by the revered poets or bards.
My birthday was round the corner, perhaps it was god’s gift, Shining with his grace as the picture was, brightly lit, But I had a question, how unlikely though it may seem, Had I committed deeds so good,