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Literature Text
You don't have to say another word
To a stranger it might seem absurd
But I can understand before you speak
This doesn't happen if a bond is weak
I can hear you speaking with your heart
The words are clear right from the start
This is a blessing I can understand
It's almost like my heart is in your hand
Your voice can tell more then you think
Hidden emotions broadcast through our link
Sometimes I read your face just like a book
I would feel each quake if your life shook
Do you see the understanding in my eyes?
Or feel the warmth caused by these butterflies?
Can you hear me speaking with my core?
Sending messages I have never sent before
Your mouth is open and your eyes are wide
It seems you've heard me speak to you inside
If you can understand those words I've said
You're really listening with more then your head
To a stranger it might seem absurd
But I can understand before you speak
This doesn't happen if a bond is weak
I can hear you speaking with your heart
The words are clear right from the start
This is a blessing I can understand
It's almost like my heart is in your hand
Your voice can tell more then you think
Hidden emotions broadcast through our link
Sometimes I read your face just like a book
I would feel each quake if your life shook
Do you see the understanding in my eyes?
Or feel the warmth caused by these butterflies?
Can you hear me speaking with my core?
Sending messages I have never sent before
Your mouth is open and your eyes are wide
It seems you've heard me speak to you inside
If you can understand those words I've said
You're really listening with more then your head
Literature
left
there comes an evening
each october
when spring is broken:
winter sweeps back in,
swallowing the coast.
the hours are drawn,
long, and quiet -- save
for storming wind --
where pride recedes
to leave the heart
ill-watched, unguided,
for this eve only,
to remember what it has lost.
hands, thick with cold,
shallow-lung'd and lonely,
waiting for chamomile to steep,
sleep to steal:
as the night ticks through
each moment is meticulous,
sliced clean from next
by key-stroke --
throat-formed,
shaped on tongue to fit:
each syllable is moulded
carefully composed,
pressed to curves by thumb
and folded
until, at last,
something of beauty is wrought
Literature
i only asked for the end of the world
"i found shadows in the sun again,"
i looked at her
with a gleam of sarcasm in my eyes,
as she looked down with wind in her hair.
the night looked lovely on her.
the purple of post-nebula progression
it made her eyes look electric blue
though they were a soft green.
"i said, i found shadows on the sun again."
she'd never look up unless
she couldn't breathe and needed
to pull a sigh out of her butterfly winged lungs.
and that bothered me;
- she'd refuse to breathe
only because the air seemed
un-enough.
she'd give up so easily sometimes.
i run out of pretty things to say
Literature
The Death Within Life
Raging Seas
Dark skies
Endless tears
Cold fires
That is what life is.
No fairy godmothers
or knights in shining armor.
Only witches and cauldrons
recipes for disaster.
There are no three wishes
or steeds that fly.
No hero, no powers,
certainly no rewinds.
Life is but time
flowing forward.
Spent by little moments
we call ours.
It is never enough,
not once.
Fragments engraved
they're left to remain.
Not even our mind, our knowledge
can prolong our hours.
To live them as they come
seconds remembered, never forgotten.
To let them pass
by our envy and our pride.
No wonder we are fools
both then and now.
Not one of us
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Originally, I wanted to write about the nonverbal connection between two people connected by a special bond. And while I feel I did that, somehow it feels like it's transformed into something a little deeper. Perhaps I'm looking into what I've written too deeply, but that's what I see.
It came together rather nicely, and it was nice to change things up. I used a different format for this one, and that's always nice to do. It's a personal poem, but I suppose I can say all my poems have pieces of me hidden in them too. That's just part of the beauty of writing.
I hope you enjoy it!
It came together rather nicely, and it was nice to change things up. I used a different format for this one, and that's always nice to do. It's a personal poem, but I suppose I can say all my poems have pieces of me hidden in them too. That's just part of the beauty of writing.
I hope you enjoy it!
Comments11
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This is so beautiful, I love the connection you describe here and it is an amazing one 
You really feel this poem 
So beautiful
You really feel this poem So beautiful