Each delicate petal enticing
my touch. To stroke fingertips
upon it’s solitude of fragility.
Disrupting it’s growth and causing
it to wane. Fingers pluck the porcelain
petals, slowly one at a time until
it’s left bare, broken. A shell of
what once was. For it entices no
more, and now weeps as it lays dying.
would consume us.
Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment
“Look at me, you may think you see
Who I really am, but you’ll never know me
Every day, it’s as if I play a part.
Now I see if I wear a mask,
I can fool the world but I cannot fool my heart.
I am now in a world where I
Have to hide my heart and what I believe in
But somehow I will show the world
What’s inside my heart and be loved for who I am.
Who is that girl I see starting straight back at me?
Why is my reflection someone I don’t know?
Must I pretend that I’m someone else for all time?
When will my reflection show who I am inside?
There’s a heart that must be free to fly.
That burns with a need to know the reason why!
Why must we all conceal what we think and how we feel?
Must there be a secret me I’m forced to hide?
I won’t pretend that I’m someone else for all time
When will my reflection show who I am inside?”
~Wilder and Zippel
Don’t look to the stars, look at your hands.
This is what I was meant for.
The warmth of your palms,
To trace the hard calloused plains.
Whisper to me your truths and I shall
convet them in my heart.
So hold tight my Love, for I vow never
to let you go.
For this is what I was meant for.
Reality is harsh
It’s cold breath leaving the
tell tell marks.
Skin ripped from bones
The ravished carcase
left upon the dirt for the vultures