A person who will listen and not condemn
Someone on whom you can depend
They will not flee when bad times are here
Instead they will be there to lend an ear
They will think of ways to make you smile
So you can be happy for a while
When times are good and happy there after
They will be there to share the laughter
Do not forget your friends at all
For they pick you up when you fall
......
I rot in the death bed of which my own dreadful comfort resides, faintly hearing the whispers of a beloved planet that was destroyed by a change of climate within my heart.
Most days are spent in silent artistry, surrounded by means of expression made to make you feel.
Consuming media that taunts and pokes at your twisted version of peace melts me into a puddle of red tears, created by my own frustration.
A knife hesitantly presses to my thigh, scraping back and forth with the gentleness of a feather blowing away in the wind after an explosion.
Never once did it bleed me.
Looking around my cage, I find the scent I once treasured now peeks behind a black object of corruption, mocking my struggle.
Any evidence of my prized mistakes has been drowned in the waters of which I cannot reach, because I know I'm too much of a coward to retrieve them.
Leaving the half-alive corpse of someone who once crushed to kill, I feel a strong urge to vomit out memories I've buried deep inside.
I begrudgingly resume adoring the treasure of mine that once melted in my hands, just to leave painful and lingering burns.
Tears roll down my cheeks as I cover my mouth, muffling any sounds of pain.
......
Be a friend. You don't need money;
Just a disposition sunny;
Just the wish to help another
Get along some way or other;
Just a kindly hand extended
Out to one who's unbefriended;
Just the will to give or lend,
This will make you someone's friend.
Be a friend. You don't need glory.
......
"do you think we're friends in every universe?"
i think sometimes
you're an unexpected present in June,
the gift of consideration outside of birthdays.
sometimes i'm gratitude, a full heart
thanking the heavens for you.
sometimes i’m the white-washed face of God
in someone's painting,
......
I feel his absence,
though I have not known his presence.
I tell you , its not a physical attraction,
but emotional connection .
I have neither looked into his eyes,
nor hugged him.
But have been touched
by his soul.
With his lyrical words
......
I rot in the death bed of which my own dreadful comfort resides, faintly hearing the whispers of a beloved planet that was destroyed by a change of climate within my heart.
Most days are spent in silent artistry, surrounded by means of expression made to make you feel.
Consuming media that taunts and pokes at your twisted version of peace melts me into a puddle of red tears, created by my own frustration.
A knife hesitantly presses to my thigh, scraping back and forth with the gentleness of a feather blowing away in the wind after an explosion.
Never once did it bleed me.
Looking around my cage, I find the scent I once treasured now peeks behind a black object of corruption, mocking my struggle.
Any evidence of my prized mistakes has been drowned in the waters of which I cannot reach, because I know I'm too much of a coward to retrieve them.
Leaving the half-alive corpse of someone who once crushed to kill, I feel a strong urge to vomit out memories I've buried deep inside.
I begrudgingly resume adoring the treasure of mine that once melted in my hands, just to leave painful and lingering burns.
Tears roll down my cheeks as I cover my mouth, muffling any sounds of pain.
......
Clearest blue is,
In French: the color "white king",
I fight here,
The witness,
Elijah The Tishbite,
Two witnesses of the Apocalypse,
With the natural green,
Of Rome's bishop,
From the Virgin,
In the way of the virtue of christian orthodoxy,
......
at that tender age
when one still believed
openly bleeding wounds
make for devotion
cut skin, draw blood,
covenanting together
all through the years
of getting to know you
always being the only
one to be weeded out
......
A dream in the morning,
They say, comes true.
A dream of you
I went through.
I saw you — a little vague, a little shy,
Perhaps it was me, I don't know why.
You stood still,
Your wide eyes met mine.
Can I call it luck?
Or fate, or destiny?
......
There's twenty-two minutes left of today
And I am still thinking of you
I know not to phone you now
But I wonder if you are still up too
As I write this poem
Tonight, are you alone?
Will you, call suddenly
Since yr heart is breaking
For mine too
And wondering of you could use
......