They call it poetry, what she feels with her mouth closed. By his.
Moments caught in time. Simple memories spread out before me. Timeless reminders of how life goes on, even when it feels as if you cannot.
It was her laughter that made me love her. Her shy inappropriate madness is what made her beautiful.
Poetry has saved me on occasions when people couldn't.
thighs made of hymns, I read 'em like I'm reading runes. Now tell me where my future lies...your neck, can I Savion on it?
When I feel too much and the universe aches inside of me.
And like nectar inside the bud,my blood drinks from your blood, beloved,and starves to join the salvation in your eyes;to be understood again and again, by your nakedness and certainty, a humbleness t...
Hold my hand,and let me catch your paceEven if i'm last,you on first; we both won the race
Understand the poem not the poet.
You are the explosion of carnations in a dark room.Or the unexpected scent of pine miles from the woods of Maine.You are a full moon that gives midnight it's meaning.And the explanation of water For a...
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