I often ask myself,am i wiltingbecause i am past my prime?or because you did notgive me the one thingthat i need to survive,even though i begged youcountless times to provide mewith it.
an attractively arranged bunch of flowers.Don't get me wrong, i wanna beyour bouquet.So that i can be a symbol of happiness and satisfactionAnd provide nothing but lasting joy.But it's sucks cause that will only be temporary.As i, as strong and vibrant as i may seem,cannot grow and blossom with you,without my roots.
I was in awe whenever she smiled.Not because of how chalk-whiteher nice teeth were, but how her smile always found a wayto be an accurate representation of perfection and innocence.I mean...no matter how dark it was in my life,She would simply smileand everything dark would be devoured by the light illuminating from it.
Dear Water,Thank you for being more thanjust a substance composed ofchemical elements.Thank you for quenchingmy body's thirst for you everyday with no effort.Thank for rolling down my cheeks,carrying my emotional baggagewhenever i can no longer carry it.Thank you for being a great conductor of soundwhen everything around me is silent.Thank you for teaching me that even though it's barricated,I can still get to the other side through the cracks.Thank You.
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.