Poetry is written for the quiet ones, the soulful ones, the ones who let thoughts tangle in their throats before they ever get tangled in their hair. Poetry is written for the soft ones, the shy ones, the ones who dance in midnight shadows and sip on moonlight tea.
When people came from a distant land, they saw a light held in her hand, a rock that stood within the sand, that stood for liberty.
If you’ve ever met a demon, you’ve known leashes, locks, and ties, you’ve known every filthy fingerprint that’s lined you with its lies. If you’ve ever met a demon, you’ve let pretty pretense go, because surely it’s no monster if it’s here to help you grow.
I was built deep and hungry, with a heart that wanted to be filled with so much beauty and emotion and love. I thought that was my gift, my blessing—being able to contain it all.
Tornado winds raged when I was here last. Your fingers ran through my hair and calmed the strands the storm had tangled. I wondered how long before I felt that safety again.
Each mask hides another, veil on tearstained veil. Each tattered page of my heart, inked and stamped and sealed in the shadows of my mind.
Broken towers, ripped apart. Life is full of pain; nothing is right. All has been demolished. How did it get this way? Tattered and torn, broken to bits. Was life always pain and suffering?
Baby’s feet are tender, tiny, pink, and sweet; rosebud toes are curled tight, wrinkles soft and deep. Baby’s feet are clumsy, and fumble as she tries. Hands and knees and triumph, then disappointed cries.
Where does a thought go once it’s been forgotten? If I found the hidden world for lost thoughts, would I befriend them? Would I stay?
I’m yesterday born; I’m a thousand years aged. I’m a song just composed and a hundred times played. I’m as loud as thunder and as soft as a whisper. I’m your best friend’s face and the smile of your sister.
