help me think of one!! :pWoman on the accordion-wait for me to put on my dancing shoes.help me think of one!! :p
My feet shuffled across the dust on old wood, creaking. To where a chair sat across from her. It was 1875, so I tipped my hat. She glanced me a blush and inquired my health. We sat, toe to toe-it was queer, I presume. But I was eagre: Play me the story of your life. Cry when you need to-laugh
when you want. Sing in an accent or a language foreign. But wait for me to put on my dancing shoes. She began, quietly convicting, constant. Her face solemn whilst moving through joy-through sorrow
"to remain untitled"I sit in a couch with a hallow for a back while the trim of my crossed-over-shoe hangs. Sways. Says: exhaustion. I can't believe the heat--I don't trust her. The only good she brings is the accented refreshment of a cool shade--a cool water."to remain untitled"
Careful,
spoken in a whisper. I turn to it's source. There she sits, at the window. Her eyes, ironically, stare cold.
Wherefore?
my voice followed suit. We continued our versing in a chorus of whispers-- Knowing our time: short.
Knowing our situation: volatile. &nb
Wind, remind me of Beautyon Bright's days i like to wear Sweater, sometimes Hood, for i like to feel Wind push and pull me--filtered through Cloth. Chill affecting Skin. Wind's sound of Rush over Ears--the only whisper i know whose sound is tidal. i'd feel like a boy again, if iWind, remind me of Beauty
could crawl completely
inside, sinch all Open's to Closed's--except one: Sleave.
where Wind would
enter and fill Sweater to the point of the word "billowed." and there i would sit--a boy at play--with Fortress. i
would watch wind
by observing Fortress' walls and begin to forget Light's still out there, forget
A Collection of Short PoemsAfterthought... Aftermath... After lunch- the class most dangerous ofA Collection of Short Poems
falling asleep in
-digital electronics-
no work to do, so play hacky-sack and
knock clocks off walls
###############################################
I can't move my head I cannot breathe I am overtaken My senses ceased, rather Them I do not need
###############################################
this place is old
smells of dark sounds of drips and silence my ears ring i clear my throat to comfort them the concrete walls look cold &n
i def don't do this enough...
- margaret
--
ars longa. vita brevis.
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--
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