Written expression is emotion at its peak; delve into it.
My heart is lost, astray in the quest of night. Gladdened by a snowflake frost, And the haunt of a failed fight. - Explosions from the thicket stored,
By Rachel Steinmetzabout a year ago in Poets
Purity is of the past, when hands had not possessed fingers yet. When there was nothing to remember, And truth and life hadn't met.
Dear Mickey Mouse, I know, I know it’s super strange and maybe also a tinge of embarrassing that an adult is actually taking the time to write to you, but this is something I just gotta say.
The hand of the fool is as the river, never dreaming to cease its breath. With tranquility forever tasking itself, And not a storm can stop him but death.
She didn't dare breathe, Nor run her hands like the river. Did not give her mind the thought, or her heart the right to quiver.
The leaves now hold brown and red, If from the blood and mud, unknown. And the patch of grass still growing Speaks of wary wounds unsewn.
To rid of old dirt Revert to its dinginess And unearth its end
Do not chase your time. Rather outrun it, so it Will have to chase you.
I don't have te strength to want, to discover places I can't reach. To build goals upon the mountains and try enough to beseech.
Of my juice not an ounce remains, my words don't last longer than now. My tears flow only when it rains, So I myself won't ask how.
I never learned to blend, My shades never lose ink. They don't know their color to lend, or to let their own sink. - The black is black, the white, white.
My soul is quite colored, Shaded by the thrill of day. Life has painted me in dirt, But they seem as rainbows astray. -
