one can only dream to share years of joy
years of finding that one beautiful soul
that changes the foundation of yours
and lifts it to heavens above
These feelings are all for you
in them I hope you feel the truth
there's so much you do that cant be explained
so ill do my best to show you day by day
you fill my heart with so much passion
that its hard to find any other satisfaction
you turned my world upside down
why should I ever turn it around
These feelings are all you
in them I hope you feel the truth
there's so much you do that cant be explained
so ill do my best to show you day by day
I wake to see you peacefully dream
in these moments I know he has blessed me
giving me a gift that's meant for just me
who am I that would question his will
These feelings are all you
in them I hope you feel the truth
there's so much you do that cant be explained
so ill do my best to show you day by day
So ill treasure my gift forever
and thank him everyday he gave me you
that he saw fit to bless a sinner like me
in this world of tattered dreams
These feelings are all you
in them I hope you feel the truth
there's so much you do that cant be explained
so ill do my best to show you day by day
About the Creator
Quentin woodard
I am the Poetic Lyricist. I am a Poet, father of twins, and Husband to a loving Wife. My words come from my experiences, some from inspiration, and more from what I see on a daily. Welcome to me and be inspired. IG:poeticlyricist.
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova7 days ago in Poets
Comments (2)
So sweet! ♥️
💙💗💗 .💗💗.💗💗💗 💙💗🌹 LOVE🌹💛💗 💙❤🌹 THIS 🌹💛💗 💙💗🌹 LOVE🌹💛💗 💚💚💚 .💗💚 💚💚💛