Falling In Love
Be smart, but find a true mate
The heart is full of emotions
Some are good and some are not
Understanding them is another plot
Love is strong when the heart opens
But cautious if you are smart
Make sure your other’s love is true
Or some other scheme might be a brew
Make sure that the other treats you right
Watch if they have trust issues or uptight
Does your other put you first above all
Then they will be worth keeping if you do the same
Give them a chance and not all at once
Get to know your other first
It is time goes fairly on, with no red flags burst
Then if you trust a little more and more
Give more of you with theirs too
Then love will start to grow
Sometimes heartbreak will come your way
But just stay true to love’s way
Maybe love’s true mate comes along the way
Giving life more meaning all day
About the Creator
Sarah Danaher
I enjoy writing for fun. I like to write for several genres including fantasy, poetry, and dystopian, but I am open to trying other genres too. It has been a source of stress relief from my busy life.
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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 Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
from death into life
Young Aldin of Wiloh had never contemplated death. It was almost strange — so many around him had the tendency to obsess over it, to clamor and claw almost desperately at their own perceptions of the end to know death as much as they could: when it would come, why it would come, where it would take them when it did.
By angela hepwortha day ago in Fiction
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