So versatile I could eat them with mustard Or ketchup or mayo Sometimes, I’d have them with ranch They were good by themselves
By Mother Combs2 years ago in Poets
Were you there? Do you know what truly happened? Were you the ones who comforted my children while they watched me bleed and cry those lonely tears of pain?
By Carol Ann Townend2 years ago in Poets
bring it all to bloom on the wings of daring dreams the future unfolds -------------------------- Thank you for reading!
By R.I. Károly2 years ago in Poets
We balanced tentatively On a thin line Dividing light from dark As night descended And the sun dipped below A burning horizon-
By Katrina Thornley2 years ago in Poets
burying a lifetime of memories sunday roasts and holidays how long will they last? we - never know scattering ashes (crestfallen we are sombre and melancholy with weary minds and heavy hearts)
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
curl your lips into a smile plump, warm and welcoming even if just for but a while * remind me of the happiness that exists beyond the veil
I say I love, But how about you. You tell me you love me, I think it's a reality. Because our hearts meet each other.
By Joe Bou Khalil2 years ago in Poets
The endless road-- The goal beyond-- Borders tease a sure arrival: ~ Illusion, Cross-sectioned sands, Unkempt mirage pulled taut,
By Ad-Libbing With The Z-Man2 years ago in Poets
I love indulging in a sweet Milky Way I love how its taste lingers all day I love the intoxicating scent of chocolate and caramel at play
By Daphsam2 years ago in Poets
THE WIND, All of you know it, Have heard about it, The way it flows, Through cities and suburbs, Above the villages and rivers,
By Esala Gunathilake2 years ago in Poets
Dead living off this secret pain Dead living off this painted hate Tears are soul embedded Contrast of obsidian fire describes a painters brushed off
By Irvin 2 years ago in Poets
A teacher asked me, "What was your earliest memory of loss?" I had no answer for her. Much of my childhood stays blocked and dark, concealed in the recesses of my mind. A function of the PTSD, you see.
By David Muñoz2 years ago in Poets
