Fixed's Poetry Forum!

Vagrancy holds the hand of a heartfelt donor,
and as the door to his-- the donor's-- house
is held wide by his unaccompanied fingers,
more than wind comes gusting in.

While his heart is poured into a glass
those without stain it with contaminant grips.
And although they beg for everything,
they still cannot obtain.

For there isn't true posession
without the sweat of your own brow,
a cut of your own skin,
or a thought of your own inspiration.

So while you may hold my hand fervently,
you cannot permanently hollow my heart
and will not take me from my own life.
Instead, you will forever prosper in vagrancy.

Ivory threads of memories
Tangle into a disquieted conclusion--
No knot is ever permanent.

Surmounting what was, to what is,
Becomes impossible.
I don’t care.

You keep talking
Keep trying to pull me back in
And if I answered your pleas
I would be.

Because the truth is,
As much as I hate it,
I still love you.

Sun singed, hips hinged
by the tips of strawberry lips.
Rays of light strewn together
by tips of fingers for forever.
A tangled mass of hair that flies
among the wind that never cries
in the warmth of robust sun,
Sit around and have some fun.

A sign?

Please tell me there's a sign.

Make it sing to me,

with my favorite song.

String lights on it,

with beautiful, bright twinkles.

Install waterworks,

with an enticing, cool, trickling fountain.

Paint a picture of me,

with every color imaginable, please.

Have it arrow-shaped,

with an obvious direction.

But make sure there's a sign,

with a perfect reason to stay.

so I know when to stop dreaming.

Confusion comes
when your wallet of integrity
is completely empty.

A week from now
I might be in your arms
where I've aspired to be
since seven days before.

But that's a week from now,
and much may occur
in the next seven days.

Maybe you'll despise me
or become consumed by love
in the time allotted.
Perhaps we will be amongst the
greatest of friends.
Or perhaps we will remain acquaintances
as we have been
since a week before now.

On days similar to this, it's all I aspire to do.
Blatantly stare out of a stain glass window,
pray the clouds don't hurt themselves
during their flippant dance across the sky.

I stare, expecting an epiphany to come
as if they had a schedule that could be read
from the lips of the chiseled face of the
woeful aged man on the moon.

Even if he could read-- here my fickle thoughts
meander horribly-- why would he recite a
tasteless schedule to a girl who only stares?
To read right is to eat an expensive cheese;

a schedule would make a gruesome one.
And to have an aged schedule (cheese has to age,
to be prestigious, no?) would be a disgrace.
Time is either past, present, or future,

and may only be consumed in the present.
I choke on the time I attempted to spoon down
my own throat by staring pointlessly out this
sightless window, when all I see are these damn clouds.

And now I crave cheese.

Build a house of cards,
And put me in the middle.
Take away my heart,
But keep a crying fiddle.

Hear the wisps of music,
crystallize the tears,
age the stable house
to build upon my fears.

Here sobs the violin--
a coarse, sweet sound--
remains of what there was
and what is to be found.

A single gust of wind
Collapsed the house of cards
Away went all my fears
No longer my regards.

My heart stood shattered
All upon the ground.
You broke it into pieces
And scattered it around.

The violin that cried
Sobs among us all,
For gallant songs of heartbreak
Are written in our fall.