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Thu Apr 20, 2017 2:51 pm
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soundofmind says...



24.

spit in my face and I'll wash it away
I have tears of my own, to do it that way
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.

  





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Sun Apr 30, 2017 2:52 am
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Aley says...



XD Love the rhyme in this. Considering you've got so much said in such a small space I could really see what you could do with a longer piece. Keep going! You only have another day for the rest of your poems and I know you can do this!

If you need some prompts, try writing about puppies, kittens, dragons, kleenex, lotion, or your favorite character.
  





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Mon May 01, 2017 4:28 am
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soundofmind says...



25.

I've no nail clipper
So I bit my nails today
Just to play guitar
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.

  





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Mon May 01, 2017 4:32 am
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soundofmind says...



26.

everyone asks me
if i am doing okay
i tell them a lie

i'm vulnerable
when it is safest for me
to risk rejection

yet i hesitate
and hide, even when i know
they won't reject me

because I am scared
of myself - all of the unknowns
dwelling inside me
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.

  





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Mon May 01, 2017 4:33 am
soundofmind says...



27.

IMG_7987.JPG
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.

  





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Mon May 01, 2017 4:45 am
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soundofmind says...



28.

IMG_7991.JPG
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.

  





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174 Reviews

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Mon May 01, 2017 4:56 am
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soundofmind says...



29.

IMG_7994.JPG
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.

  





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174 Reviews

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Gender: Female
Points: 3255
Reviews: 174
Mon May 01, 2017 5:03 am
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soundofmind says...



30.

my childhood was bright
a light, present in my eyes
flickered, but sustained
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.

  








It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats—the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill —The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it—and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another.
— JRR Tolkien