Oooh, #20/Wanderlust is gorrrrgeous. So much beautiful fire imagery, and the repeated opening to the stanzas flows delightfully. If I could Like it more than once, I'd be mashing that button!
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
When all signs of flame are thought to have left the lukewarm pile of cinders sparks begin to crackle again from the monochrome dunes inside the boundless, timeworn bird cage where, even from miles away, those carefully listening hear wings flapping a rhythm to accompany the song of rebirth.
Your poetic voice really comes through so well in a lot of these @Kaylaa, I'm especially enjoying some of these shorter ones. Delicate little images, made beautiful or nostalgic or romantic. Like how you turn even the sound that a fan makes at night into "the sweetest lullaby" - I love the quiet intensity in this poem. The fire imagery you've got in a couple of these is really nice too - the familiar is made new.
you should know i am a time traveler & there is no season as achingly temporary as now
I'll leave my fingerprints on the windows of buildings that only see life in the form of infestation and vegetation growing in floor tiles that only support salamander feet these days. History remembers only those who survive the blight, but those who survive are the blight.
You'll never know that I think of you before I sleep and how much I love your smile --God, I love your smile.
When I'm around you I'm conscious and dreaming all at once. Does your heart beat as mine does for somebody you adore? Do you feel warm when someone says your name?
April's never been a graceful month in my eyes. The flowers are blooming as testing cracks down on our shoulders. We are not ants except to those behind desks, cackling in expensive office chairs. We are not ants except when we bear ten times the weight of what we can carry because those we look up to believe we can, but those people believe too much.
Why do I always fall in love when that love never counts? Our hands brush, but I'm pretty sure I'm the only one with shivers down my spine.
Why do I always fall in love for those with eyes for someone else? Millions of butterflies rub insect hands together to start a fire inside my stomach that I'll never address but a fire that will never subside, either.
Why do I always fall in love in May when all the flowers are blooming and the bird are singing? Maybe I need the sunshine to contrast my heartbreak.
I've always slept in the fetal position-- I'm afraid to face the world, I admit, and like a wild dog I curl up around my important organs, shaken to the bone at the thought the next ambush against my vitality will be the last.
Mother taught me to be paranoid, untrusting-- to never tell anyone my Achille's heel not even the ones closest to you because the ones closest to you twist your heel against you.
What mother taught is wrong--not all politicians are mindless puppets and in the world, there are people I'm able to trust, to be vulnerable around. I'm sorry, mother that somebody taught you otherwise, that someone took a drill to your brain and left depressions behind, that someone taught you the world through a telescope, saying people are aliens because I know this for certain: everyone winces at salt in their wounds.
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