Dreams

I want to know your dreams I want to know what scenes play through your head like movies while you sleep. Are they memories? Or fantasies? Are they good or bad? Do you dream in color? Do you remember them? You're never asleep for long, but  I know you dream by the noises you make. Sometimes they're whimpers, sometimes they're pleasant sighs. Do you dream of places you've been? Or things you've seen? Do you dream of the monsters in your life? Do you dream of me?

August 12, 2012

Sometimes, I stop thinking. I sit outside and look and listen, but I don't think. I watch the leaves rustle in the breeze and the children playing ball in the street. I listen to cars driving past and birds flying overhead. I watch the world spin by and listen to time running out. And I think nothing of it. I simply let it happen. No what ifs. No whys. No remembering, no planning. No anxiety. Just watching the world spin and the time run.

Neverland Dreams

Take my hand
Let's fly away
To a place where we
Won't age a day
All day long
We'll laugh and play
And every single night
You'll hear me say
I love you

Scars, July 20, 7:58

S c a r s 
are
s t o r i e s. 

They tell of hard times or daring adventures. Stupid mistakes that we've learned from, or times we've done the right thing no matter the cost.


S c a r s 
are
p r o o f.

Proof that we are strong, proof that we can survive.

S c a r s 
show
that
we
are
h u m a n.

July 10, 12:27

I am always trying to write poetry about smoke, but tonight I realized that you cannot write poetry about what is already poetry. The way it twists and turns, the way it flows and changes, fades out of existence. Smoke is the most beautiful poetry you will never read.

Your Hands

I could spend hours staring at just your hands. Your long thin fingers, almost tiny twigs at the end of your branches, the way they dance about my shoulders makes me shiver. The veins, so obvious and blue, almost protruding from your skin are almost like hidden rivers, flowing everlasting to an unseen destination. Every little calous with it's story to tell. Your knuckles, where fingers meet palms, are the most magnificent mountain range, and I want to be the first to explore it. The flesh on your finger tips is so hard and rough from wear and tear, but your touch is so gentle, more than making up for it. Your hands are full of life, full of strength as they hold me tight, yet so full of love as they caress my skin. I cannot wait to get lost in the life of your hands.

July 8, 12:29 pm

I was the sailor, lost at sea
You were the waves that carried me