I. A poem is a snapshot of the soul;
A feeling frozen in time,
A memory stuck on flypaper,
A window into the garden
Stopped between night and morning.
II. A poem is an ink-pressed imprint
Of an orchestra set to paper;
A pen-and-paper symphony
Of an idea that will never be
The same as it was before.
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Estadounidense, poet, Christian. Let's tell stories together!
The is room full of words, How did it get this way. Painted white, with words of night, Creating chaos where they lay. The paint has splattered the floor And the pen still roles around.
To make a spark into a flame, Return life once again. The memories drift like ribbons of silk, They sooth your uneasiness as would pure white milk.
Akin to a stream animated on rocks, Each syllable embraces its beat. It longs to ensnare each snapshot of imagination, By a clause, simplicity harmonizing impact.
Do I look like a book. Can you read me like a book. Then why do you only look at my cover. Don't judge a book by its cover.
Half-formed sentences. Incomplete ideas. The poet's mind flits between them all, A nervous butterfly not sure where to land. Everything is inspiring.
Ooo I do love opuss, so very very much. People create such amazing things just with a touch. I have read such beautiful, poems, stories and quotes. I can't help myself but, take a mental note.
Cloud over a day. Hiding the light. Invoking the rain. Awaiting storms. Reforming the dawn. Inviting the grey. One sideways glance. Erases the day. Retrospective. My heart selective. Self reliance.
Come on in the morning, Something's wrong, Where are those people, Singing their song. In those few, short hours, That I was asleep, What exactly happened. It seems, a heap.
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