I love writing.. How words play in my head like a wonderful symphony just aching to be written. There are days when I seem to write better when I'm torn and confused.. Poetry is like a tide that washes away all emotional imprints that mar the sand that is your soul..
I woke up this morning. With a smile on my face. A resolve to agree. Or disagree with grace. Now my cheeks ache. From feigning delight. How I wish to be. Be myself tonight. The day passed by quickly.
I don't know why, but since this morning I kept on glancing at the door behind me...
There are two kinds of love The first.. felt like the road towards home. Long and winding, and yet Comfortable. This is the love I have with him. Familiar.. Safe.
The first time, we tried to forget.. The second time, we tried to part.. We knew what we were getting ourselves into.. Yet why couldn't we stop.. Why couldn't I let go. Why do I love you.
I write for the sheer joy of expressing myself. A palette of words to paint a thought. A feast for your palate adventures have brought. To have you cry with me. Or share in my laughter.
It's amazing how my hand fits yours so perfectly. How easily it slips in as your fingers interlock with mine. I feel more than the warmth of skin against skin.
You look so wonderfully busy. Unaware of the world whirling past. The unending rush of footsteps. The click-clacking of heels. The hectic flurry of work whizzing about you. You, with your head bent.
I feel as though I'm a fish swimming in my very own bowl. With the world peering in on me. Watching my every move. Ready to taunt. Or praise. Or adore.
Running thin----.
Hello, Me. Feels like this is the first time I'm meeting you Like the first time I'm seeing you. Nothing changed.. And yet you have.
I'm in love with a memory Vivid.. Alive.. Burning.. Searing.. I still your fingers Tracing the outline of a smile You evoked -- Like all else that my senses feel In sweet abandon whenever I'm near...
Today I managed to train my 13 week old German Shepherd to 'Sit' in just 3 attempts under a minute--.
The smell of freshly sharpened woodshavings.. The scritch scratch of lead on paper.. My senses basking in the familiar warmth of writing. Like that childhood fuzzy blanket..
assuming you take the way he touches your skin. . . the way he holds you oh so close. . . the way he kisses your lips - for love. . . without ever knowing...
You lay curled up in a ball, with such perfectly formed hands nearly clasped.Your delicate fingers almost intertwined. Your eyes remain closed as though slumber was sweet.