you will find ink blurb, parched words,
acoustic in air,
a hot burning potpourri
and my ink romancing with words.
this is what i will leave when i die-
a torn cloth, stinking souvenirs,
words like thick and sick stick to my tongue,
a concave road of anxiety on my wrists.
for i had no people in my pockets,
i had no eye contact,my conversations with stars
made me fall in love with the moon,
and its dark now, nocturnal love.
nocturnal soul.
With a thinking shovel I dig
Ideas in my head
Out come words, small and big
Upon a thoughtful bed
I never knew physics or math
Law or geometry
I only learnt to dig up words
To form a poetry
catch a cloud today ~ tomorrow’s not guaranteed ~ yesterday is gone — © Lize Bard @ Haiku out of Africa
deep persuasion
words drunk like wine
intoxicating my soul
hastening my fall
as I imbibe
every
breathless
word
:
Copyright ©SirenSong1208
All rights reserved.
Photograph taken by SirenSong1208
“Kochel Graveyard” by Wassily Kandinsky
push the dream
down the line
it can wait
there’s no rush
look ahead
make a plan
loosely set
time will come
always does
then again
sometimes time
just runs out
Come share your best piece from this last week at the Go Dog Go Cafe!!!
Welcome to Promote Yourself Monday. All Go Dog Go Cafe readers, guest writers, and baristas are invited to post one link to one specific post (600 words or less please!) from your blog into the comments section below.
If you post a link, be sure to read some of the other great writing people have linked to.
“Because you were my dream come true
and I didn’t want the spell to end.”
A touch of magic was all I needed. Because you were my dream come true and I didn’t want the spell to end.
Maybe that was what made me want to hold on to you like my life depended on it. You were everything to me, and I couldn’t bear to lose you.
© Sarah Doughty
I don’t ever want to lose you.
Photo by Burst on Pexels.com
“Let each man hear his own music and live by it. The drums roll one way for one man, and another way for another. You have to listen for your own.”
― Audie Murphy
The Reluctant Poet 