He locked his eyes on her strangled his insecurities his hands touched her hair and twisted it. It bounced back and forth as in a feather as in his love to her It was if they danced in an ocean of light and dots formed themselves into big round suns following them while they danced they were the universe Her smile matched the harmony of their surroundings in the ocean of light and he couldn't doubt her anymore. |
Author's Comments
Well.. another poem. I wrote this a while ago.
and please, do tell me if it sucks. I always hesitate uploading poems.. |
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Comments
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There's more to living than being alive.
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Asking sleepy tendrils of smoke to weave their fingers about my face and with gentle pressure, glue my eyelids closed.
I wasn't sure.
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There's more to living than being alive.
And Im pretty particular about literature.
I understand how you feel, though. Literature is so much more personal than photographs or manips. Its a chunk of you, of your very essence, and you are letting other people experience it, thereby exposing it to the elements.
And therefore, its one of the best feelings when someone likes your writing, because it is you.
And I can truthfully say that I adore this piece
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"Rage, rage against the dying of the light"
-Dylan Thomas
Gallery: [link]
and thank you so much
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There's more to living than being alive.
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"Rage, rage against the dying of the light"
-Dylan Thomas
Gallery: [link]
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