Paris
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My Paris begins with
Those early days
As a conscious flâneur;
I recall the couple
On the Metro,
When I was still innocent
Of its labyrinthine complexities;
Blinked my eyes as sun rise,
Morning breeze as cold as ice.
A hot choco for a sore throat,
so soft it makes me float.
A picturesque scenery,
so beauteous it makes me teary.
Skipping ahead he avoids cracks
as not to break my mother's back -
head bent low upon his task, his concern dear.
My hand yearns for the warmth of his,
to have him safely by my side -
A Parisian storm, romantic aromas, wine, cool rain, intoxicating. An interesting place, paradise It can be anywhere.
Strolling through Paris;
streets are filled with the aroma
I could not stop myself from taking flight,
And eventually, I got lost in her light.
I prayed that no one would notice my desperate glances,
I first started really writing poetry in ninth grade. They had a poetry slam at my school, and I had some friends who were going so I checked it out. It was so beautiful, the words they said and how they were said.
There’s a question I want to ask.
It’s a small question, and it’s certainly not important.
It’s petty, irrelevant.
Paris I wish to see,
oh how I long to visit that city.
I want to kiss under the Eiffel tower,
sniff a fragrant French flower,
and walk down the quaint little streets.
Let's take a bite out of a fresh macaron,
Guns may fire
Bombs may drop
But we stand with you
Côté à côté.
Blood has been spilled
Your people have been killed
I'd like to think my footsteps echo
off the white stone bridge
but such tranquil sounds overpowered
destroyed
by the dull roar of the arriving crowd
what stone should gleam instead is pale
I wake to photography,
I love the outdoors, the scenery,
The nature located only two feet away...
But when I open the door, I don't find myself at home,
I find myself in a place I could only ever dream of,
I'm doing better
She says she hears it
In the sound of my voice
And I wonder if she hears
You in there too
The worst thing you can say
Almost every nightI dream of taking your handand bringing you tosuch fabulous faraway places.
I’ve been to Paris...
California.
I’ve seen Paul McCartney live twice.
I have cried both times.
I’ve walked right into my dad’s jokes
and right into opportunities
and right into poles.
