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Hollow Skin cracked and fading Hair black but greying Unable to get up and move past the craving Of more time and young life
There’s a woman of 83 She stands five foot tall, But presents herself at at least six feet. She’s what we call a fighter, But not with weapons Or words does she arm herself, But pure willpower.
When I ask grandfather, “Why is your face so wrinkled?” Mother hushes me, Grandpa smiles, I keep quiet. But as the years go by, My childhood question unanswered,
The Lime-green Ford It was the symbol of her later years, The lime-green Ford parked outside In the drive. She bought it on a whim, or so one hears, And drove it for years, maybe ten plus five.
When I was younger, life meant forever. Forever was an orange. Lingering pith strands stuck beneath nail beds. Palms faintly yellowed from the mist which clung to clothes like a child.
My body is my bookMy creases the linesMy scars are the action scenesMy tears are the tearjerkersMy ears ears collect the sounds of lifethat run through the wires to my computer, my brain
In the lonesome hours,Of which three words apply,Just me,Myself,And IMy daily solo ride,Just me in this lonesome world.
Holding onto your last breath,
that horse of a fly
After years of hardship, and love it’s all put in that one spot In the brown, dusty pockets of the small folds, it holds memories Memories of family, business and laughter
The briny breathes of the Humber welcomed my parents to the its shores, and left their cheeks flushed along with their hair unkempt.
The day is bright but there is no lightYou wonder how this could beIf you were meYou could surely seeThe beauty infront of me
This is where goddess of wisdom began, In Athens, a petite village and shed; Where Athena grew up and made odd plans, To fight for the throne and not worry to wed. She was like a book that had not been read,
There's a beehive in my heartwhose bees buzz all nightthey’ve built honeycombs in my veinsmaking me as stiff as a tin man with no oil I bleed honeyand it attracts bears
Behold! The once sublime and supreme man Trembling and dripping through the moon and sun: Like the God -- tied barely to life and land, Waiting for his last dawn of pain to come. The life and juvenility are torn,
The stairs are me, the floor is me, the chair itself resembles me The hinges are undoubtedly me. I’m rusty, old, creaking along, falling apart, painfully slow. Each step echoes loud, every day asks for effort.
I shed tears when I came out I shed tears when I was hungry I shed tears when I fell down I shed tears when I scraped my knee, falling off my bike
Bees are sitting On the Wind Drifting Feeding On the Wind Bringing life to those once dead Bees are searching On the Wind
You're there. Sitting. Breathing. Breathing in all of the fibers of the world. Your world. But where am I? I am but an enigma that you dreamt up.