art and wine mix quite fine like rose and scent, ‘pon thy line, there your skin, just like mine, sits quietly among our noses.
The realest poems I do write, They hide in chests unopened, Locked away never to be read, By the subjects about whom I’ve spoken. The lovers who have done me wrong, And the friends who haven’t a clue, Of the pain and suffering I incur. Why don’t they just leave me alone?
Oh how lovely it feels, This emotion that comes like the wind, Easy against my skin, Like the breath of God. T’is the sound of music rushing in, Breathing life into my soul, Like when your hand’s against my chin, I must’ve been lifted from the ground, by this angel named ___. Can’t you seeContinue reading “On Yearning”