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Literature Text
it starts soft.
there are cherry blossoms
falling in the sky
and her eyes sparkle
with something more
than her normal wishes.
she blushes at
her reflection
and the mirror hums
a wedding march.
the spoons and forks
gossip at how gentle her hands
are, when they used to be rushed;
the window gloats at how long
she spent looking at the view.
it starts soft;
a heart beating irregularly-
a voice that stammers quietly-
the spread of red
in full, shy cheeks.
her dreams offer their comfort,
but instead for once
she picks reality.
it starts soft.
there are cherry blossoms
falling in the sky
and her eyes sparkle
with something more
than her normal wishes.
she blushes at
her reflection
and the mirror hums
a wedding march.
the spoons and forks
gossip at how gentle her hands
are, when they used to be rushed;
the window gloats at how long
she spent looking at the view.
it starts soft;
a heart beating irregularly-
a voice that stammers quietly-
the spread of red
in full, shy cheeks.
her dreams offer their comfort,
but instead for once
she picks reality.
it starts soft.
Literature
Dear Poetry,
You will find out that I am not a strong person. Dragons do not make a home beneath my skin to hoard their treasured princesses. I am not that lucky. For I have misplaced collarbones just as quickly as I’ve misplaced hearts, a pulse still rhythmic against my fingertips. I am a monster of words, devouring Cummings and Plath with no ounce of self control left in my body. I promised myself this weight would not fall for the sharp edges of stars ground into your knuckles. But, write air into my lungs, poetry. Give this wild thing a reason to learn the definition of tamed.
Write me a poem, and I will promise to fall in love with you, sl
Literature
Perfection
I love it when you wake in the morning, sleepy-faced, eyes unadjusted. How not every hair is always in place. The way your eyes crinkle, opening wide and then squinting again, as you try to focus. How you still have this dreamy expression on if you're still tired. When you try hard not to yawn in front of me, and then when you do, you smile guiltily.
I love spending the whole day with you. How your face becomes so animated in conversation. When you get excited over something your whole face lights up. How I can make you smile so much. Your lips seeming to curl up on their own. When I can say the corniest o
Literature
Synesthesia
Impatience peels from your voice like chocolate shavings –
thin, dark and tenuous with an aftertaste of sweetness,
an intoxicating allure that piques my curiosity glands.
“It hasn’t come yet” is the statement, but the subtext,
citrus-sharp, like lemon zest, is unmistakable:
“Why?” it begs, “Where is it?”
Lemon-chocolate seduces my senses;
my answer is the crackling sheen of crème brûleé:
“it’ll come. Be patient.” I know you sense it,
the warm, creamy subtext waiting beneath your hovering spoon.
Two more days you’ll live in the saccharine souring
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blush; verb; to become rosy
Comments16
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Awww :3 it's so sweet^^