Drip, drop, and drool
- مقروء 26
- صوت 4
- فصول 4
مستمرّة<5 min
آخر تحديث: أربعاء, مارس ٤, ٢٠١٥
When my fantasy, emotion, and impulse engulf me, poems like the ones I have here in this poetry collection, "Drip, Drop, and Drool", just flow into pieces of paper I could grab in that very moment. Random thoughts flow spontaneously that I tend oblivious of the theme being crafted thereafter. I mean no harm nor insult to anyone or anything implied or explicitly stated in this work of literature. It's purely fictional and mere coincidence, if any.
جميع الحقوق محفوظة
#183
vanity
انضم إلى أكبر مجتمع لرواية القصص في العالماحصل على توصيات قصص مخصّصة، احفظ قصصك المفضلة في مكتبتك، وقم بالتعليق والتصويت لتنمية مجتمعك.
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an abstract limn
❝ but this time i will not be lifted from the realms of this catastrophe, this time i will be dipped into the honeyed lox of this saccharine thought; drowning in the depths of the wilted tulips that have not ever to sprout. look at these alstroemerias that blossom from the words that spill from my bleeding heart and plum stained lips; apple juice coating the rim of this glass of champagne in which these sinful creatures drown with their blistered wings. now watch as i am coaxed by the orbs of lavender bruises with hands wrapped around my neck.❞ • my abstract poetry book. lowercase intended. ©️ copyright 2020 nazahace - all rights reserved.مكتمِلة
Wings of Butterflies
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The canvas is now open It is saturated with the remnants of my emotions and thoughts The canvas is englufed with the flames that burns throughout my mind Leaving the ashes behind The ashes that have now been used to paint the words left unsaid Some of these poems are personal while others were written based on deep issues that affects society as well as books/ music that gave me inspiration to write. Don't fear, its not only depressing poems in here © 2018 All Rights Reserved #death #depression #faith #fulfillment #laugh #love #nature #questions #reality #sadness #thoughtsمكتمِلة
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The bedroom holds sacred territory for me. The bed, its altar. One upon which I've offered sacrifices, so many to count and recall. One upon which I currently lay as I once more pay my dues, in taps and clicks. I miss the days when the gods were content with the strokes and curves of the fluid dispenser. They seemed to have joined the fast-lane train, and thus demand new meals. While I lay down and hit the keys with a mystic rhythmic sway, I hear the sounds as they hit my ears. No. They're not forceful. Not now, at least. Like music from the slow strumming of a guitar, these sounds bring messages. And memories. And musings. And a medley, sometimes. And so it is, that I'm made to scribe. For when gods speak, their words are immortal. Oh. Wait. They're just thoughts. I thought as much.
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