sometimes
in the late sleeping-hours
I can hear them
old memories
washing ashore
insomniacs
frolicking about
in the shadows of the room
like young children
staring into the future
wondering why I’ve lingered
existent in the moment
procrastinating
at poeticizing them
they wonder as wanderers do
when will they come to rest
and dream in the minds
of others who will
vicariously impersonate
a life to be relived…
We were often
misunderstood
childish as green—love
for our tongues
longed for the taste of strange
fruit
from far off places
that stained our lips
with beautiful poems
illogical
expressions
contorting beliefs
souls burning passion—unconsumed
aroused as wind
in coition with skin—us
stars against a canvas of blackness
smeared into beauty
the only way to see
is to look at them
pressed against black skin
like everything
pressed against something
reveals true intent
the words we press out
of our mouths
as profound as the morning paper.
whispers in a nineteen year old mind
Power Of Thinking can create Miracles
.Welcome to my Metaphors.
Seeking Truth
A music review site
Blog and Poetry. A Story in the Making.
Oh! Take a shit, read a story. - My Mother on flash fiction
We curse our scars when all they ever did was try to heal us.
Is this it?
My sarcastic travels through life while trying to remain true to myself and not kill others.
This Blog is about discovering the magic of forests in every aspect of life from a small plant in a metropolis to the forests themselves
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~"ONE HELL OF A WRITER"--Derrick Jensen, award-winning author of Endgame~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
by Hina Khan Palwasha
A journal forever stitched into the abyss of the internet
Words. Photographs. Power.
