Carefully There
From the life and times of AspenFlower17
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Failed Blocking
Some point great need to great thoughts and sleep abuse
I can’t long us many grains
Earth and hard line wheat could sentence these ideas
Plant thresh between you and I
Not land as sea
Don’t cover company with down
While sheep play abuse stories right at home
Baked will make 47 stand far off
Air closes her other four names
End night from high eye want
Spell our ground
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I can’t long us many grains
Earth and hard line wheat could sentence these ideas
Plant thresh between you and I
Not land as sea
Don’t cover company with down
While sheep play abuse stories right at home
Baked will make 47 stand far off
Air closes her other four names
End night from high eye want
Spell our ground
----------------------------------------------------------------
This poem was created with poetry magnets
Friday, September 12, 2014
Just A Thought
So, I wrote this yesterday, and apparently I'm not the only one who feels this way, so here's kinda my outlook on life I suppose.
Sometimes, when I read too much poetry, I can feel the unreality of the world starting to seep through the cracks in the walls and I can't get upset about anything, because everything's relative to the window of reality you allow into your apartment. You're going to move out sooner or later, and when you do, you may not have to deal with all the things that happened when you let too much reality in.
Sometimes, when I read too much poetry, I can feel the unreality of the world starting to seep through the cracks in the walls and I can't get upset about anything, because everything's relative to the window of reality you allow into your apartment. You're going to move out sooner or later, and when you do, you may not have to deal with all the things that happened when you let too much reality in.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
The Payoff of Living Suits the Cost of Death
Back laced, demographically pleasing violence
Washes all thought to the gutter,
Where it sits, pockmarked and painless,
While I attempt to process the news that
I'm stuck on the day the apocalypse took all feeling
From my fingertips and left a gray stripe on my forearm
Which burns whenever touched,
Reminding me of the graceless butterflies who hijack my feet
Thinking to fly, but run instead
Over shattered bullet shells, tripping at every possible moment,
Eroding the skin from my feet, setting all the insects free
To hurt me again.
Twittering birds often shove the talent I had hoped for
Between the sticks of their nest,
Intertwining my dreams and beliefs with mud
For the good of their children.
Even if it leaves me devoid of flame and water.
Washes all thought to the gutter,
Where it sits, pockmarked and painless,
While I attempt to process the news that
I'm stuck on the day the apocalypse took all feeling
From my fingertips and left a gray stripe on my forearm
Which burns whenever touched,
Reminding me of the graceless butterflies who hijack my feet
Thinking to fly, but run instead
Over shattered bullet shells, tripping at every possible moment,
Eroding the skin from my feet, setting all the insects free
To hurt me again.
Twittering birds often shove the talent I had hoped for
Between the sticks of their nest,
Intertwining my dreams and beliefs with mud
For the good of their children.
Even if it leaves me devoid of flame and water.
I speak too much when no one is
listening.
Monday, September 8, 2014
Return To Sender
Could my memories, those frail particles
Caught by some partial understanding of how fleeting
Smiles and softened eyes actually are,
Stop living as though they understand the present
Through their outdated look on life?
Caught by some partial understanding of how fleeting
Smiles and softened eyes actually are,
Stop living as though they understand the present
Through their outdated look on life?
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Entrenched
A silhouette of green and black downgrade my strengths quite nicely
While a magpie laughs at the confusion and destruction playing out
On the mountain rage below
Because someone stole someone else's girl back in '95
Even if people are not objects.
Red on red, lighting the small room which thuds in my ears and behind my eyes,
Swimming and reeling, though you don't know why this is that way or that is this way,
Or why everyone must scream and kick like children
When they clearly left the playground cries and squealing laughter in the far past
Amid dusty blankets, ripped animals, and smashed plastic toys.
Enmity on the brain with scars on both legs, ripped by the explosion of disgust underwater
Which punctured the ozone of epidermis my body creates as a means to keep
Everything out.
While a magpie laughs at the confusion and destruction playing out
On the mountain rage below
Because someone stole someone else's girl back in '95
Even if people are not objects.
Red on red, lighting the small room which thuds in my ears and behind my eyes,
Swimming and reeling, though you don't know why this is that way or that is this way,
Or why everyone must scream and kick like children
When they clearly left the playground cries and squealing laughter in the far past
Amid dusty blankets, ripped animals, and smashed plastic toys.
Enmity on the brain with scars on both legs, ripped by the explosion of disgust underwater
Which punctured the ozone of epidermis my body creates as a means to keep
Everything out.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Hi
It's interesting how many people have actually looked at this blog. To be honest, I didn't think anyone would ever look at this, but I've apparently gotten 23 this month, which is crazy to me!
Anyways, thanks you guys :)
Anyways, thanks you guys :)
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