KaoriSilverMoon

Gone, gone. Everything leaves. My heart aches with the emptiness. But they say that’s the price of loving. Is it worth the price if parts of you are stripped away with every loss? What kind of love is that? Is it true love? Righteous love? What love is worthy of the pain? Not this one. And yet, I feel it so deeply, so profoundly. Salty beads leave my eyes and travel down my cheeks, Because even the thought is too much to bear. Sentiment, I know. Sentiment, I hate. Sentiment, I am prey to. It’s such a small thing. But the sickness is swallowing it whole. Hard to walk. Hard to clean. Hard to survive. Am I making the right choice?

Her sweet brown eyes Are a warm chocolate fudge. They remind me more of oak Than of thick muddy sludge. They look best when she smiles, Like when she's having fun. They crinkle very nicely As she laughs in the sun. Her chestnut hair shimmers In the eve or morning glow. I envy the deep rich colour, And she doesn't even know. It swings very gently In the calm, cool breeze. How does she pull it off? She does it with such ease. Perhaps it takes a writer To show what you can't see. If you ever feel unpretty, Just look at you like me.

 Once upon a time, a little girl decided she wanted to put black lines on a beach of pure white sand. She wanted to make it mean something though, and a picture just wouldn’t do it, for she knew she wasn’t very good at drawing. Scrunching her nose, she looked around until she found a thin stick with a charcoal end. “This will do stupendously!” she announced, brandishing her stick. With ample care, she pressed the tip of the stick to the white sand and drew a single, straight line. It looked like this: I. The little girl was very pleased with her line, but it didn’t quite satisfy the desire to create something m

I'm sitting in front of the computer, Staring at the mocking void. I realise that white is such a terrible colour, And that I am right to prefer black. It cries out to me, Wanting me to put small black lines on its face, Like it will mean something. Music in my ear Screams out loneliness. But that's okay, Because I'm okay when I'm alone. Alone, trying to get warm, With the heater at my feet. But it only makes my feet hot, And my arms are still chilled. Doesn't that sound just like me? Getting too close, And then getting burned. But I'm still cold. Will anything make me content? What is content? Why do I crave it so? Why do I make metaphors ou