Yesterday, I was lonely with nobody to call my own. Today, I'm his one and only and the blues have been startled and flown.
By Paul Crocker7 years ago in Poets
A tree might just seem like a bit of wood. But to a squirrel, it is more than good. A playground, a home, safety for its young.
I feel uneasy with life again. The only thing to appease me is my pen. As I hold it, I feel something strange. This little instrument can make such a change.
Some people need a hand to hold. An arm around them when they are feeling cold. But I am learning to be brave and bold.
(I) Writing Through Senses A poet is a being of many curiosities. He is a person who is filled with wondrous philosophies.
On the way to work, I saw an interesting sight. Although it was clearly day, this image represented the night. Like the darkened voids I've come to know so well.
I've noticed one thing when reading past work. There's an animal that drove the poets beserk. It's a reoccuring thing. And it had the burdens of the world on its wings.
They are the admirals of the skies. See how triumphantly it flies. While patrolling coasts. They proudly boast a presence which you can't deny.
Love was a snowflake for him. Pretty, cold and temporary in the making. Winter's air kept his emotions frozen. A gradual process of corrosion.
They say the rose is the flower of romance. That its appearence can put you into a trance. With good reason this fact is known.
Can you hear the calling through the woodland maze? The original sound leaves but the echo stays. You follow it through winding trails.
They're creating an impossible way for pain to stop. Falling between icy rain drops. Appears to be hard as stone. Yet, their hearts are alone.