Power. You either have it, or you don't. And that's the way it will always be. So, I'm sitting in my garden in England, it's a tourist area. I'm imagining the beach to be over crowded so apt for the comfort of the garden. The back garden. It's private. The garden itself isn't small. Or large. It just, is. Just average. I've noticed the flowers my step-father planted last year have suddenly come to life given the glorious heat. Notice the emphasis here. Glorious . I am a sun worshiper. So, all sorts of colours line the garden, oranges and reds, separated by standing solar lights. This is my mother's little piece of involvement regarding the garden. My step-father is a gardener you see, so it's our job to stay away from it. They change colour, the solar lights that is. She likes colours, all sorts of colours bright beautiful colours, but if I had it my way they would be plain white. White is a classy colour and wouldn't cont...
Ten miles until I reach my destination. Clouds high in the sky, sun under a sky that I will never really see. A metallic shine on the bonnet of the car, casts me into an eternity That I also never thought, That I would know. Ten more miles, the radio, so quietly playing. Silence pleases me. My pups still laying, so joyfully upon my lap. Breathing in the summer smells... And sensing the blueness of the sky, black and white, In the pupil of their eye. No cars but mine, to pollute the environment, Wanting to walk, But wishing to fly. Like a swift. In the beauty of the sky. A poem given no words by a beholder, but listened to by many an ear, To take away the words, That I give, And I live. In a community of words. But only as the last citizen. Boneata Bell 12.28PM 15th March 2011
The chapter began, As any chapter be. A lava dipped in purple silk, And angels wrapped in diamond thread. The circle pulled me downwards then, For that, I blame the nightingale. The story played, With intricate detail, A liquid floating bubble high, And glass pupils glazed into her head Deep within her tale, she said; 'For that, I thank the nightingale'. The middle scene, And smile bright. A cut between both reality And two swans of silver taking flight. The lake then forced their fatal parting For that, I blame the bird of song. For that, I blame my nightingale. The end announced, With tears bleeding, A black petrol scene of pain proceeding, And sickness is a form of love. In which I take the blame. Silence is abusing me. My heartbreak is amusing me. For that, I kill the music beat, For that, I miss my nightingale. The end unknown, With time so quick and heaving in my chest So sick, I stand with extra carefree strength, And fall wi...
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