This Is Me

Blue soaks the softness and tip of my lips, Coldness so near, causing strokes and bad slips, A blushing soft pink crawls through my speckled face, Boldly but shyly, netted through with white lace, Green eyes through blind pupils, blury but alive, Quite tender living skin, as from sleep I am deprived, A pale cream and peach begins to form my chest, A ravishing bright lemon, begins to form my breast. Shrivelled up still dying, outside the clouds have bore, Our secret little grey-head, who is becoming timely poor. And beside my hand I see a dream, a bush of wooly balls, Whose tiny siren screeches, are soundless scattered calls. And as I sit and wonder, my self portrait by my hand, My sea-view so very lively, digging up the gritted sand, Is this mind a timeline, a view of all things good? A mind of only starlight, a fire burning wood? Or is this artwork beauty, of one should not exsist? And should this be the case, I hold life in my fist. Boneata Bell 01.12 30/01/2011

'Houses separate us Streets corner us Paths guide us Love forces us.' - Boneata Bell

She Not Me Baby fingers clutch his palm. Whilst he protects her from ANY harm. Indeed she is speachless, as any baby be, Loving the faces he is pulling at 'She'. Baby eyes stare blankly at him, His body is bold, although it is slim. At such a distance he's too near to say godbye. She's pushing out thoughts of where his body may lie. Baby bones and soft baby cheeks, Searching the father, that she LONGS to seek. He lives through her heart and forever will be. The daddy she always wanted him to be. I love you.