Bliss

at peace.

lips

What are lips but for…

January

endless cycle of living and dying.

time’s cruelty

our lives wither away, like dying flowers.

rotting flowers

the flowers wilt and die.

rose

all died but a bright pink rose.

good days

tinted by vintage yellowand lined by paper creases oldmemories on cracked sidewalkslaughter weaving amongvibrant flowers beamingdance behind filmed eyesdrinking in the lastof life

failing words

without words, i do not exist.

paint – my life

i lived in a black and white world.monochrome, i saw only two sidesof the coin – never the ends and never the folds. to me, myself was the combinationof the ugly from my parents,of white scars running deep through black souls. but, if i was the cracked, uneven sidewalk,you were the bouquet of flowers blossoming

efflorescence

when the sky clears uptrading gray skies for sky blueand the brisk spring airskips over your tongue,purple, pink, blue, red petals unfurl,slowly,sweet honeysuckle filling the airwith the heady scent of beautyuntil the petals stretch outto its neighbors,gently touching hands,as the blue skies turn darkerand the petals retreat,waiting for the next morningto blossom again