When you write something amazing and blogger forces close the moment you hit save. It says "sending" still. It's gone forever. Was perfection. Nothing gold can stay.
Clearest skies from here to Dallas Wind never spoke to me this way Shining rays gallivant my window Thank you God for another day Birds sing songs I've never heard Ants travel places I've never been Bees smell sweets I've never known This beauty holds close to my skin I always drew lines around my mind No time to let her just run free Today I awoke with nothing more Than the image of my black wood tree No more divisions of space and time Or labels to induce man kind Just a world that simply puts Sweet appreciation on my peace of mind
There's a side of chronic pain and mental illness you don't see. Another face. It's after you've just had it. After you've absolutely had it emotionally, mentally, and physically. It's when your mascara from the day is running down your face inching further away from your inner eyelids where you spent all morning getting your eyeshadow just right. You winged your eyeliner perfectly and now it's just a black blur. The tears fall off your eyelashes like raindrops fall off leaves after a fresh rain. The glitter from your lids slide down their pathway across your cheeks. The blush has been gone. Your lipstick smudges and doesn't look as beautiful as before these feelings began. Your nose gets stuffy and red from how upset you are feeling and it shows. Your foundation starts melting off where the tears have now left their cleansing residue journey across those blushless cheeks. You just really want to wash your face, curl up in your bed, and cry a little more...
I am a lady kissed by the sun a blade of grass, flexible But refuses to be cut down I am a strong eagle flying high a bittersweet temptation But holds a strong resistance I am a symphony of miracles a garden of blooming roses But destines to be greater I am a design of foreign capacity a leap of faith of down under But won't stand for such suffice I am a song of piano maestros a land from the underworld But deemed inappropriate I am a paper aeroplane a lined ink letter a mystery of men a useful conversation a drought in the rain a project unfinished But incapable of love I am
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