January 2012
123 posts
December 2011
110 posts
5 tags
Orchids by Hazel Simmons-McDonald
I leave this house
box pieces of the five-week life I;ve gathered.
I’ll send them on
to fill spaces in my future life.
One thing is left
a spray of orchids someone gave
from a bouquet one who makes a ritual of flower-giving sent.
The orchids have no fragrance
but purple petals draw you
to look at the purple heart.
I watered them once
when the blossoms were full blown
like...
Morgane.moe: La femme, ou pas ....? →
morganemoe:
Il y a dans la femme une notion de beauté inaltérable, de perfection (naturelle ou travaillé) qui n’est pas régit par le temps. Une femme se doit d’être, d’avoir été et de le rester. Comme la rose, image de la beauté presque inintelligible : « elle est jolie, aux joues rosés, fine et dynamique…
“Aimer, c’est avoir du plaisir à voir, toucher, sentir par tous les sens, et...”
– Stendhal (via morganemoe)
4 tags
i love it when i see people crying after they’ve read a book or some piece of writing.
it makes me even more motivated to be the one who fuels their emotional expression.
4 tags
the sight
a dream’s light and entangling caress
wraps around the depths of your soul
tickles your eyelids
nudges every muscle
grips onto your open hand
drags you away from all reality
rests you on a branch of hope
pulls you up into nowhere
lets you fly
lets you breathe
lets you sing
lets you be
the sights in your dream
aren’t sights anymore
they’re feelings, absorbing the body
you get thrown...
4 tags
contemplating uploading my beowulf battle adaptation… should I?
hmmm….
3 tags
pink.
pink.
vibrant and lively.
smeared across the yellow sun.
turning the sky orange.
pink.
light and dreamy.
stained onto her cheeks.
complimenting her azure eyes.
pink.
happy.
a colourful jump.
flying in the light.
pink.
a puppy dog’s tongue.
wet and smooth.
licking in swirls.
pink.
the colour of your mother’s dress.
one that flows to the ground.
one that dances with her, accentuating her...
4 tags
the feather
An artefact left
d e s e r t e d
abandoned,
alone.
Left to be on the ground.
Lost in the wind…
This vestige of flight,
caked with brittle soil,
lies.
Lies aren’t here. These are
genuine words engraved into the
spots and dashes,
imperfections of this memory…
She dances around when the
world’s-breath becomes heavy.
She gets pushed around,
swirling into a jig
but gracefully she falls once more.
The...
