Step into my universe
You'll see only words
In my mind, flurry of feathers
Hurricane of riled up birds.

They amass and circulate
Searching to break free
Storm of ink; doesn't abate
Bleed out for no one to see.

Hidden inside my heart
Forbidden words I long to convey
Teach me how to start
With you I foist to play.

Words veiled by silent secrecy,
Cloaked words I long to shout
Bordering the point of heresy
Tabooed words without doubt.

Almost an eternity I've whispered
With care and only hushed tones
Well kept secret undiscovered
Laying quiet under unturned stones.

Thought myself alone when I heard another
One that sings choral to my own
A mournful call that sang together
Grey melodies embodied in skin and bone.

The cravings of my heart
Your words I wish to fill
In my head occupies the biggest part
Our declaration's the only seal.

A vow you and I made
A love we wish to last forever
Dismissing that opportunities evade
Who would need a supporting paper.

Hidden softness within me
Only you can tap and enjoy
The only one that holds the key
Heart and mind meet to employ.

Our hearts, like kings, would've risen
Adorned and bejewelled on their crests
Let us sing in unrehearsed unison
Crowned words we've locked in our chests.



IamMsIves
rhymesmith

I can feel the compassion rush to my eyes
and a smile breaks the silence of my lips,
as I stare across the table at your empty seat
vivid imagery lends itself to my cause;

My nose is briefly embraced by  
the shampoo you so worship with each
flowing strand of your liquid golden locks

and then it's the look in your eyes subtly
telling me things that words can't describe,
telling me things that words don't exist for.

instantly, I'm completely lost swimming
in the ever-blue swirls and twine
that surround your all-seeing retinas

instantly, I'm completely left thinking
of the ever-grey thorns on your spine
and the swirl in the rose that adorns it

These are the things I see
even with you absent
from the seat across from me.

Doubt
Doubt
Doubt
Doubt
Doubt

*...Am I spelling that right?

My words, devoid of meaning, are
scratches in the absence of creation, are
tides influencing the oceans of existence
to wash away the footsteps of
yesterday's misguided directions,
to drown out the deafening silences
with the sound of crashing cascades.

People always ask me:
"What do you plan to do?"
"You need a job, something
to do."

But what if I don't want a job,
but instead I wanted
to be, not do.

So I said "I'd like to
be a book, filled with
wonder and words."
"A book?" they ask.

"Yes.
Books are filled with
darkness and light,
wonder and delight."

Books are not only beautiful,
but also helpers.

I've learned most of
what I know
from written words.

Wouldn't it be nice
to be made of
some?

The question isn't "What
do you want to do?"
It's
"What do you want
to be."