Your presence calms my restless soul. As we sit on the couch, my head on your chest, I am lost in the waves of your breathing and the soft rhythm of your heart beat. It's here, now, just you and me, everything is calm, and time finally stands still.
it's late August the roads are still quiet while a workforce bronze in European sun and children sleep till noon on seemingly endless summer holidays staving off the winter blues just around the corner with Christmas decorations already in the shops the big push to do it all again bigger and better than last year is on but today I am content in this moment almost just almost happy to drive to work
growth is imminent whether we like it or not. When we are awoken, we are pushed by the divine to take the step into consciousness spreading our wings and expanding our minds. We never ask for this but it is always the most divine gift you can give yourself. Accepting growth.
it seems the blue lights drift ghostly past the windows more often these days each occasion bringing with it a momentary fleeting interest in where the drama is currently residing at who's pillow might be tear-stained through the night at who's door fear and anxiety are being permitted to step inside at who's house has become a closed film set waiting to be stripped of content until only walls doors windows and memories remain but as commercials end attention returns once more to a stronger more constant source of blue light and all present are thankful that at least the banshees that wailing of sirens has been silenced in time
The sweet smell of churned earth after the rain, A summer sun on a cold winter's day, An icy breeze in the early morning and A sip of bitter coffee under the dawn rays.
I feel content for I thought it to be satisfaction in a poem sent yet the polars are polars despite a fine line in between growing bolder listen for I define my own definition satisfaction is the acceptance fulfilled of having a cup half filled yet content is the embrace of the enough it's so humble to be touched appreciating the made for the reflection might be a blade for the youth for the drain for the truth the empty half & the half full state hoping for a better taste from the cup before lips to stumble none or nor
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, I'm well aware that nothing makes sense, including this poem :>
content is not something we give consent you hold your pen yet the ink spills as it pleads you are a walker of blood yet it sheds out when cut & bent you have a brain yet the tongue blurts out the feels
content is not something we color just an acceptance of the past just a canvas you get to paint with limit bother good for a day then a memory till it lasts
the kiss of a palm forehead & cheek drafts in my head just to render a sleep some greed never fed or a satisfaction to meet yellow till it goes mustard & a shade deep
the saving of a night that would save the day it's like it's gold but you're swallowing the sand? the desperation for a treasure at some bay how would I even find content when out of the hand?