A beauty that’s rarely seen,
only reserved for the May queen.
Dancing under her midsommarstang
when the time speeds up but it still seems so long.

We can share some codependency
we can share some trauma and blood.
If you were to leave it would be the end of me,
is this the type of story we tell of love?

Sadly there’s some poetic irony
of the horror when you witnessed the elders jumping,
still human enough but too lost to see
you were in the line; one day to be waiting.

Confuse possession with protection
mistake bare empathy for tender caring.
When’s the last time you felt needed affection
except for the wrong type others are sharing?

And at the very end of it all
you’ll have a face full of tears,
‘cause even a May Queen has to fall
within the changing of season in the years.
And you won’t even care
if it’s freedom or a new type of prison,
‘cause atleast someone will be there
to cry with, to hold you and listen.

Lost hope, lost life,
A desire lost inside.
A warrior never fought,
A friend who lost.
Is it necessary to desire?
Her gaze,
Her laughter,
Her truth—
Just wanted to admire.

Thin, lost—
Sin, and cost.
What is this?
A person,
Or just a shoe?

Wasted life, wasted time,
The stupid wanted to earn a dime.
How good is he,
How kind can he be?
Is he graduated,
Or even educated?

Know this,
Know that—
Are you alive,
Or are you dead?

Give me money,
Take this knowledge.
Give me test,
Take this certificate.
What do you want to be?
Tell me—
Everyone asked me.

"I want to study,"
He said—
Indeed, a lie.
God knows why.

Inside a tree,
He wants to live.
No human,
No chase,
No dream,
No game.

What is he?
A movie,
Or a disgrace?

Two Lost and Found butterflies.
Tears rolling down.

The most rewarding scenery is the landscape of the lovers innermost feelings and emotions  for each other and both twin butterflies.
Surely a twin's true love that never failed, even bottled in a dark dungeon- it still holds evidence of greatest reigns plotted since eges past.
Like a diamond polished, unworned by its true queen.
Its still a diamond grown in greatest friction and much heat.
A fire burning for the longest time.
Yes it may now be in the finger of the greedy liar divider murderer
on speed.
The evil trashing defamatrex
Is still a great Impostor
****** a true queen bee's,
first landscape pradise.
Forgive my metaphorical poor grade here.
I am still no poetess
Just a tragic true life kinder Garten observer of sorts.
A possible self portrait of loss and undying grief
Drowning in true events that inexplicably give me life worth living.
Its essence,the magic of true love, lost and found, found and lost,
And against all odds,retained wiithin its infinite truth
poweted only by eternal love and gratitud.
I remain in love, my beloved's
pure loves ashes,
that heals me to my core

And I'm no longer lost nor alone.
My lonely thorny crooked path,
i have left behind.
--------
By: Karijinbba
Mr and Mrs Andrews the oainting.
Rddbba All Rights Reserved.

At first,  
I am every story you’ve ever loved:  
the girl with wild eyes and a crooked smile,  
the glitterbomb dropped into your heavy life.  
I am the Manic Pixie Dream,  
softened and sharpened just right,  
scripted to be the key you didn’t know you lost.  

I love it, too.  
I love playing her.  
I love the way I can become  
everything I thought I couldn't be—  
light, brave, impossible.  
I fall in love with the girl they see,  
the one who spins in the rain,  
who kisses like it’s a dare,  
who never stays still long enough  
for anyone to notice the cracks.

For a while,  
I even forget the weight of myself.  
For a while,  
the mirror throws back someone I almost recognize,  
someone almost worth keeping.

But the days grow teeth.  
The seams split.  
My clinginess stops being "cute,"  
my mess stops being "quirky,"  
my fear starts leaking through the paint.  

Then I remember:
I'm not magic.  
I'm work.  
I'm a maze with no ending.  
I'm a mouthful of needs no one knows how to swallow.

And they start seeing it too.  
The way I flinch when they look too long.  
The way my laugh gets hollow.  
The way I start pleading through my eyes,
"Please, please don't look closer."

I know how this ends.  
The Dream Girl dies the moment she becomes real.  
Nobody writes sequels for the ones who stay.

So I run.  
I tear the script from my hands,  
I rip the costume at the seams.  
I run before they can stop loving the idea of me,  
before they have to face the weight of who I am  
beneath the glitter and noise.

I find a new stage,  
a new pair of arms,  
a new chance to believe in the girl I invented—
if only for a little while longer,
If only to live in someone else's dreams,
If only to forget the weight of waking up.

Let these words I write,
be your cordial invite
Because I write these words for you
between heartbeats
Where our love, hopes and dreams meet.  

Let this be my eyes
Gazing into yours
Dancing to the rain drops
I'll hold you, till it all stops
If You'll hold me, while it pours

I long to be known.
To be seen.
To be heard.

I long to be held,
In a comforting embrace,
And told that everything will be okay

I always thought someone would find me.
That it would be a perfect teenage romance,
Like you see in stupid fantastical films.

So I waited.
And waited.
And waited.

But no one came.

I was a naive fool.

Maybe it's just not meant to be.