This site will self destruct in 2 months, March 17. It will come back, and be familiar and at the same time completely different. All content will be deleted. Backup anything important. --- Staff
|
|
Where do I start? I miss you. Blue runs through your veins against your pale, freckled white skin. Red is what pours out, like the ketchup bottle that no one ever shook before using. It sits in the fridge, far from the mustard. Loss is an infection, which gets worse as it is left untreated. Worse & worse as each day apathetically passes by. The empty swing set creaks welcoming the wind and blowing autumn leaves. Naked branches dance preparing for the winter's first attack of frost. A lonely tulip reaches up for the pastel blue and creamy white sky of spring. The waves crash hard against the rocks as the hot summer sun beats down. You can't see these elements outside of your window. Not now. These things exist only in the place where we once existed. Seal and stamp the envelope. This love is an infection, which goes on when left untreated. |
Good write. The words seem very chosen. as if you thought hard about what to write although, in all it gives off a very sweet, and homey feel. The infection repition brought the poem to a lovely conclusion though I would have preferred to see some more of it at the end. Sounds like a fasinating back story is behind this piece. ~Carrie | Posted on 2008-12-04 00:00:00 | by dismal_s child | [ Reply to This ] | wow i loved this, good imagination, you realy give the mind a treat, | well done hun x x x | Posted on 2008-12-03 00:00:00 | by secret kisses | [ Reply to This ] | |