A pen and paper,
that is all I need or want
to let my mind run wild.
A slow and steady
stream of ink on parchment
forming words and worlds.
I create and I destroy
with just a movement
of my wrist, of my dreams.
Tapestries of letters,
of memories and nightmares,
slowly come alive
alone in the dark.
*Eglantine: poetry in the language of flowers
The space you used to occupy is now empty,
the bed sheets are cold and not a wrinkle can be found,
you left or rather, didn’t come back.
You crossed the door and never looked back,
said goodbye, farewell, I’ll see you again
now there’s nothing but your empty space.
And I sit, quietly waiting in the vain hope you return,
And I sit and close my eyes,
because you left, you left, you left.
*Anemone: Forsaken, in the language of flowers
» I Write Like
In exchange for all the nightblogging, have a fun generator! - Pen
Perhaps they were right putting love into books. Perhaps it could not live anywhere else.
William Faulkner (via c-oquetry)