Solemn ties around the perpetual myth of grandiosity orchestrate the belief that self-assurance tells a story of what had to be overcome to get here.
By Rachel M.4 years ago in Poets
Heaven's gate has no open door Hell hath no fury but a survivor unknown The devil's got your back like a desert land's mirage
It's a layered remembrance of a cradle stock life, sans the echo of the timely brigade designed to shake off the deafening tribunal
When you marked my beauty, was your reflection what you gazed at in my eyes? You tried to shake down my lively fist in the air
Together There you with your stilted smile, I was waiting to hold you close to put an end your bootcamp order of business.
Crimson Crimson is the color that sounds the alarm for spirits cast off into a cycle of what's known and broken. Peace is the heart of lives that matter
My life was never an artistic time piece as if to avert your eyes to the political truth that my pathology does not exist in a vaccum
The solace of a spirit spared unravels the afterthought of a journey imperiled. With the brazen cusp of no turns,
Waiting On First Class They ride first class car of the American train. They wear their tears like beautiful ornaments of hard earned complexity.
Medals sink into the dirt that birthed it for our men that shed their skins to fight fire with fire. Yet the women at home
The churches you visit in Maslow's kingdom bring you unto the world of shiny objects spun from feminine wiles. You shut your eyes
Ever since Mary Magdalene cleaned our clocks to make us forget our inner Eve we still wonder who is most notably sitting on the sideline through a