He holds your face in his hands While he brushes your hair to the side. His bare chest becomes a place to rest Oh how sweet you think this place could be.
By Tracy6 years ago in Poets
Mirror mirror?... You ask. Brows so tinted and dark, Lashes so heavy, it’s work Just to lift that mass, You sit before me when it's still dark.
As I question my own intelligence full of doubt and incompetence. I look up, still hopeful for a half-full glass. I’m in awe that I question my ‘lack of-' with my own intelligence. It’s a paradox and as cunning as a fox it escapes my understanding.
As I write my thoughts with this weightless feather, I hope my thoughts don’t weigh less than my soul. That they would hold more water than my cup of ink.