poems

Scatter as a prayerescaping my lips...as orchidsblooming in clouds.

It...whatever 'it' is, has swallowed me and I lie here in the pit of its cold dark stomach being eaten alive by its bile and I...I don't even know if I want to be saved.

I am the shore and the ocean, awaiting myself on both sides.

Wherever I go, I meet myself.

Traveling down a road of self-destructionWith no room for any reconstruction

Man disavows, and Deity disowns me;Hell might afford my miseries a shelter;Therefore Hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths allBolted against me.Hard lot! encompassed with a thousand dangers,Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors,I'm called, if vanquished, to receive a sentenceWorse than Abiram's.Him the vindictive rod of angry JusticeSent quick and howling to the centre headlong;I, fed with judgement, in a fleshy tomb, amBuried above ground.

When you draw, you copy the world don't you? You remake it on paper, but it isn't the same. It's yours. No one else could have created it just like that. When I make poems, I use the words we all use, but the order and the sound create a new power. This wood is someone's creation. We stumble through it's tendrils, as if we're crawling through the synapses of his mind.

Poetry is one of my guilty pleasures and I want to thank you poets for providing me with beautiful words that I can devour and selfishly indulge in any time I want. _-Nina Jean Slack

Love is wind for the soul

My heart's scripture tastes foreign in the mouths of cowards and on the tongues of those who have never breathed inthe moon and breathed out the world.

The road was so dimly lighted.There we;re no highway signs to guide.But they made up their minds,If all roads were blind,They wouldn't give up 'til they died....

I belong to clever words and bedtime storieseven a good riddle or twoI belong to the sound of musicand dance to my own rhythmI belong to the sunlight on a chilly autumn daywhen the world awaits a new beginningI belong by the shore under a star-filled skywith the ocean caressing my feetI belong everywhere.And anyway I please.

I love the way he says my name. With the elegance and utmost respect of a King, just before he bows to his Queen.

A single poemis worth a hundredcozy winter nightskind wordsand healed wounds.

Poems are invisible flowers on my skin.

I waited for the seasons of love to pass from this cold winter to the summer heat I dreamed of.

Poems are word paintings. Poetry doesn__ belong to time. That__ why often you feel as if poems are speaking directly to you.

It was more than a string of letters put togetherit was a thick cloak in the coldand a strong defense against an enemyIt was more than the naked heart on paperit was a way to undress sadness _ and sinsand an olive branch for the desperateWriting was her prayer and the words were felt.