Spilled Ink

365-voiced-thoughts:

This is what it comes to.
The waters rising over the high roads,
the clouds going purple, and the sky a dirty yellow.
Everyone can die, everyone will live
but my heart only beats so long as yours does.
I’ll stand here and wait, and silence can befriend me.
But with four hundred miles, between the sun and my sea,
I’d imagine myself becoming miracles
walking on clear water,
and dead in the instant I stepped on land and drowned.
Gravity speaks in deathly whispers,
and calls to the wind to break it, kill it off before the pain takes it over.
We’re tearing ourselves apart,
and wallowing in dust,
but in a day we’ll all fly, or dig in deep within our souls.

beadsofthought:

I captured a cloud in a little jar

and labeled it 

home, 

screwed the lid so tight 

and tucked it away. 

—

I grew up the other day

and spring cleaned my life

to find that the cloud had turned 

grey 

so I threw it away.

constantasthenorthstar:

I’m a little crazy
A little neurotic even
No rhythm or rhyme
No reason or logic

A weeping willow among
Thriving oaks, pines and maples

You read this line and think
“This isn’t poetry”
You’re right
It’s the diary of a mad man

Fourth stanza
What should go here?
I ask the mirror and the mirror doesn’t respond
I look to the sky and the clouds say white

Fifth stanza
The stanza of stanzas
The final stanza where something important, something striking is said
White, white, white.