Watery- Ink:
He stood alone
Abandoned by hope—
By love—
By fear;
His story is lost,
Abandoned too—
By he who holds,
The quill.
I stood by him,
The morning was gray—
This is a memory held dear.
He cried me his tale,
Of watery-ink—
A life-story in one tiny
Tear.
Whispered:
The tree whispered to me,
He whispered his sad tale.
Told me of loves lost—
And thoughts that had gone stale.
The pain was immense,
The work was hard,
His fortune lay,
All in one card.
Made of glossy paper,
Cut from his home,
Painted with red,
That left him alone.
The tree;
Whispered to me.
And I cried.
2 comments:
If beauty is only skin deep
Why do I cry, Why do I weep?
The rejection in your eyes
as you look my way
inside a part of me dies
You might reach out a hand to touch
Only to pull away
Nothing beautiful is ugly
and thats the way it should stay
Girls who dont have good looks
Can always escape into books
Where Mr. Right will soothe all wrongs
where the lovely ladies croon their songs
Her position can shift
With a bitten lip
She becomes the virgin beauty
Easily seduced by her valiant lover
A tumble of skirts and pages
Because girls who dont have good looks
Can always escape into books
Where they will never be lonely again
oh, those are orginals....
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