For she is the girl with the wildflower heart beat by grew-up-a-screw-up, literature
Literature
For she is the girl with the wildflower heart beat
Capsizing oceans breaking over her red queen smile
Know the answers to where secret gardens grow
Behind flaming thorns and rusting knights
Lie dormant stars waiting to split open and spew over her ribs
In order to make constellations out of her lion breaths
Palms scratching the skies to find the sun
Behind the fluorescent sounds of steel birds and empty raindrops
She colors in her retinas to rid the world of shades of grey
She blooms like wildflowers aching for scorched storms
She is summer veins and dandelion heartstrings
Whispering stories to the wolves at her door
Because fairy tales are just myths and there’s rarely a happy endin
Wisps of you come rolling onto my mind
Like the fog or mist from the ocean upon a beach
As the lighthouse turns I strain to see
The ship that our souls will meet
And entwine to journey on this life
But, alas, I know the truth
The ocean shall separate us
I'm a princess
You're a merman
And we will never truly meet
This is only, but a dream
My love, you are gone
As the tide follows gravity
I must keep to the lighthouse
Salty tears turn to rivers
The sorrow and hope they carry
Lost to the ocean
There are rivers that surge and flow
miles below this comatose surface.
For now the waves break sluggishly
while children splash and play
in shallows where wavelets
stroke and tickle their toes.
Offshore the breeze has more energy.
Agile wind surfers capture the promise
of motion in their bellying sails.
A summer afternoon.
The angry spirits dream of mayhem,
In darker seasons they will ride
the ferocity of storms.
He stared at the running stream for what seemed for hours. The moon light was glistening reflections in it, and the sound was soothing. Once and a while, he would glance at the small human resting in his arms, just to make sure she was still breathing. It was ridiculous to think such way, but she was so still, it was hard to tell.
She wasn't shaking, which meant he was radiating enough warmth for her to feel comfortable. Good.
He moved a strand of the hair from her face, being careful with his claws to not accidently pierce her soft flesh. Every time he touched her he had to be extremely careful, even if it meant only holding her in his arm
Fall in love with a girl who writes. by Skyangel13, literature
Literature
Fall in love with a girl who writes.
Fall in love with a girl who reads
and writes, because
she will remember the day that
your eyes fell in love with
her words.
She will remember what you
wore on the night of
your first date, and
the comment that you
made about the child
six tables across from
you.
She will smile at you, and tell
you that your eyes are a
mixture of water and
fresh cut grass;
two beautiful hues of
her favorite colors.
She will blush and touch
her knuckles to her
chin as she rests
her eyes on your
smile.
Fall in love with a girl who writes
because she will hold all of
the happiness that you
could ever want;
she is all you would ever
need.
She was a natural born smoker. Grey poison inserted itself; weaving thin threads of death into and around her bronchial tubes. The vituperation her lungs faced daily always made a small smile bubble up to the surface; she was proud of her pulmonary alveoli working within her sore lungs.
He was not a smoker. That was what made their relationship so entirely intriguing. His lips had never come in contact with a paper filter until they met hers. Her cigarette stained hands wove into his hair and brought along death. Which, of course, was the best way to start it; at the roots where no one would notice, until it slowly slipped through to