When I write, I clear my mind...
I do and say everything that I was afraid to accept while awake, in my Conscious self, surrounded by the world around me...
I guess my explaination of it doesn't make sense on account of, when I write, I am awake, in my Conscious self, and surrounded by the world around me...
But most of what I know and what I am doesn't make sense either...
That's what's beautiful about it all, I suppose...
I discover things as I go... even if explainations are down to a minimum...
I am a human that's being...
What more can I say?
Alot I guess.
But I'm just one of those people that has to be known through ... more »
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Brenda Arroyo Poems
Love Like Stone
Love never came to me that night, As I sat there, starring at the statue of Eros, Waiting for a spark.
I’m crippled by the stars that glisten outside the night sky. -Beautiful. Burning me with their silver essence.
a seeming less heart
I hear my thoughts scurry fast across the horizon... I see how the sun rises but I can not retrace my mind. For now, it seems that I have no words (not righteously, at least) . Not even the least.
something to remember
Everything was soft that day... Like the color of grace or The scent of mercy. The air, the sun, and the wind were all soft.
Tranquil nights find closure beneath chaotic stars, And forever finds a way to seep into our dreams. Today I say:
Days seem to come and go, fading into my skin… Disappearing, yet never really leaving. Time lingers here, weighing down on my breaths.
I am not a bird;
Five or six life-times ago, my name was cursed to infamy. You see, Morning had come when I had not yet finished stitching my dreams into the night. And so, I have slept in a cold daze ever since.
For as long as centuries can measure in my lungs, I have breathed in the ages of this place… Every single season that has passed, every cloud that has breezed by, every star that has shone out, I’ve held it all in.
We're still in March
The sun rises bright And the air growls an icy breeze, It’s just the way March does its talking…
Sometime in May,
Mercy falls like morning dew on newborn rose buds, Not really falling at all… Just forming. Appearing as liquid dust,
Silence is the thought that screams beneath my skin. It is my loudest prayer, The only thing I’m good at…
The stone beneath my skin melts,
A soft moon dangles above our heads, Talcum powder moon dust mingles in our hair... My eyes are aboard the sea of yours and I fail to notice all but you.
On my way out
Sometimes the moon shatters across a glossy horizon... I stumble aimlessly and fall aimlessly... Losing my sanity, baring my nude flesh to society, exposing my skin for all to see. But none can see at all...
Tomorrow dried in the hopes of reaching ...
The silver glow of a lazy moon floats and infects the aura of a late, starry, night. I wander off into the desert in search of you [again]. The wind howls her discomfort but I don’t stop. I never did, I wouldn’t now.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Love Like Stone
Love never came to me that night,
As I sat there, starring at the statue of Eros,
Waiting for a spark.
Evening shone out through romantic clouds,
My heart beats signed for the stars to come out.
But nothing came to me instead.
Embracing me with its somber emotion,
Filling me with what I already was.
And in my act of sorrow, I got up to leave.
I headed east, toward where I came from.
But before I was out of his sight,
I turned back to look at him once more...
And never will I forget the stone of his eyes.