Rebecca Stansfield

Rebecca Stansfield Poems

Clouds made up of sounds of violins, the white clouds that seldom move, if you stare for days.
The birds that never seem to look angry, even as the crows, eat their own friendships.
...

What is love?
I'm waiting.

Angels move in closer,
...

Battered face is bruised,
there that beauty hidden,
the woman sat in front of me,
ear phones in, blacked eyed, singing.
...

Foresee the day ahead of me,
the is rising again,
and all that was a burden to me,
is flying, again.
...

Tornadoes moving in like fire,
the baby of the night,
providing the mess it's causing here,
is waiting for a fight.
...

The water in my eyes
The water in my heart
The air The air The air The air
The air that's in my soul
...

For some reason- I wanted it-
your home.
It's almost dinner time at one-
and I'm unnoticeable.
...

8.

Kissing beards
Holding hands
Dreaming whilst we're working
Of feet in Spanish sands
...

Who's to worry,
is it a fault of mine?
That you are snatching everything,
snatching my life and my time.
...

The lacking of time,
is in duty.
Paid and almost done,
where room is no longer insurable,
...

When lives of love submit,
in a tragedy of feelings of,
of that this so place where feelings lay,
when I'm pretending to be curious? !
...

13.

Moving life emits,
a tender thrill of all of this,
of that so great in all our minds,
changing the course of which the grounds,
...

14.

Nature relies on me,
what to submit and how it's essence plays in my ears.
How in my heart I listen,
the thrill in which I'm thinking of,
...

Jumping from the morning, but
who's wife sting,
as how we face the upcoming
bright summer.
...

There's not many people in,
what I buy, share,
for who are the people,
- I do not not know.
...

Laying in by nature where I lay,
awaiting anything before I start the day.
I know the times from way before,
the way that was the same.
...

Every bird 'a coming around
the fire of the WHO in me,
and where is the day starting?
I love you-
...

I be born a surrounding soul,
bowing at each and every courtesy,
yet each and everything thing I stole,
stolen from grace and robbed from me,
...

If I knew why be here that I was here,
and if I only knew why the sad birds sings,
silently singing does the bird,
quietly whispering his wings.
...

The Best Poem Of Rebecca Stansfield

The Kind Of Day When Violins Play

Clouds made up of sounds of violins, the white clouds that seldom move, if you stare for days.
The birds that never seem to look angry, even as the crows, eat their own friendships.
The kind of day when the sky, looks like a flying ocean, and you want to jump up into it, not realising that you cannot fly upside down.
When the monsoon is barley a problem, because you like the look of the rain anyway, because it looks like sunrays, sunrays from the sky.
The kind of day when the trees hardly seem to sway, even if there was a tornado, you'd refuse to run away.
And the crickets that you hear, as you walk across a field, are not crickets on a field but,
angles in a jungle.
When the earth moves and makes you dizzy, when you lay on the ground, and a tear falls down your face, that tastes of sugar and not salt.
The day when the hypocrites, never will seem right, because in your heart you know why, the storm that is supposed to look black, somehow to you today is looking bright.
That day when the music that usually makes you cry, is sweetening up your day,
because the tears are not stinging anymore, because they are happy- tasting-sweet.

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