ThatBookishWriter

To me Strawberries mean The start of Summer in late Spring: In the morning, they are your favorite smoothie, Fresh and cold, on a day that's bound to be too hot, But not muggy enough to rain down on your bare freckly skin, As you step out from behind a tree and onto a rock Ao you can swan dive ass-clean into the lake That is full of sparkles, sunshine, prefect clouds And the tree topped mountains that are bursting with emerald green life; They are evenings filled with fire burnt marshmallows Underneath the blazing star-filled night sky Where angels have drawn their blanket, Peering through as they whisper lullabies Just before the mosquitoe

Across hours of oceans and sea waves, From the moment we were both born We were told to fight. In that first moment, We might not have known What we were meant for But the screams that came from our lungs During our baptism as the water flowed through our minds Must have meant something Because the river that ran past our back door And out to the sea that once separated us Soon became our holy water. When we could not live on solid land We floated on our mirror, a reflection of our past, If only to survive our pain through ecstasy. Over time, as the pain became too much I learned to grow an shell: I thought Our lesson meant for us to fig

Last night I dreamed about a fish that was caught in time. I watched as it tried to swim forward, Like a salmon to spawn, jumping upstream over waterfalls, Pushing through this linear path that humanity has created So we can compare our impure existence To something that means nothing to anything outside our sphere of consciousness. Time. Even our language compares What has happened What is happening What will happen To the moment in which we speak. But who am I to question such things? I am no ruler of time, Nor can I give humanity a machine Often wished for In order to warp the grains of time I am sorry. I have no magic spells, No super

Dusk arrives ever so slowly,          blinded by the street lights                    that hide the coming darkness. Sitting on the red bricks of the front step,         I feel the frigid cold air of December                that does not welcome any snow. It is so different         from the muggy air of August                    that welcomed the warm summer rain         that finally came                  the day we sat on your po

Sunset over the river: A calm setting; The lights flicker out, Like fireflies coming down To rest. The oars dance across the water, As a butterfly would among The dandelion strew grass, Flashing over the cloud-reflected Water. The green grass waves to the sun, Dancing in ripples over the dunes In like to the sparkles of sunlight That flash over the rippling, bouncing substance of water While the wind gently flows Over the surface In song.

a faery's floss would be a strip of dune grass. a faery's breath the dappled beams of sun, while a faery's song the whisper of wind. the coloured leaves would claim her fashion style of the year while the howls of the wind would be the cries of her place in nature, as the wind would try to whistle around the corner of the tower as swiftly as it could rustle through the old oaks branches to dance around the bumps of the silent, but content tree trunk.

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things It's kind of like a river:    There's an endless amount of choices, like multiple forks in the road.       But there's only one choice    One path that you can take One way that the river flows; One story that only you can follow— Only one place, where you will end up. It may seem endless, but after a time  It all makes sense, really. It all falls into place, like the click of an oar in its oarlock,   A nice fit, right down the line. It's funny, how you can end up enjoying   Something      That seems so placid, calm — quiet even, from th

To Be A Bear The metal creaks Under the swift, clanking movement, A relation to the sky That connects the bear To his soul Making him even more human Than the one right next to you For he cannot be fooled Till he realizes that really, He should look past The dolls and bottles That held him down, Pulling him closer to the humanity we own Then ever thought to be possible. Once broken away, He could fight as harshly, Reason as sharply, Be as bear-like as bear can be possible For to be a bear, You must see past the movement, the mind, The madness of the opposing side. And in doing so, You have your soul. To be a bear, Y

The lights shine out, A little bit of brightness gone To hell. Pardon my "French," But out of the thousands of words That are in the English language Sometimes, There is only one To describe it all. Describe what? Everything. What? You can't be perfect And to do much At the same time. Otherwise Life would become A dull bland potato chip 'To be Or not to be; That is the question.' Those words that echo, Farther and farther Creating a ripple effect— An effect That continues Throughout time and space And to Eternity. It's forever. forever.

BOAT The boat slides out, Held by tough hands, Calloused after weeks of sweating In the rain, the sun, the snow; Driven forward by calls that Have been implanted in everyone's memory, By the repetition of the moment. In one simple movement, the boat is in the water, Floating, waiting, ready to go. The dial turns, clicking on, Screeching for only a second, Just long enough to disturb the silence of time. The calls are made, Everyone is down, and in, and out And with a simple brush of the hand, That turns the boat ever so slightly. Then, the boat begins to silently glide Forward in the morning rays, Ever so slightly, careful