I lock my own face out of my consciousness My feet wade, sparkling warm water from natural resources They know they are. A very, very private longing. The notes shift in the dark. None of these will bring disaster. Sonnet 147 by William Shakespeare My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, The uncertain sickly appetite to please. Yes, she hurt like a gunshot but I did this to myself When he held me, I felt strange, like I should give my whole self.
One story describes the emergence of two islands in Jervis Bay near Kangaroo Island. We come out with a new age. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. I had 7 new experiences that day.
Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee, Reaching late his flower, Round her chamber hums, Counts his nectars —alights, And is lost in balms! The thirst that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine: But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. You are my life, and what keeps me alive. And tatting is such an ancient art, one that is truly passed from generation to generation. You'll writh and shudder - I'll make your head spin. Obviously, she had stepped on her. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest.
You must have left in haste; your last wet step Before boarding your suit and setting sail, Outlined in talcum on the bathroom floor Mocks your habitual fastidiousness. It promises light like the careful undressing of love. My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, At random from the truth vainly expressed, For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as Hell, as dark as night. A couple of weeks ago I met a composer who told me that he had the same experience, that his concertos simply appeared when he sat down at the piano. You are all I want, and all I need. I just want to be owned, I don't care how long the leash is.
I realized, during a session already dedicated to realizations, how exhausting it was trying to live my reality to its current extent. Sweet liquor only ages, Sweet liquor only ages, That body, does it shine? Bright Star by John Keats Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient sleepless eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors; No yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever or else swoon to death. Long acrylic nails, for us never fails. Sweet Heaven I shall taste Before my death. My finger-length grew lucent as glass. Percy's wife Harriet, who was also pregnant, committed suicide in 1816; Percy and Mary married soon thereafter. Her dreams and visions fill inside my head Such ecstasy, as she lays by me dead.
They have contrived a conquest for shell shucks, And their fingers crumble fragments of baked weed Gaily digging and scattering. Sooner are later you will just have to let go. For me, writing poetry is a unique experience. And I'd like to remind you That you never quite know who out there Is quietly writing you poetry. All possibility we will have children is gone.
Poets have long been using their poems to aid their passionate pursuits. Girl, You gonna just love me. Some contemporary spins on carpe diem poems and aubades sometimes have little to do with romantic love at all. In signature of the incarnate word The harbor shoulders to resign in mingling Mutual blood, transpiring as foreknown And widening noon within your breast for gathering All bright insinuations that my years have caught For islands where must lead inviolably Blue latitudes and levels of your eyes,— In this expectant, still exclaim receive The secret oar and petals of all love. I loved that you knew it.
I didn't know what to make of it. I opened up, I let it out, thinking that this was freedom for me. Why are we telling our kids this? He says something clever, Passes a hand along the small of her back And she leans into it, Smiling because she loves that he wants to touch her innocently. Think not for this, however, this poor treason Of my stout blood against my staggering brain, I shall remember you with love, or season My scorn with pity — let me make it plain: I find this frenzy insufficient reason For conversation when we meet again. Juan's Song by Louise Bogan When beauty breaks and falls asunder I feel no grief for it, but wonder.