I’ve created a new personal genre/cure for writer’s block!
The following poems are entirely composed of randomly generated ‘statuses’ created for me at WhatWouldISay.com
Jealousy is the fine art
There is an animal instinct.
It’s been given, made to be
Cos’ this is a lightening,
no two feelings are more synonymous than you
and it is fantastic.
Love you perfectly, love, these are the thoughts which run through me.
Death in several hours straight, I finally received my awakening
and you felt like you,
and I have a soul.
Kill me to bed.
Snow means happiness; But the Fall.
Why can people say it was bad day—
all of them doing something else yet
not enough to survive it.
Now, however, reality sets in.
It’s been wishing for the chance to see tonight
And I wish I was rather anticlimactic,
but we forgot to see tonight.
That moment when we’re on our darkest day
and you took a look at it,
looked the long half-mile down my spine and
I always feel when we find my actual train of thought
it will feel like a schoolkid who needs sleep.
So long, home
It’s been a while since I just discovered the world actually,
all of it,
this is it.
Home in this horizontal plane creates an ocean,
but it’s still home—
home in front of your harvester of the wind
we are all
watching the scales tip back
to fall off.
Life is an artist ;
sometimes God leaves us
a clean canvas, a picture to the world actually
But it’s technically still one out of your masterpiece…
just keep remembering that.
I humbly accept this is us
I tell her what I’ve been telling myself for months:
We each have
sidewalk chalk and an excellent question.
Do something fascinating and enlightening here and then
rest easy, in my only hands;
seeing, listening and hearing, breathing and now
going back to where the Wild around you
lets the adventure.
Love you perfectly
Life is your family as you
and you can tell them anything you wish
in case anyone missed everyone’s lives.
The juxtaposition of untruths, your family discoursing on the pouring rain,
which can wake the neighbors,
get the trees to clap their hands in the yard—
if I hear them I’ll recognize them.
Poor souls, they were made for rain
and all in all I think I’d rather be the sun.
(c) Marie KR 2013