Translation
I begin with the most simplistic form.
“Hello.”
No conjugations or complications that arouse your mind to stimulus with that,
Now is there?
From there, words embellish interaction as in complicated patterns on walls and that make up
for stair cases and times we seem to have lost.
Makeup.
Analyze. A direct order.
Make up hides us, catch up with what we have sent to sea,
But now it’s long gone.
The curves of color begin to twist and turn in upon themselves and I begin to think things I
Should not think. Could not speak.
I do not believe you know how much I wish words were not necessary.
Let lips wander the expanse of the distance of which I would not willingly sacrifice and you would not willingly take.
Let the intricacies of our pasts and presents intertwine in order to fashion a prospect in which we Would lack in the grade cards sprawled in red ink, the judgments
We are sure to achieve,
And the block in words that seems to befall me now.
I wish I could translate the meaning of water falling into light.
Wearing your hat and the sun in the country.
My insecurities on display from which you could easily break all that has come to me.
I wish I had words, so eloquent, in order to express that level of illumination
That is provided by only curses, lightning bugs, and Christmas teardrops choked into old jars.
Unfortunately, that would involve myself having such fluency, and I stand here before you
Tongue Tied.
Letters seem to be all the answer, in more than one way.
Yellow lanterns atop eyelashes as they fall like butterflies.
Have you ever imagined their kisses?
Why does it seem as though two such opposites merge?
Though my insight depicts light, such endearments were delivered to me in obscurity,
In envelops, old fashion like we will be… wait no.
Once again I turn back on myself and remind me that this is not my future, only my vision.
But then why is it conveyed so clearly?
My questions must become tedious to you, as they are to me, but maybe that is because they come unanswered.
I shouldn’t be writing this poem because I am no linguist.
I am no princess, and do not deserve to be treated as such.
I am taken.
I am
taken.
Something which once freed me now entraps me like the binds of a stereotype and that
should not be the case. The gavel resounds.
Neon lights kaleidescope through your veins and make my blood pulse along with yours.
My guilt doubts your promise and yet seeks to quench his thirst.
Okay this is really crappy editing but I am still learning on photoshop elements. I just really wanted to make a Windsor Crest.
