Witches as wives, myths as mothers, and a little bird.
If The world was as pretty as the poets made us beleive.
If I wasnt lieing to my self when I say us.
Because I am one of many, but I reside on the other side of the flowery words weaving fantasical worlds. I strike myself silly, and frolick in the confusion.
--letting the words and thoughts free.
they dance like butterflies in the air, though some are rather dragons in gemstone armour. I wish the way I saw something wasnt contorted with wishes and thoughts and
how am i to share this with the world?
I lose track and thought and soon the ideas and words are streaming from my hands and tounge. The dragons circle higher and the gems gleam ever so brighter. I laugh and spin around to never lose sight but when I blink the dragons and butterflies and dreams and wishes are gone. My created world, my lovely fabrication of existance is gone.I want to wilt like the captured flower, forever trying to atain the beauty I once saw. I try to recreate the world that is just out of reach. I never seem to get it quite right. though the others say they see what I ment and they follow carefully guided on my attempted trek back through the butterfly fields. I never can share what I saw. But the very best that I can try seems almost good enough. but then the dragons whisper in my ear and I want to dream again. Maybe this time I'll scavenge a butterfly wing and a gem or two.
The poet doth drop the pen and her wings spread, she takes flight again.
I'm a poet, I'm a writer
Location:hunting for gemstone dragons and butterflies
Joined:3 years ago
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Description: description poems
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My shelf of not quite untold stories, you could say.