What is it that you fear?
The cold unfeeling gloom of loneliness?
The hollow rapture of living without love?
The silent shadow beside you?
...
War
is a national pissing day.
It is like a lemon; over time its sour taste will fade.
Rivers run red, tears turn to lakes, and hate only grows within the heart.
...
Hold me gently,
for I fear that I shall fall.
Dance with swaying grace,
...
Dandelion
The milky dew of the honeyed dandelion,
grows sour with neglect.
Yet the rose of youth continues with tender care.
Too long has beauty been ignored for the superficial tenacity of the,
sweet.
And too long has youth been sorely deprived.
The necessity of the weed purely surpasses those of the rose,
which withers and dies at the merest touch,
and has not the will of the dandelion.