Yes, I see your pains superficially
but cannot experience their inner hell.
All I can do is remember my own
and use them as a sketch for yours.
I see the ruins of hope and
the soaring eagle of disillusion.
I long to hold you close
and spirit away those pains.
I long to love you to wholeness
And see you free to rise like a phoenix.
I want to offer you the chaste love of friendship
but know my limits and fear the erotic.
I could not resist the charms
of your body if offered.
I would say the right words
but they would be a mockery.
I would not love you properly
because I could not love you erotically
without feeling it was wron
Hello, I am here again.
It is inevitable because
when somebody touches me
I come here to try
and put into order
what rages within.
I fear hurt
and the potential hurter
may well feel hurt,
simply because we have been before
Yet I want trust and love.
Do I want these more than I want him?
I am not a computer
and I just do not know
yet I do know, I want
when I should consider more
what I can give to him.
I am fragile and I feel
my needs clamouring for expression
and I know that I seek,
in him, their fulfillment.
Can I say "I love"
when I am so preoccupied with me?
I know there must be a balance
or everything will go up i
Others see only the bitch
As I once did
And fear I may again.
Those that see the bitch
Do not see what has caused it.
They do not realise it is a defence,
A defence that, maybe
Lowered against me.
Yet, knowing this
I still want to reach out
And hold you close
Until the pain goes.
The rejection, implicit in bitchery,
Would cost me dear
And also those others around.
I lash out in frustration,
I am attempting to
Walk a tightrope
With hideous consuequences for failure.
For me, definite
And for you quite likely.
Yet I must do it.
The urge in me will not let me run away
And every time we meet
I feel the need in you.
It's Not Too Late To Love Me by elusive-butterfly, literature
Literature
It's Not Too Late To Love Me
Think of flowers on a hill,
Closing with the dying day
Picture me beside you there,
The evening soft and warm.
We could watch the mellow moon
Kiss a sleepy sky,
It's not too late to love me
Why don't you try?
Think of raindrops on the leaves,
Sparkling in the sun.
Then imagine you and me,
Walking hand in hand.
We could hear the blackbirds sing,
See the sparrows fly,
It's not too late to love me
Why don't you try?
Picture all the places
Where you love to walk alone,
The pebble path wild roses grow along,
A lonely lake, a quiet glade,
A green and grassy field,
Imagine me beside you
As the low breeze sings a windy song.
Th
Memories of a Lost Love by elusive-butterfly, literature
Literature
Memories of a Lost Love
Could it have been the evening?
The silent whisper of a star perhaps,
Or the rhythmical ebb off the sea?
We stood watching and waiting,
I remember how you held me,
How you told me that life was love
And love was you and me.
I recall the shadows of our bodies
As we walked by that deserted shore,
Nothing and no-one could ever enter
Or be part of our world that night
And yet, could there be something missing?
A thing, so elusive to sight and touch,
Something that appears, questions
and is gone.
Slowly I remember why it is
Why we can never be one.
Why the night calls and I must follow,
Why our love can never be.
It has nothing
When the violet glow of twilight
Is enveloped with inkiness
And threads of silvery moonlight
Filter into your room
Weaving intricate filigree patterns of lace
Think of me.
When a pale golden sun
Absorbs the last twinkling star
And the first trill of bird song
Pierces a cloud marbled sky
And the air is sweet
With the scent of soft morning rain
Please.......think of me then.
Legacy of a Cocker Spanel by elusive-butterfly, literature
Literature
Legacy of a Cocker Spanel
My material possesions are few, and I leave them all to you:
A collar, chewed on one end with two studs missing, a lumpy dog bed and my chipped water dish.
I leave you half a rubber ball, a torn doll, which you will find under the fridge, a rubber mouse with the whistle missing located behind the kitchen range and hundreds of bones under the rose bushes and the flower bed.
Mostly I leave you memories, which are many. I leave you the memory of big, soft, brown eyes, a stubby tail, a brown flecked nose and my whine at the back door.
I leave you the spot of sunshine that was cast through the window onto the living room rug at 4 o'clock on wi