He bids my hands to the thorns.

By SeraCurr

Behest my fingerprints, to the garden. Smiles taint the ground of above. Because he is biological, does that make him loving? Because he is biological, does that make up for him making an ass of our name? The name I now no longer honor, unless with shame. Shall we scrape the sky with your mighty palms of rejection? I beg to forgive his illness, and his receiving blue eyes, shifting the clouds. I doubt the, do not’s and do’s, for you have been the most helpful clue as to achieving happiness. I hear the beating!! If I stop moving the feet of awareness, will I cease to be less aware? Nay, I would rather be aware, even if it was of fear, what do I fear, you ask? Ahh, windows, is your answer, piercing windows, but only when night has fallen on the trees and my living space is light as if a white Christmas fell through. WINDOWS, YES! I fear the viewing of blind sight. For when the light of living is shining, it over powers, the dark of trees, smiling. I blame him biological, NOT. I blame the mind box, of moving pictures. Do you think kindly to understanding? Understanding, as in standing under the world! Not your world of viewing, but a world of hearing. OBSTRUCK my feelings, wait, you have done so, and light has fallen as Christmas snow. Beautiful.

Biologically I feel more, than he felt leaving.

Luckily, I found a man with no ties to blood, unless with chains of sickness.

But I, oh so love him.

The feeling of revealed tears.



Good evening,

Sera

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He bids my hands to the thorns.

Created: Jul 02, 2010

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