07-12-2012, 01:42 PM
2nd Edit
Playing is in the playground
chocolates in the box,
maturity is the taste of
saccharin coated candy bar,
feeling your mouth sweat
melting inside.
Hands clutch
metal on the swings
swaying back and forth.
A penny in the fountain
For my thoughts,
a child's fairytale.
The door closes,
in that final feeling of
warmth against
a wall turning cold.
Being your ghost,
the texture must
feel distant sinking
to your veins.
The last touch, your pulse.
Consider my knees
on the floor,
the indention in the sounds
of escaping to the bottom
for you.
I am the echo
repeating alone.
There isn't anyone
left to fight.
Eyes swell, form
then adjust to the mood
of independence
too easily when
standing changes
the memory of
crawling beside you.
Time circles
when the day is blank
until it becomes used;
then it is patient,
disappearing slowly.
It's the motion of
pushing yourself
from behind on a slide
to gain momentum
and to finally land from a height.
It's the hands breaking the seal
off a heart-shaped box,
wiping the chocolate on your clothes.
Hoping it hides well
in your mouth when it tastes
like childhood.
It's the penny among pennies
not recognizing mine.
It's the door, worn and beaten
by flashes of leaving,
by staying too long.
1st Edit
Playing is in the playground
chocolates in the box,
maturity is the taste of
vanillin coated candy bar,
feeling your mouth sweat
melting inside.
Hands clutch
the metal on the swings
swaying back and forth.
The door closes,
in that final feeling of
warmth against
a wall turning cold.
It's a penny in the fountain
for my thoughts,
a child's fairytale.
Feeling your ghost,
the texture must have
felt distant sinking
to your veins.
The last touch, your pulse.
I am the echo
repeating alone.
There isn't anyone
left to fight but there
is an accident
left to prepare for.
Time circles
when the day is blank
until it becomes used
then it is patient
disappearing slowly.
Consider my knees
on the floor once,
the indention in the sounds
of escaping to the bottom
for you.
The eyes forming- swelling
adjusting to the mood
of loneliness.
It's the motion of
pushing yourself
from behind on a slide
to gain momentum
and to finally land from a height.
It's the hands breaking the seal
off a heart-shaped box,
wiping the chocolate on your clothes.
Hoping it hides well
in your mouth when it tastes
like childhood.
It's the penny among pennies
not recognizing mine.
It's the door, worn and beaten
by flashes of leaving,
by staying too long.
Original
Playing is in the playground
chocolates in the box,
maturity is the taste of
artificial flavor.
feeling your mouth sweat
melting inside.
It's hands clutching
the metal on the swings
swaying back and forth.
It's the door swinging
open and close.
that final feeling of
a door's warmth against
the wall turning cold.
it's wishing on a penny
in the fountain
finally throwing it.
Feeling your ghost,
the texture must have
felt distant when it's
sinking to your veins.
the last touch, is your pulse
I'm the echo
repeating alone.
there isn't anyone
left to fight but there
is an accident
left to prepare for.
time circles around
when the day is blank
until it becomes used
then it is patient,
disappearing slowly.
Consider my knees
on the floor once,
the indention in the sounds
of escaping to the bottom
for you.
The eyes forming-swelling
adjusting-existing the mood
to lonliness.
It's the motion of
pushing yourself from
behind on a slide
to gain momentum
and to finally land from a height.
It's the hands breaking the seal
off a heart-shaped box,
wiping the chocolate on your
clothes. hoping it hides well
in your mouth when it tastes
like childhood.
It's the penny in the fountain
still holding the wish-wishing.
It's the door, worn and beaten
by flashes of leaving,
by staying too long.
Why couldn't we have been adults?
Playing is in the playground
chocolates in the box,
maturity is the taste of
saccharin coated candy bar,
feeling your mouth sweat
melting inside.
Hands clutch
metal on the swings
swaying back and forth.
A penny in the fountain
For my thoughts,
a child's fairytale.
The door closes,
in that final feeling of
warmth against
a wall turning cold.
Being your ghost,
the texture must
feel distant sinking
to your veins.
The last touch, your pulse.
Consider my knees
on the floor,
the indention in the sounds
of escaping to the bottom
for you.
I am the echo
repeating alone.
There isn't anyone
left to fight.
Eyes swell, form
then adjust to the mood
of independence
too easily when
standing changes
the memory of
crawling beside you.
Time circles
when the day is blank
until it becomes used;
then it is patient,
disappearing slowly.
It's the motion of
pushing yourself
from behind on a slide
to gain momentum
and to finally land from a height.
It's the hands breaking the seal
off a heart-shaped box,
wiping the chocolate on your clothes.
Hoping it hides well
in your mouth when it tastes
like childhood.
It's the penny among pennies
not recognizing mine.
It's the door, worn and beaten
by flashes of leaving,
by staying too long.
1st Edit
Playing is in the playground
chocolates in the box,
maturity is the taste of
vanillin coated candy bar,
feeling your mouth sweat
melting inside.
Hands clutch
the metal on the swings
swaying back and forth.
The door closes,
in that final feeling of
warmth against
a wall turning cold.
It's a penny in the fountain
for my thoughts,
a child's fairytale.
Feeling your ghost,
the texture must have
felt distant sinking
to your veins.
The last touch, your pulse.
I am the echo
repeating alone.
There isn't anyone
left to fight but there
is an accident
left to prepare for.
Time circles
when the day is blank
until it becomes used
then it is patient
disappearing slowly.
Consider my knees
on the floor once,
the indention in the sounds
of escaping to the bottom
for you.
The eyes forming- swelling
adjusting to the mood
of loneliness.
It's the motion of
pushing yourself
from behind on a slide
to gain momentum
and to finally land from a height.
It's the hands breaking the seal
off a heart-shaped box,
wiping the chocolate on your clothes.
Hoping it hides well
in your mouth when it tastes
like childhood.
It's the penny among pennies
not recognizing mine.
It's the door, worn and beaten
by flashes of leaving,
by staying too long.
Original
Playing is in the playground
chocolates in the box,
maturity is the taste of
artificial flavor.
feeling your mouth sweat
melting inside.
It's hands clutching
the metal on the swings
swaying back and forth.
It's the door swinging
open and close.
that final feeling of
a door's warmth against
the wall turning cold.
it's wishing on a penny
in the fountain
finally throwing it.
Feeling your ghost,
the texture must have
felt distant when it's
sinking to your veins.
the last touch, is your pulse
I'm the echo
repeating alone.
there isn't anyone
left to fight but there
is an accident
left to prepare for.
time circles around
when the day is blank
until it becomes used
then it is patient,
disappearing slowly.
Consider my knees
on the floor once,
the indention in the sounds
of escaping to the bottom
for you.
The eyes forming-swelling
adjusting-existing the mood
to lonliness.
It's the motion of
pushing yourself from
behind on a slide
to gain momentum
and to finally land from a height.
It's the hands breaking the seal
off a heart-shaped box,
wiping the chocolate on your
clothes. hoping it hides well
in your mouth when it tastes
like childhood.
It's the penny in the fountain
still holding the wish-wishing.
It's the door, worn and beaten
by flashes of leaving,
by staying too long.
Why couldn't we have been adults?