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Some critics say I compose good poems, Others regard my work as nonsense My poems can interest or bore you It depends on how you view the words I write about the past and the present
Digger sleeps in comfy chair. Mom is still at work. Street light shines through the window.
One summer’s eve in Spain, I fled through an open window, Butterflies aflight In the very pit of me, And I tramped the streets, My heart abrim With such a love, But a love now long gone.
The window to a soul.
You watched me from my window and took out your anger on my body with your eyes. ~awatr
I can see the dying trees And the blooming flowers, The strikes of lightening And the drizzling rain. All through my window I can see these things. I can see the working bees
Her eyes, So deeply unsettling, As I watched The tragedy unfold. Her hair, Tangled in his fist, Was used
Hushed are the mornings, not one chore yet to do. The wind wafts over from my open window, cool and light. The solid hardwood on my bare feet,
What happens when a window becomes bare? Deprived of lonely security- Which normally was aided by dull, pitiful curtains, Will it survive the prodding of light infiltration?
Raindrops on glass, taking you anywhere and anywhen. Places to go and times you've been. Universally sound, solid right through. Black and white with grain. Yeah, that'll do.
Tears of joy from the Sky rest on the windowpane Dampening my view
One window is all I need To look out on the world To be who I want to be To go out and be somebody To see where I can make a difference Then to climb out my window And make it
In life we are given a window A perfectly clear window. Others see into our widow And us into theirs. As we grow we see that some windows are scratched, marked, and broken.
Eyes cast toward the windowUnseeingPretending to gaze outward, downwardAt patchwork buildings and trafficUnheard through hospital wallsYet you remember the soundLike the blood rushing through your ears
The birds nest mint, green foliage flutters spring, life, growth The birds fly sun shines, storms blow summer, heat, strength The birds migrate crisp, ochre leaves swirl to the ground
Beyond the mirror lives a lass.The notion is crass, but she is pretty.Through the mirror I see her.See her dancing,See her singing.See her alone.