I want to understand
What you mean when you speak with me.
So I can twist around as I walk,
and be able to dance like a Flower in a stream.
To escape this conversation with no casualties,
so you’ll accept that it’s enough.
I want to run in the rain
to wash away the unwanted,
And watch the Stars align,
unraveling my future
and showing me the way.
A poem by,
-M.R. Sherman
Tag: lyrical writing
Today I write for you
The sweetest smile,
the freckles on your face,
the dream,
the green in your eyes,
the golden in your hair,
the rock,
the tree above your grave.
The sweet and confusing voice of death;
her dark hair,
her talent was to dream,
and her smile to persuade.
She guided me there,
unknown, afraid, confused, and desperate.
But now I see
the shallow grave
which I can't bear.
At last, at last,
I have arrived,
the somber tone,
the cold of wind,
the lovely girl I knew
now rests here below
and dreams.
No name,
no flowers on your tomb,
only a prayer
and a song
for all this gloom.
Neither sadness nor happiness
can change the memory of you,
will death perhaps?
Will the sea between us?
Poor, broke, alone, or rich?
Nothing but your heart
can feel this peace.
One day you will rise to the stars,
in this vast unexplored and unknown space
of possibilities and woe.
You reached out for me,
and today, oh well;
Today I write for you my love.
For you,
I write my love,
for you...
A poem by,
-S. I. Guzman
The Traveler
Oh, how long; how long must I belong?
The day the bird shall speak no more.
For I, for I, must travel long.
The sweet amber color of the tree,
and the temper blue of the sky,
they say, speak.
Speak, for I await for thee.
Must I travel long?
For I have labored here,
and shall await till dusk
and be no more.
Moon and Sun, they do await,
though fools and kings stay below,
and thus the sky will open up its doors
to the majestic unknown world.
Below and low,
thieves and trickers and merchants go,
though they rise above the sky
with purple robes.
They tremble and think and go,
today in sorrow,
tomorrow in love.
He shall whistle the song above,
for the king awaits,
high and low.
A traveler, a traveler,
for he must always go.
A poem by,
— S. I. Guzman