OPIKABU

All those times I was bored
out of my mind. Holding the log
while she sawed it. Holding
the string while she measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
weeded. Or sat in the back
of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
she drove, steered, paddled. It
wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small
details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
the intricate twill of the seat
cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes she would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying
the wood, drying
the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
the animals spend most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. shee pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of her square finger, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know. wanna read more??just click.. byOPIKABU: sadness

Lose yourself slowly

in the velvety gaze, the seduction

of a fragile rose.

the scent of passionate longing

captivates the heart

with an obstinate urge of the savagery

of a night's loving.

Your heart,

now silently impaled by the liquid fragrance

of a shadowy thorn.

There is no escaping its fatal embrace.

Yours is the crimson petal,

the blood on the thorn. wanna read more??just click.. byOPIKABU: sadness

Whenever we gather together,
The words are not easy to find,
But love speaks a common language
When people have ties that bind.
We don't always say what we're feeling
As often as families should;
We don't count our blessings out loud,
But somehow they're understood.
We know that we're thankful for living
With the comfort of each other's care;
We're grateful for memories and stories,
And the jokes that our family shares.
We might leave a promise unspoken,
But we know that we're loyal and true;
We can count on companions through life,
In the sunshine and shadows, too.
We might show some special attention
To a stranger, acquaintance, or guest,
But we never forget in our hearts
About those that we really love best.
These blessings can never be counted
Like money or gold dividends;
They can only be shared as the love
That exists when families are friends. wanna read more??just click.. byOPIKABU: sadness

its empty without u..
its empty feels like no one to hear me..
its empty if i miss my heart..
its empty if you not happy..
its empty to make u sad
its empty where im happy but without u..
empty is you
without u im just feel empty.. wanna read more??just click.. byOPIKABU: sadness