Soul stories

There are stories my heart will share
With all the sadness laid bare.

I breathe the words I hold inside
With emotions that gently chide.

I leave a piece of me here for you
On this paper, words I drew.

My soul spills ink that covers miles
To your eyes to be read with smiles.

Heartstrings pull and tug hidden words
Stories unfold from memories stirred.

Poetry is my only preparation
I live it up with no deception.

I write my story with all dedication
Saying it all is my salvation.

These are stories that hold my heart
Little treasures that hold light in the dark.

137 thoughts on “Soul stories

  1. Oh for a pair of arms to hold you tight a fingertip to wipe away your tears! 🙂 A friend to comfort ease your fears – self doubts! 🙂 very well written and clearly expressed! 🙂

    Liked by 3 people

  2. What delightful, delicious and deep couplets holding hands through it all, each pair painting with will past words. If I weren’t so enchanted I’d go out and by the quickest, most expensive envy I could find in the dealer’s showcases.

    Liked by 1 person

      1. You are a mirror you sometimes see and so is me, sometimes, though I have to go soonerishly to spread unnice says to friends who have been feeding me sometimes downtown about their attention and intention from those whom they trust to deliver the same kind of devotion and attention to their craft – and business – for these many, – more than a dozen! and for a local restaurant anywhere in TouristtownishcartoonFlorida that’s a long, loooong time. The owners are struggling to retire, their chosen leadership team still trying to sit a bubble with pins for clothes, and I fight with me: say something which will cause momentary pain and disappointment or give my honest feelings and observations in hopes I am not a neurotic neobarbarian with gestures and fantasies of human adequacies to tell the potato pancakes were way to crispy and should not have pinky-finger sized pieces of past-brown middle-parts flaking off like a tiddly-wink when a fork finally tries to mash through what yester-year had been a golden brown lusciousness…and the soveryrigh stock holding still-shaped but toothsome not toothy lentils, carrots, onions and such was just underside of warm, teasing tepid – and worse – a familiar server becoming in a modest crowd announceful of his appropriation of all my change (which never I had the chance to hold) as he announced to I and sundry: “You are such a good tipper: You do mean I’m to get all this?” And, yes, he was: but not to so announce such to all about. I still shall sup there, but with a different server – not a presumptuous and indiscrete but otherwise thoroughly capable bartender. Sorry, Yassy: I went off. I feel better now. I will share but only if you know I will fell no ill should you detail this dement to the dishwater. I will soonishly go and moderate my spleen, having so sourly dumped on you and bless you for the garbagecan you put out beside your road so I do not have to lug this venom all over town.


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