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sarahvictoria08
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Name: Sarah
Birthday: 4/1/1990
Gender: Female
Interests: singing, tennis, writing, drawing, day dreaming, sleeping, pigging out w/ friends, walking, watching tv, listening to music, talking to people, reading, church, school...I absolutly love singing!I also love to think... & breathe!! but I only like to think when oxygen is in the air...
Expertise: singing..eating..thinking out loud, when not needed.... etc.
Occupation: Student
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  sarahvictoria08
MSN: svh_1cor11_1@hotmail.com
Member Since:
7/22/2005
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| What could I give to you to express my love?
All will fade away...
All will drift aside...
What can I do for you, to be remembered?
All is lost...
All is covered...
Where will we be in the next few years?
All around...
All inside...
What will this mean to you?
All my love...
All my pride...
Will you understand?
All of me...
All in good time...
How do I love you?
All secrets...
All the time...
Do you love me?
All unknown...
All unknown... | | |
| "One Look, Two Tears"
one look...
one touch...
one sound...
I hear you
two eyes...
two ears...
two hands...
You feel me
But do you see me?
Can I hear you?
I know you don't feel me...
But I can sense your presence all around
one blink...
one laugh...
one hug...
I love you
two tears...
two cries...
two pains...
You forget me
I can see you.. behind closed eyes
You can hear me.. in the silence
I can touch you in my dreams,
But you're not there | | |
| "Not a Mystery"
Is it a natural occurance
To spit out words?
Does it happen everyday?
I need some assurance,
Cause I have heard
That I am always this way.
I'm self-sufficiant.
I'm independent.
I'm self-confident.
I'm too much to handle.
Finally found my mistake.
Take a look:
I'm no mystery
Maybe I should wake
Up from this book,
But it's my history.
I'm self-sufficiant.
I'm independent.
I'm self-confident.
I'm too much to handle.
Not a mystery... | | |
| haha, I basically went through all my blogs on myspace & put them on here! Enjoy the poetry!! | | |
| Grandmother Grace
Ronald Wallace
I didn't give her a goodbye kiss
as I went off in the bus for the last time,
away from her House in Williamsburg, Iowa,
away from her empty house with Jesus
on all of the walls, with clawfoot tub and sink,
with the angular rooms that trapped my summers.
I remember going there every summer—
every day beginning with that lavender kiss,
that face sprayed and powdered at the upstairs sink
then mornings of fragile teacups and old times,
afternoons of spit-moistened hankies and Jesus,
keeping me clean in Williamsburg, Iowa.
Cast off, abandoned, in Williamsburg, Iowa,
I sat in that angular house with summer
dragging me onward, hearing how Jesus
loved Judas despite his last kiss,
how he turned his other cheek time after time,
how God wouldn't let the good person sink.
Months later, at Christmas, my heart would sink
when that flowery letter from Williamsburg, Iowa
arrived, insistent, always on time,
stiff and perfumed as summer.
She always sealed it with a kiss,
a taped-over dime, and the words of Jesus.
I could have done without the words of Jesus;
the dime was there to make the message sink
in, I thought; and the violet kiss,
quavering and frail, all the way from Williamsburg, Iowa,
sealed some agreement we had for the next summer
as certain and relentless as time.
I didn't know this would be the last time.
If I had, I might have even prayed to Jesus
to let me see her once again next summer.
But how could I know she would sink,
her feet fat boats of cancer, in Williamsburg, Iowa,
alone, forsaken, without my last kiss?
I was ten, Jesus, and the idea of a kiss
at that time made my young stomach sink.
Let it be summer. Let it be Williamsburg, Iowa.
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