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  • tia_writes 184w

    Nighttime Rain

    It was beautiful.
    I could feel it.
    The release of heavens dew
    on a night that couldn't come
    early enough.
    There was something about time
    change.
    The way the night felt more alive
    than day.
    There was something about rainfall,
    how it forced the strain of life away.
    It was easy.
    It was calm.
    It was still.
    Skies of dark blue and drops of crystal.
    It was how I imagined heaven.
    A beauty that I could feel.
    ©tia_writes

  • tia_writes 190w

    Them

    It was true,
    I loved them out of infatuation.
    They were something to figure out.
    A mystery,
    yet, so very familiar.
    A girls love for men is said to be seen
    first, during the time when her brain is still in developmental stages.
    When feelings are greater than thoughts.
    It's crying for your Father as he walks through
    the door, after your Mother has cared for you all day.
    It's innocence.
    Just wanting to feel the likeness in opposites.
    A baby can feel the softness in strength.
    She can feel the meekness in a confident heart.
    She can feel the tender parts inside her Father that the world may not see.
    Yes, it's true,
    I loved them out of infatuation.
    They were an enigma,
    whenever I tried to understand them with my mind, I failed.
    I knew that they were something to be understood by the heart.
    I was infatuated with them because I could feel the tenderness that the world could not see.
    I loved them out of infatuation because I knew that at the core of their feelings, they were similar to me.
    ©tia_writes

  • tia_writes 190w

    I missed the bus

    I think I missed the bus again,
    but I waited.
    I waited hopefully, intently,
    I just knew that it was coming.
    So many before me had taken
    the same route.
    They spoke of its reliability,
    of their satisfaction.
    It seemed that the bus knew
    them personally.
    It welcomed them,
    always seeming to meet them
    on time.
    They spoke of waiting, but in
    my waiting,
    I never saw them there.
    Maybe I was in the wrong spot;
    I moved to another.
    Maybe it came at earlier hours,
    I shifted the alarm clock.
    Maybe I was in the wrong season;
    I checked back in June.
    Maybe the problem was me,
    I had the wrong rhythm;
    I tried another tune.
    Still, I waited.
    As hopefully and
    intently.
    I knew the bus was coming.
    I would make it there soon.
    ©tia_writes