As all to bee’s knees, kids know this was a time to live.
Baby, by the end of this you’ll be
Catting any boy or girl with knowledge. But, Continue reading “Slang of the Roaring ’20s”
As all to bee’s knees, kids know this was a time to live.
Baby, by the end of this you’ll be
Catting any boy or girl with knowledge. But, Continue reading “Slang of the Roaring ’20s”
I cannot help, but to confuse,
Myself, with these thoughts of you.
Those longing looks that kept me amused.
A love so simple could never be true.
Look fondly upon me,
I know my path has strayed.
For now, I cannot follow through.
It’s mostly because I miss you.
Look fondly upon me,
My choices haven’t been the best.
A part of me still wonders.
Allow my thought to wander.
Look fondly upon me,
I am going to need it.
Not knowing much, But for what is certain
I cannot love the LOVE who took you away.
©Alissa Vreeland, 2018.
Papers crumble up.
I seem to have lost my touch.
Words have lost its spark
There is a place called Crimson Peak.
A house where no one dares to speak.
Behind those fabled walls
Lives a silent feeble call.
Who weeps a simple plea
While taking lives as a victory fee.
Each night a new victim’s cries do shrieks,
but the townspeople know better than to seek
The Woman, who wanders within those halls. Continue reading “The Lady in White”
A moment hasn’t passed that I haven’t thought of you
How is it the world can still be moving.
I sit here broken in two. Continue reading “The World and Me”
You are life’s greatest treasure,
a warmth of happiness radiates with every smile.
The love for you, cannot be measured,
please stay young awhile.
Never lose that sparkle in your eye.
Keep close all your hopes and dreams,
and never let the little things pass by.
Remember God’s love will always beam. Continue reading “A Godmother’s Prayer”
Ink black to blue
writing trying to connect to you.
Finger to finger,
your soul still lingers. Continue reading “Writing with You”
This silence is killing me,
its telling me everything that’s wrong with me.
This silence is burning me,
asking me questions I don’t want to know. Continue reading “Sedatephobia”